aperrywilliams

[aperrywilliams]

𝄢 The Story Of Us.

Spencer Reid x Ex gf!reader

speak now; mini series | chapter one, two, three, four

Summary: The wedding celebrations are in full swing, but when reality crashes in, you find yourself seeking comfort in the arms of the only person who truly understands you…though leaning on him might be more dangerous than it seems.

Words: 8k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a mini series, so make sure you're on the right chapter. fem!bau!reader. mentions of alcohol, and marriage. the reader gets drunk. suggestive themes. angst. love triangle?. second chance romance. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Hi again! This chapter took me a bit to write because the emotions are intense:) Please don’t hate anyone! Everyone in this story just has some…communication issues. Thank you for reading!

Spencer Reid had always believed in facts. In numbers. In the comfort of logic and the structure of what could be measured, proven, cataloged, and written down in neat rows on paper. His world had always made the most sense when it followed rules, when theories held up under scrutiny, when equations balanced, and when answers could be reached with enough data and discipline. There was safety in that. Predictability. A universe he could make sense of, even when people couldn’t.

Mirror hours, wishes upon the moon, and every little act of quiet magic you swore by had always struck him as whimsical at best and irrational at worst. The kind of things people clung to because reality was too unbearable. He had told himself that once and had repeated it in his head whenever you did something that defied reason.

And yet, he had loved it.

He had loved you.

Even when he didn’t understand it, especially when he didn’t, he had found himself mesmerized by the way you moved through life with a kind of grace that defied statistics. You had this maddening, beautiful habit of believing that the universe was conspiring in your favor. That things were always on the cusp of getting better. That fate listened. That intention mattered.

You saw signs where he only saw coincidence. You wove meaning out of chance. And Spencer, the boy who once lived and breathed the harshness of reality, found himself quietly drawn to the way you lived as if life itself was a dialogue between you and the cosmos.

He used to scoff—lightly, half-heartedly—when you made him stop mid-sentence just because the clock read 11:11, pressing your index finger gently to his lips, eyes shining with childlike certainty. “Make a wish,” you’d whisper, and he’d feel the absurdity of it on the tip of his tongue, until he caught the way you looked at him. So sure. So hopeful. And the words died there, unspoken.

He used to laugh, softly and helplessly, when you’d open the window late at night just to let in the moonlight, as though it carried hope in its pale beams. The air would slip in cool and delicate, brushing against his skin as he watched you tilt your head toward the sky, bathed in silver glow. You’d stand there, half in shadow, half in light, and he’d think you looked like something the universe might have carved out for him.

“I read somewhere,” you’d say, curling against him on the bed, your voice a warm hum against his collarbone, “that wishes come true faster when you act like they already happened.”

“That’s not how time works,” he’d mutter automatically, burying his nose into your hair, breathing in the faint scent of lavender and sleep. But his arms would tighten around you all the same, pulling you closer as if to shield you from the doubt he could never quite shake. Letting you believe. Letting himself believe, just a little.

Because even if he didn’t trust in real magic, he trusted in you.

And you—with your morning rituals whispered over coffee, your evening mantras spoken like prayers into the dark, and your soft voice carrying stardust into every syllable—had made him want to believe again. The way you moved through the world felt like enchantment: the way you danced barefoot in the kitchen when your favorite song played, spinning with wild hair and wild laughter. The way you kissed the tips of his fingers, one by one, whenever they trembled from anxiety, grounding him in silence when words would have failed. The way you whispered, “This will pass, my love,” as though you weren’t just speaking to him but bargaining with the storm itself, coaxing the weather of his panic into gentler skies.

Spencer hadn’t believed in magic since he was a little boy, since he’d sat curled up on his bedroom floor with a book pressed tight against his chest, begging the universe to make his mother well, to bring his father back, to silence the cruel laughter of his classmates, and to make the world make sense in some small, merciful way. Back then, he had learned the hard truth: wishes went unanswered. Magic was a lie.

But then you came along.

And you didn’t bring spells or miracles. You didn’t wave a hand and make the broken parts of him disappear. You brought something far rarer: presence. Steadiness. You didn’t fix him, you didn’t try to. Because love, real love, wasn’t about erasing scars. It was about tracing them softly, reverently, as if they were part of the map that led you to him. You stayed. Fiercely. Quietly. Without conditions.

And somehow, that had felt like magic.

You made him wish on the moon.

And for Spencer Reid, for the boy who once stopped wishing altogether, that had been more than enough.

Now, alone in his apartment, the city whispering beyond the windowpane and the clock ticking like a metronome in the corner, Spencer sat hunched at his desk, the pale blue glow of his laptop washing his features in tired, artificial light. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed carved there, deep and hollow, the kind of fatigue that sleep never fixed. His shoulders curved forward, as if he could fold in on himself and disappear into the silence that had been following him everywhere lately.

The video had paused, frozen on a frame of you in the wedding dress.

The lace sleeves clung delicately to your arms, climbing over your shoulders like fragile vines. The veil—thin, gauzy, almost translucent—had been pushed back from your face, crowning you with something soft and unearthly, as if you weren’t a woman in a boutique but a figure out of some old myth. It should have stolen his breath in awe. It should have made sense, that sight of you clothed in white.

But it wasn’t the dress that stopped him cold.

It was your expression.

Your smile was wrong. Not yours. It clung to your lips like a shadow, trembling at the edges, a performance pitched just high enough to keep everyone around you from noticing. Your eyes, though, your eyes gave you away. Glassy. Hollow. A flicker of something restless burning behind them. The kind of look he had seen in too many victims, too many people trying to endure something they couldn’t say out loud.

From behind the camera came the girls’ voices: bright, delighted, their laughter spilling over each other. A chorus of awe. You look perfect, one of them gushed. Another squealed, That’s the one. The air in the clip was thick with the sound of approval, but Spencer heard only the silence underneath. Your silence.

You nodded. You turned for the camera. You looked forward. But the part of you he loved—the spark, the depth, the quiet wildness—was absent. You looked like you were standing miles away from yourself, some distant part of you screaming while your body played along.

He stared at the frozen image for a long time. His elbows dug into the desk. His fingers laced beneath his chin, pressing into his mouth, as though holding his face still might contain the sharp, unbearable ache spreading through his chest. The room hummed with silence, broken only by the hollow rhythm of the clock and the low hum of the city through glass. Everything inside him ached with it.

And then, without meaning to, without even realizing it until it happened, Spencer’s eyes shifted. Drawn to the corner of his laptop screen, to the faint digits glowing against the dark interface.

19:45

Not a magic number. Not a mirror hour. Just an ordinary moment.

Still, his chest rose with a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His eyes slid closed.

And he made a wish.

Even though the sun had not set.

Even though the sky outside was streaked with dull light and exhaust haze, not a single star was in sight.

Even though no silver moon had risen to catch the edges of hope the way you believed it always would.

Even though he didn’t believe. Not anymore.

He made one anyway.

Just in case you were right.

By the time he opened his eyes, the screen in front of him had long since dimmed to black, casting his apartment into a muted hush of shadow. The laptop reflected his own faint outline back at him, ghostlike. He didn’t move. He stayed there, frozen, stone-still, as though shifting even an inch would collapse the fragile wall holding him together.

The image, the one his brain wouldn’t release, was seared behind his eyes, branded into him like scar tissue. You, standing in the center of that bridal boutique, stiff as porcelain, drowning in fabric that fit your body but not your soul. The dress shimmered beneath the soft yellow lights. It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. But your smile was strained, painfully so. Your shoulders drawn tight, your throat locked as if you were bracing for impact. Your eyes flicking not with joy, not with peace, but with the desperate instinct of someone searching—quietly, urgently—for the nearest exit.

And then there was the video. Barely twenty seconds long, shaky, captured on a phone by someone who hadn’t noticed what he couldn’t look away from. You turned slowly in front of the mirror, your hands gathering fabric as if to keep it from slipping, as though you were holding onto a disguise you hadn’t chosen. Behind the camera came laughter, chatter, and breathless delight. You’re radiant. That’s the dress.

But not once, not once in those twenty seconds, did you speak.

Not one word passed your lips.

Your mouth stayed stretched into that not-smile, fragile and faltering, as though one syllable might shatter the illusion completely. As though you were afraid that if you opened your mouth, the truth would pour out.

As though you wanted to run.

Spencer felt something twist inside him, sharp and molten, hot and cold all at once, like ice fracturing under fire. His hand moved before his brain could catch up, reaching for his phone where it sat face down on the desk. The smooth plastic felt suddenly foreign, slick in his palm, as though it knew the weight of what he was about to do. His thumb hovered over your name in his contacts for a beat too long, a tremor of longing flickering through him, just enough to sting. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to scroll past until his thumb landed on Penelope.

He hit call.

The ringing filled the silence of his apartment, each tone landing heavy in his chest. Once. Twice. Three times. And then—

“Oh my god, Reid, if this is an emergency, I swear…” Penelope’s voice burst into the room like fireworks, chaotic, bright, and full of her usual glitter-drenched exasperation. He could hear the rustle of fabric, the clatter of something dropping on a counter, and the faint thump of music bleeding in from somewhere off-screen. “I have half an eyelash glued to my cheek, a cocktail dress I can’t zip without divine intervention, and a gift bag still in the car—”

“Garcia,” he cut in, quiet but steady.

She stopped. The fizz of her voice dimmed instantly, as though someone had turned down the volume. “…Wait. Why do you sound like that?”

“I need your help.”

On the other end, there was a flurry of muffled sound, fabric swishing, the shuffle of heels over tile, and a drawer sliding open. He pictured her pacing her apartment in a haze of sequins and perfume, the party waiting like a storm outside her door.

“What’s going on?” she asked, the sharp edge of humor gone now, replaced with a slow, careful concern. “I’m literally getting ready for our girl bachelorette party. I only picked up because I thought you were calling to say something sweet.”

“I need you to look into someone,” he said, urgency leaking into his voice now, his throat tightening around every word.

A beat of silence. Then—

“…Who?”

His lips parted. He hesitated, his heart thudding like a metronome gone wild, and then—“Seth.”

The rustling on her end stopped immediately. He could almost hear the stillness, the pause of her entire body. The silence stretched, brittle and sharp, before she finally exhaled.

“I know how it sounds,” Spencer pressed, already anticipating her doubt. “I know this isn’t the time. But I need to know who he really is. His job. His money. His background. Everything. He’s always where she is. He knows things before she tells him. He’s too perfect. And she trusts him. But something is wrong. I don’t know what it is yet, but…” His voice dropped lower, almost breaking. “…I feel it.”

Penelope said nothing.

“Please,” he added, softer now, the word catching like a plea he couldn’t disguise.

A long inhale crackled through the line. She exhaled slowly, the sound reluctant and wary. “Spencer…” she said carefully, her voice gentling as if she were speaking to someone already bleeding, “are you sure this isn’t just you being…hurt?”

He flinched as though she’d struck him. Her words pierced too cleanly, landing exactly where the bruise was deepest.

“Of course I’m hurt,” he snapped back, too fast, too defensive. The sound of it startled even him. Then his shoulders slumped, his voice shrinking into something smaller and rougher. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Silence returned, heavier this time, folding in on itself, thick with the things neither of them dared to say aloud. Spencer stared at the blackened laptop screen, its glossy reflection catching the faint outline of his own face, distorted and hollow. A void where your image had been only minutes ago. A void where you should have been.

“Penelope,” he whispered, your name caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, “please.”

What he didn’t say was worse: I watched her look like a ghost in a wedding dress. I watched her disappear right in front of me. I’ve been watching the photos, the videos, and every scrap I could find for a month straight. And now I know it. I know something is wrong.

He didn’t have to say it. She knew him too well.

On the other end, she sighed, the sound tender, weary, and reluctant, like someone pressing a hand against glass between them.

“Okay,” she murmured at last. “I’ll do a soft run. No alerts. No ripples. Nothing that leaves a footprint. But I need time. I’ve got to show up to this party, or they’ll sniff me out like bloodhounds, and I promised her I’d dance like I meant it.”

The words landed like shards in his chest. He could almost see it: you in a glittering sash, champagne flute raised, laughter painted across your mouth, surrounded by friends who adored you, music and neon light spinning you into a portrait of happiness. A portrait he knew was only half-real.

The ache inside him deepened, sinking lower, heavier.

“I just…” He stopped, his voice catching, then pushed through, rough and splintering. “I just need to know if I have a reason. A real reason to stop her.”

Penelope didn’t answer immediately. He could hear her breathing, the faint brush of her hand over something fabric, and the pause of someone holding back words that might wound. When she finally spoke, her voice was unbearably soft.

“…Or maybe you’re just trying to find one?”

The silence that followed was brutal.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t have to.

The call ended, the line clicking into emptiness. His apartment fell still again, hushed as if holding its breath.

The digital clock blinked quietly in the corner.

19:56

Still not a magic number.

Still nothing extraordinary.

But Spencer stared anyway.

Just in case.

The rooftop was chaos in the best possible way.

The warm summer air clung to your bare arms, sticky with a mix of sweat and the lingering sweetness of vodka. Somewhere between the third and fifth round of drinks, the playlist had slipped into an early nostalgia spiral, songs you hadn’t heard in years, the kind that made your chest ache in a way only memory could, and Penelope had gone completely rogue, sticking rhinestones on everyone’s faces, even the waiter’s, glittering like tiny constellations under the neon lights. The city sprawled beyond the rooftop railing, distant cars winking along avenues like fireflies, but you barely noticed. You were laughing, light and loud, leaning against JJ’s shoulder as if it could hold the weight of the world, or maybe just yours tonight.

Penelope twirled in the middle of the crowd, your phone clutched in one hand like a trophy, her voice slicing over the music. “You’re not allowed to text him! Bride rules! Zero digital regrets!”

You blinked, caught between amusement and something heavier you didn’t want to name. Emily, flushed from more drinks than she could handle gracefully, slumped into the chair beside you with a theatrical groan. “Who? Seth or Spencer?” she slurred, eyeliner smudged, a drunken grin tugging at her lips.

Penelope froze mid-dance, rhinestones still clinging to her cheeks, as though she had just stepped on a live wire. JJ coughed slightly into her drink, trying not to laugh but failing just enough to make the moment sticky with tension.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

Emily’s grin faltered, replaced by a blink that seemed suddenly sober, her gaze shifting to you. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me I’m the only one who thought you were going to end up with Reid.”

The words landed like stones in the middle of the table. The music still throbbed, someone cheered at the bar, and heels clicked against tile, but around your little circle, the air thickened, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You stared at Emily, blinking back a thousand thoughts you didn’t want to voice. Her grin softened into something almost apologetic. “Sorry. That sounded…blunter than I meant.”

JJ’s hand moved lightly, brushing her straw against the glass as though testing the weight of the moment. Penelope lowered your phone, eyes darting between you and Emily like she was measuring how much she could intervene.

You forced a laugh, sharp and uneven, a sound that cracked before it left your lips. “No, it’s fine,” you said, trying to convince yourself as much as anyone else. “It’s funny.”

No one laughed. Not really.

JJ’s eyes found yours, steady and careful, protective in the way she always was, like she could see through the glitter and neon straight into the part of you you were trying to hide. Penelope opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again, swallowed by the unspoken tension. Emily leaned back, tilting her head toward the sky, as if she could pour the awkward seconds into the clouds and erase them.

You exhaled slowly, dragging in the humid air, and lifted your glass, draining the remainder of your drink in one long, bitter swallow.

“I mean,” Emily said after a pause, softer now, almost fragile, “it’s just…you and Spencer. You were always kind of orbiting each other. It felt like…I don’t know. I thought eventually you’d just crash.”

You stared at the rim of your glass, tracing the condensation with your finger. So did I, you wanted to say, but swallowed it down with the last of your drink instead. You shrugged lightly. “Yeah, well. Space is infinite.”

JJ touched your arm, tentative and warm. “Hey.”

You didn’t look at her. Didn’t want to.

Emily frowned, the tipsy innocence bleeding into worry. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m so drunk and stupid right now.”

You smiled, a little too wide, too sharp. “I’m getting married in two days. Of course I’m okay.”

No one believed it. Not even you.

Penelope cleared her throat, soft but firm, carrying the weight of authority even in the chaos of the rooftop. “Okay, we are officially cutting her off. Someone get the bride a water.”

You laughed again, high and practiced, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls and metal railings, but it felt hollow, brittle, like it belonged to someone else. No one joined in. The party pressed forward around you, music thumping, glitter catching in the strobing lights, and the faint, unpleasant gurgle of someone succumbing to too many cocktails in the stairwell. And yet, inside your chest, the air had gone thin, sharp. Every breath felt like it had to squeeze past something lodged in your ribs, tight and unyielding. The pulse of bass in your ears couldn’t drown out the knot in your stomach, the weight pressing from your lungs to the hollow at the base of your throat.

A few minutes later, you slipped your phone back from Penelope’s purse and ducked into the bathroom. The fluorescent lights were harsh, stark, and unforgiving, but you didn’t care. You didn’t check your texts. Not yet. Your thumb hovered over the gallery, heart hammering so hard it felt like the screen might crack under the rhythm. Then you opened it.

There he was. Spencer. Blurry, imperfect, utterly alive in a way you had been starved of for months. His hair was tousled, a little wild; his hand was half-raised, casual, as if to wave off your laughter; and his eyes were crinkled in the way that had always made you feel like you were the only person in the world who could see him fully.

You didn’t cry.

But you sat there, in a dress that shimmered under the fluorescent glow, rhinestones glittering like constellations along your cheekbone, and stared. Alone. In a dress you had chosen to feel like a storybook princess. A dress that should have made you feel luminous.

But it didn’t.

Your reflection caught in the screen, your eyes too still, too distant, betraying the hollowness creeping through your chest. The part of you that could laugh freely, that could believe in fairytales and “happily ever afters,” had quietly, deliberately stepped out. You traced the curve of his smile on the screen with your finger, wishing for a bridge across the months, across the decisions, across the distance that felt like a canyon in your chest.

Finally, you locked the phone, sliding it into your purse like burying a shard of glass. Your palms pressed against the edge of the sink, cool and smooth, grounding yourself against the polished porcelain, trying to convince your body that something real still existed, something solid to hold onto in the blur of music, lights, and memories.

The laughter outside grew louder again, swelling into the night. JJ’s careful voice floated over the chaos, soft and protective, trying to anchor the moment. Penelope’s metallic laugh rang bright, rallying the group for another round, glitter in her hair catching the overhead lights like tiny bursts of fire. Emily, lost in the current of the night, oblivious to the storm inside you. You couldn’t blame her. None of them had known what you carried behind your smiles.

You couldn’t breathe anymore, not amidst the flashing neon, the pounding bass, and the glittering chaos. Not when every laugh sounded like a reminder of what you couldn’t have.

When you finally stepped out, no one noticed. They were mid-toast, glasses raised, faces flushed with alcohol and joy. Penelope was snapping a photo, hands exaggerated, glitter sparkling across her fingers. JJ’s laugh rang steady. You brushed a hand over your dress, the fabric smooth and heavy under your fingers, and grabbed your jacket from the chair.

“Hey,” you said, soft but audible, your voice carefully even, floating over the noise like a feather.

Penelope looked up first. “There you are! We were about to send a search party!”

“I think I’m going to call it a night,” you said, voice light, airy, and careful, like it didn’t carry the tremor beneath. “I’m…just a little overwhelmed. And I have to be up early for dress fitting adjustments, so…”

JJ’s brow furrowed, a crease of concern cutting into her gentle features. “Are you sure? I can ride with you, if—”

You shook your head, slow and deliberate. “No, no. Please stay. It’s your night too. I just need some quiet.”

Emily rose, worry softening the edges of her tipsy grin, but you offered her a quick, fleeting smile, the smallest island of calm. “I’m okay. I promise.”

They didn’t fully believe you. You could feel it, hovering, unsaid, in the way their eyes lingered a second too long. But they didn’t stop you.

Penelope pouted theatrically, her voice clipped, playful yet insistent. “Okay, but text us when you get home. And send a selfie so we know you’re in bed and not brooding like some tragic poetry character.”

You laughed, the sound shaky but honest, a thread of reality in the swirl of the night. “Deal.”

You hugged them, one by one. JJ’s arms lingered longer, warm, grounding, and steady. Emily whispered a soft apology in your ear. Penelope smoothed a strand of glittered hair against your cheek with a motherly sort of care. Then, finally, you stepped into the elevator.

The doors closed.

And it was quiet.

Finally.

You exhaled like you hadn’t since forever. Like you’d been holding it all in for days.

Outside, the night was thick and warm, carrying the low hum of the city: car engines, distant sirens, the soft chatter of someone walking nearby, and the faint scrape of heels on concrete. You walked two blocks past the curb where they couldn’t see you, dress clinging to your body, rhinestones catching dim streetlight like tiny stars. You ordered a ride from a location you hadn’t used in weeks, the thrill of secrecy prickling along your skin. Just in case one of them peeked.

But you didn’t go home.

Not yet.

You gave the driver an address you hadn’t spoken aloud in a year: Spencer’s apartment.

And through the entire ride, the city blurred past in streaks of yellow, gray, and amber. You stared out the window, each streetlight stretching and twisting like a memory. Trying, so desperately, to convince yourself you didn’t already know why you were going there.

It was after midnight when the knock came. Sharp, unsteady, like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure how to place their hands against a door. Spencer’s chest tightened instinctively. His stomach twisted, a cold knot of anticipation and worry settling low, deep in his gut.

He opened the door.

And there you were.

The hallway light caught the shimmer of your dress, the way your coat hung half-zipped over one arm, and the phone clutched in the other. Your eyes glimmered, glossy and raw, makeup smudged at the corners like you had been fighting the night, and maybe yourself. There was a hiccup in your breath, unsure whether it wanted to become a laugh or a sob.

“Hi,” you said, voice airy, stretched too bright. “I think—um. I might’ve told the cab guy the wrong address. Or the right one. But I ended up here. Surprise.”

“You’re drunk,” he said softly, not accusatory, not surprised, just…observing.

You tilted your head, squinting at him. “I’m not drunk. I’m just…celebrating. Tipsy.” A pause. “Okay, maybe drunk. But like…romantically drunk. Not danger drunk.”

He stepped aside, hand hovering at your back, hesitant to touch, ready to steady if needed. “Get inside.”

You wobbled slightly, one heel catching the doorway before you kicked both off dramatically. They clattered near his bookshelf. He watched as the dress shimmered unevenly, sequins catching the hallway light like scattered stars. Your hem was wrinkled, and your posture slumped just enough to show exhaustion, to show the weight you’d been carrying all night.

“God, you’re mad at me,” you said, flopping onto the couch, curling your knees to your chest like you could fold into yourself and disappear.

“I’m not mad,” he said quietly from the kitchen, voice calm but tight. “I’m worried.”

You paused, blinking slowly, as if the words had to sink in.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you whispered, fragile.

He returned with a glass of water, kneeling in front of you. “You don’t have to explain. Just—drink this, okay?”

Your hands trembled as you lifted the glass. He steadied it, thumb brushing yours lightly. He noticed the faint shake in your shoulders, the way your hair had loosened from its pins and curled against your cheek, and the faint smell of perfume mixed with sweat and the city night.

“Were you alone?” he asked gently.

“No. The girls were there. It was supposed to be fun.” You exhaled sharply, almost a hiss. “I think I laughed too loud. Or maybe not loud enough.”

He didn’t respond with words. He just looked at you. Really looked. At the curve of your lips pressed into a smile, the way your lashes clung together with tears that hadn’t fallen yet, and the tremor of exhaustion along your spine. He memorized it all.

You set the glass down, rubbing your hands over your face, curling further into yourself.

“I didn’t want to go home,” you whispered.

“Then you did the right thing,” he said softly, meaning it. “I’m glad you came here.”

Your gaze lifted, and for a heartbeat, the apartment felt suspended in a world that belonged only to the two of you.

“I feel stupid,” you admitted.

“You’re not stupid,” he said immediately. “You’re overwhelmed. That’s not the same thing.”

You gave him a shaky smile. “You always say the right thing.”

“I don’t think I do,” he said quietly, looking down at your hands. But his hand reached for yours anyway, bridging the space between you. This time, you didn’t pull away.

You leaned against him, soft and small, a sigh threading through your lips. “Can I…can I stay here for a while?”

“You can stay forever,” he said, voice low and steady, heart thundering with the certainty that everything in him had led to this moment.

You didn’t stay on the couch. You wanted more comfort than that, more security than the thin cushions could give. He understood without needing words. Gently, carefully, he guided you to your feet. Your dress brushed against his legs as he held your hands, steadying you, guiding you to his bedroom.

Spencer guided you down the narrow hall, his hand steady on your back, the soft brush of his palm a tether keeping you upright. You leaned into him more than you meant to, your temple brushing his shoulder, your perfume mixing with the faint smell of soap and paper that clung to him. His apartment was quiet, almost reverent after the chaos of the rooftop, and you found yourself whispering even though there was no need.

“Your place smells like books,” you murmured, the words tumbling out clumsy but earnest. “Like…like old paperbacks, the kind that have little cracks in the spines from being loved too much. And coffee, too. And…you.” You tipped your head toward him, trying to focus on his profile as he nudged open the bedroom door. “I like it. Don’t ever change it.”

He didn’t answer, just drew in a sharp breath and led you carefully to the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you flopped down gracelessly, giggling at the way the hem of your dress bunched around your thighs. You sprawled backward for a second, then propped yourself up on your elbows with a dramatic groan.

“Oh my god,” you sighed, dragging the syllables out. “Your bed is so much softer than mine. Like, way softer. Did you…did you research this? You did, didn’t you? You probably calculated the exact spring density for, like, optimal…sleeping efficiency.”

He crouched in front of you, fingers brushing your ankle as he helped you untangle your legs. His smile was faint, almost invisible, but you caught it. “Not exactly,” he said. “I just tried a few until I found one that felt right.”

You grinned, triumphant. “See? That’s the same thing. You’re ridiculous. A ridiculous genius.” Your voice softened, eyes locking on his as if the alcohol had stripped away all your filters. “But you’re also…so nice. Too nice. That’s why I came here, you know. Because you don’t make me feel…heavy.”

His hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he guided your legs up onto the bed. You kept talking, your words spilling faster than your thoughts could catch up.

“I told myself, ‘Don’t do it, don’t bother him. Don’t be that girl.’ But then I thought, Spencer will open the door. He always opens the door. Even if I’m…a mess. Even if I’m…too much.”

“You’re not too much,” he murmured, tucking the blanket around you. His voice was quiet but firm, like he wanted you to believe it with your whole heart.

You hummed, burrowing deeper under the sheet, the fabric cool against your overheated skin. “Feels safe here,” you whispered. “You feel safe.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair back from your forehead, his fingers lingering in the softness for just a beat too long.

“Don’t think I’m silly,” you continued, words slurring at the edges as your eyelids grew heavy, “but sometimes…I think you’re my favorite person.” You let out a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed by your own honesty. “No, not sometimes. Always. Always my favorite. Even when you drive me crazy. Especially then.”

His throat tightened, his chest aching with the weight of everything you weren’t sober enough to realize you were saying. He tucked the blanket closer around you, watching your lashes flutter as sleep tugged you under.

“Not silly,” he whispered, almost to himself.

You sighed, already slipping away, your lips still parted as if more words wanted to tumble out but had lost the strength to make it past your breath. He stayed there, kneeling by the bed, long after your breathing evened, listening to the soft proof of your presence, the echo of your babbling still caught in the still air of his room.

And when he watched you sleep in his bed, he could only think about how right you were all the time.

Because his wish had come true.

The morning found you in fragments, scattered across Spencer’s apartment like loose papers in a storm.

Your eyelids resisted opening, heavy and sticky from sleep, lashes glued together with the remnants of last night’s mascara. Your skull throbbed, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to echo in every corner of your body, as if your brain itself was protesting the light. The sun had already crept past the blinds, slicing the ceiling with harsh, unforgiving stripes of gold. Each shaft of light burned against your eyes, relentless, accusatory, reminding you of every choice that had led to this hazy aftermath.

Even the smallest sounds were amplified. The groan of pipes in the walls vibrated through your ribs. A car honked on the street below, cutting through the quiet. Your own heartbeat seemed to pound in your ears, matching the insistent tick of the clock somewhere in the apartment.

You rolled onto your side with a soft, defeated whimper and froze. The bed was empty. Cold where he should have been. The blanket, still smelling faintly of his detergent and the faintest trace of warmth, lay folded and abandoned. He was gone.

Sitting up felt like climbing a mountain. Your head swirled, your stomach twisted violently, and you pressed the heel of your hand to your temple, willing the headache to retreat, to dissolve. But it didn’t. It only sharpened, and the quiet of the apartment pressed in like a weight on your chest, heavy and unnatural. No hum of Spencer moving around, no clink of mugs, no soft shuffle of his socks on the floor. Just a sterile silence, punctuated by your own ragged breaths.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, feet bare against the cool wood. Each step toward the living room made the world sway uncomfortably beneath you. The aftermath of last night was visible everywhere: your heels abandoned like casualties of a battle near the couch, your purse slumped awkwardly on the floor, and a half-drunk glass of water teetering dangerously on the edge of the coffee table. You took it all in with a dazed, hazy awareness, the memory of laughter and babbling and the weight of Spencer’s shoulder still clinging to you.

Then your gaze landed on his desk.

The laptop was open. Pale blue light spilled from the screen, stark against the muted room. It was so ordinary, so benign, but somehow, that light made your chest tighten.

You froze, hovering like a thief caught mid-step, fingers brushing the air above the desk, not daring to touch. You hadn’t meant to look. You promised yourself you wouldn’t. But the subject line flashed there, undeniable: your name.

And the sender.

Penelope.

Your stomach lurched, bile rising slightly against your throat.

You blinked, leaning closer, vision swimming as your hangover tangled with shock. There it was: “Dr. Seth.” Simple. Clinical. Precise. But underneath it all, loaded. Dangerous.

Your throat went dry. Your pulse pounded in your ears, louder than the pounding in your head, louder than the quiet hum of the apartment.

You blinked, leaned closer, eyes scanning fragments of sentences: details, dates, threads pulled tight into something undeniable. The cursor blinked back at you, steady, almost taunting.

You squinted, scanning fragments of sentences, dates, facts, and details pulled together in neat, terrifying precision. Threads of information about your fiancé laid bare, open, no longer hidden. The cursor blinked at you, steady, almost cruel, like it was daring you to look closer, to really understand.

Your body tilted forward, caught in a slow-motion spiral. Last night crashed back into you: the warmth of Spencer’s shoulder, the soft weight of his hand on yours, and the way you had babbled about needing him to hold you and to protect you. The words that slipped from your lips, the confessions you hadn’t meant to make sober, came rushing back in fragments.

And now…you knew.

Hands trembling, gripping the edge of the desk like it could anchor you, you swallowed hard. The air in your lungs turned sharp and uncooperative, slicing through your throat as if it had learned to hate you. Your voice emerged hoarse, ragged, and almost a whisper but raw enough to make your own ears ache:

“…What did you do, Spence?”

The front door clicked open.

You spun around so fast the room tilted, blood rushing to your head until nausea rolled like a wave in your stomach. Spencer stepped inside with a paper bag balanced in his arms, the faint smell of coffee and warm bread trailing in with him. Sunlight caught in his hair as he nudged the door shut with his heel, and for a second, just one second, he looked so unbearably ordinary. Normal. Like a man who had gone downstairs for breakfast after a night of caring for you, of staying by your side.

And then he saw you upright.

His whole face shifted, eyes lighting in relief, that small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re awake,” he said softly, voice pitched like he didn’t want to startle you. He lifted the bag just slightly, like proof of his thoughtfulness. “I got you a bagel and some fruit, something gentle. And coffee, if your stomach—”

“Don’t.”

The word shot out of you like a blade, sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take it back. Couldn’t.

He froze mid-step, smile faltering as if someone had reached over and snuffed it out. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the bag to the table, his movements careful, hands steady, like you were something fragile and volatile all at once.

“Wait…” he started, his voice tentative, searching.

You jabbed your finger toward the desk, your hand shaking, the glow of his laptop casting an accusing light across the room. It made your skin prickle. Made everything inside you burn. “What the hell is that?”

His eyes flicked to the computer, then back to you, and you saw it: the hesitation. The calculation. His throat bobbed with a hard swallow, and the silence that followed stretched, taut and suffocating. That silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

“You went behind my back?” The words tore out of you, jagged and raw, voice cracking on the last syllable. Anger surged hot under your ribs, fire clawing at your chest, stronger than the headache and nausea still clawing at your skull. “You had Penelope dig into him? Into my future husband?”

The words hit him, and you watched, stunned, as his jaw tightened, the faintest wince tugging at his face before he forced it back into that calm mask. He looked away for half a second, the smallest betrayal in the twitch of his lips, before he forced his gaze back to yours, unwavering yet somehow brittle.

“I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” You cut him off, stepping closer, chest tight and trembling, the heat of your anger nearly making you dizzy. “You weren’t violating his privacy? You weren’t digging through my fiancé’s life like it’s some…some case file?”

He flinched. Just barely. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, the kind of subtle wound he always tried to hide. But he didn’t shout. Didn’t yell. Didn’t fight back. When he spoke, the words were infuriatingly calm, like he had already measured every possible outcome and braced himself for every reaction.

“I was trying to protect you.”

The words landed heavy in your chest, like stones. Not comforting. Not soft. Not love. Just weight. Finality.

You laughed, a sharp, humorless sound that scraped your throat raw. “Protect me?” you repeated, incredulous. “By going behind my back? By digging through his life like I’m some victim waiting to happen? Do you even hear yourself?”

Spencer’s shoulders drew tight, the tension in his body a silent, visible confession. But his face didn’t falter, didn’t give in. He looked at you with that same analytical intensity he reserved for the most complicated, unknowable cases, scanning every twitch of muscle, every spike of heat in your voice, and every trembling breath. Like he was trying to calculate how to fix it or how to survive it.

And it made you angrier.

“You think I don’t know what you did?” You demanded, the words slicing through the room like glass, your pulse hammering in your ears. “You called our friend. You had her pull records. You made her spy on him, on the man I’m going to marry.”

His mouth opened, then closed, a delicate hesitation betraying his carefully controlled exterior. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, restless, trembling with the weight of all the consequences he’d already imagined. Finally, quiet and raw, he admitted, “I needed to be sure.”

Your stomach lurched, a wave of nausea twisting in your gut. “Sure of what?”

He hesitated. That pause, pregnant with unspoken thoughts, with fear and doubt, with regret, was all the answer you needed.

You staggered back a step, chest hollow, bitter laughter clawing up from somewhere deep in your throat, rasping and bitter. “Oh my God,” you said, voice tight with rage and disbelief, “you actually think he’s dangerous. You think he’s—you think he’s going to hurt me.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer admitted finally, and his voice broke. He dragged a hand through his hair, restless, unraveling, as if pulling at the strands could undo what he’d done. “I don’t know who he really is. And you…you trust too easily. You give people the benefit of the doubt even when they don’t deserve it, and I—” His voice hitched. He swallowed hard, shaking his head as if hating himself for even saying it. “I couldn’t just stand by.”

“Stand by?” Your voice trembled, but the heat inside you made it sharp, fierce, and alive. “That’s not standing by. That’s controlling. That’s deciding for me.”

For a fraction of a second, his face crumpled, raw emotion flashing across features he usually kept carefully composed. But just as quickly, he smoothed it into that infuriating calm, that desperate, brittle control that didn’t fool you for a second. “I wasn’t trying to control you. I was trying to keep you safe.”

“From what?” The words tore themselves out of you, chest heaving, hands trembling so hard you had to clench them into fists. “From my own choices? From my own happiness? Or just from the possibility that I could love someone who isn’t you?”

The silence after was suffocating, a thick, choking weight pressing down on your ribs.

His lips parted, but no sound came. His throat moved, eyes glistening with unshed tears, raw and honest, but he couldn’t give you what you needed. He couldn’t give you trust.

“You were the one who broke up with me,” you whispered, voice strangled, thick with grief. “And I… I tried to be friends again, even after what you did to my heart—” You choked, stopping yourself a moment. “…I was so stupid.”

And then it broke you. The tears came hot and blinding, and you pressed a hand to your face, the sting sharp as you tried to blink them back. Your bag was at your chair, waiting, almost mocking in its stillness. You snatched it up, slinging the strap over your shoulder with trembling hands, every movement heavy, weighted with heartbreak.

Spencer startled, stepping toward you, a word trembling on his lips. “Wait—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked under the weight of everything—anger, betrayal, heartbreak—but you held your hand up like a fragile, defiant shield. “Don’t follow me. Don’t try to make this better. If you can’t trust me to make my own choices about my own life…” Your throat tightened, a sob clawing at your chest, threatening to break free, but you forced the words out anyway. “…then you don’t get to be part of it.”

For a fraction of a second, his face crumpled, all the calm control gone, leaving only raw, unguarded hurt. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“If you can’t trust me,” you whispered, voice trembling on the edge of collapse, “then I don’t want you at my wedding.”

The words struck like a thunderclap. You saw them hit him, saw the color drain from his face, and felt the stumble in his breath. His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked gasps. His eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on you like he couldn’t quite comprehend what you’d just said, as if the ground had been ripped from beneath him and the world had tilted sideways.

Your vision blurred with tears, and your hands shook so violently you could barely grip the doorknob. The sunlight outside hit your face like harsh, unrelenting truth, illuminating the tear tracks you hadn’t cared to hide. You yanked the door open with a force born of desperation and sorrow, stumbling backward, and the moment it swung shut behind you, a sob tore free. Muffled against your hand, it shook your entire body, leaving your knees threatening to give way.

Inside, Spencer remained frozen. The echo of the door clicking shut seemed to reverberate through his chest, through his bones, leaving him hollow and trembling. He sank slowly against the wall, hands clutching at his hair, fingers digging in like he could pull the reality of the moment back into his control. Tears streamed freely down his face, hot and sharp, and his chest heaved as ragged, broken breaths spilled out into the silent apartment. The quietest, most unbearable sound: a man trying, and failing, not to unravel completely.

Outside, you pressed your face to your hand, muffling your own sobs, knees trembling as your heart fractured with every ragged breath. The hallway stretched endlessly before you, sunlight glinting harshly against the cold and indifferent floor.

And in that terrible, fragile moment, separated by only a door yet miles apart in feeling, the two of you cried.

Cried for what had been lost. Cried for what might never be repaired.

Cried for the trust that had been broken and the love that still, stubbornly, remained.

[aperrywilliams]

Pillow Talk (Spencer Reid x GN!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader.

Summary: Spencer just came back from a case completely drained. You want to spend time with your boyfriend, but you have a draft to send to your editor tonight. Full of guilt, you tell Spencer not to wait up for you tonight. He complies, at least you think he does.

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Fluff. Kind of angsty at the beginning. Suggestive themes at the end. Nothing too explicit.

A/N: I’m a night owl. And sometimes I dream of having a pillow talk with Spencer at 3 AM. Sue me.

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You know you should have finished the draft before midday, but between checking some inconsistencies, you decided to do an entire review before submitting. That's why you’re at your desk at 6 PM and not even close to finishing. Guilt fills your guts when you see Spencer’s message saying he’s coming home now—guilt of having to choose your job over him tonight.

Like clockwork, the apartment door opens at seven, revealing your boyfriend's frame. The sight doesn't make you feel better.

Spencer looks tired. Drained can be a better word to describe him, you think. Well, it was expected after nine days of catching an unsub in California.

“Hey, love,” he greets, letting go of his go-bag, which lands on the floor with a thud. With open arms, you run to catch him in a tight embrace. His head goes immediately to the crook of your neck, and he inhales your scent—it’s the smell of home to him.

“I missed you,” he says, and you can melt on the spot just for his words and the mutual feeling.

“I missed you, too, Spence. How was the flight?” you ask, as you help him to shed some of his clothes: shoes, coat, scarf, before heading to the couch.

“Long. However, it was enough to finish those two books I wanted to read and didn’t have the chance to yet,” he says, plopping down on the couch and gesturing for you to get comfy in his arms. You happily comply, sitting on his lap with your arms around his neck.

“That is great. Although taking a nap could have been a good idea, too.”

“Yeah. I know. And everyone did that. But I couldn't. I just wanted to come back home to you,” he says, tired-soft eyes looking at you as if you were the most valuable thing to admire. It never fails to make your heart burst inside your chest.

“Spence, baby,” you coo, before leaning to catch his lips with yours. He kisses you back, slow and deep. A content sigh escapes his lips as you keep kissing.

“What do you want to do tonight?” Spencer asks. “I assume you haven’t had dinner yet. We can eat and then watch a movie together. I need to shower first, though.”

The smile on your face falters, averting his gaze. You can already feel the sting in your heart. Spencer notices.

“What is it?” He asks gently, tilting your chin to the side so he can look at you.

“There is nothing I want more right now, believe me. But I need to send this draft I’m working on before tomorrow morning, and I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Oh. You are working. Love, I didn't know,” Spencer mumbles, softly stroking your cheek, catching your tired eyes, evidence of the last hours you had spent fixed on your computer screen.

“I’m sorry. I didn't think you were going to come back today, and I lost track of time in the past days. I should have-” You start to apologize, and Spencer knows you will begin to spiral if he doesn't do something. So he plants a soft kiss on your nose to stop your rant.

“Hey. It is okay. I understand. You don't have to apologize.”

“But-”

“Nuh-uh. But nothing. You have a job to do. We can spend time once you’re done,” he offers, but you still feel bad because it’ll take you hours before that.

“That's the problem. I don't think I can finish this before midnight at least.”

You expect to see disappointment in his eyes, but there is the opposite, actually. Spencer’s look is full of understanding and warmth.

“Well, then. If it is not today, it can be tomorrow, okay?”

Spencer pecks your lips.

“Are you not mad?” You ask, and Spencer seems taken aback by your question.

“Why would I?”

He should, you think.

“You were gone for nine days, and now you are here, and I can’t be with you, to take time for us.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, and his hand comes back to your cheek to trace delicate caresses on your skin.

“If anyone should feel mad, it's you. I’m the one who hasn't been here for all those days.”

“Yeah, but because it's because of your job,” you point out. Spencer’s eyebrow furrows.

“Well, and now you need to focus on yours. It has the same importance as mine. Come on, go back to your desk. I’ll bring you something to eat in a while,” he says, pulling you up with him off the couch.

You don’t have time to protest because when you are going to, Spencer cups your cheeks and kisses you—a loud, sweet, steady kiss.

“I love you. Don’t you ever forget that, okay? Now, back to work.”

A slight slap on your ass follows his words.

“Spencer!” You squeal. His actions are enough to prompt you to move, though. And you do, giggling at your boyfriend's antics.

How did you get that lucky? You’ll never know.

True to his word, half an hour later, Spencer brings you a succulent sandwich with a massive cup of tea. He knows that despite working late, you don’t drink coffee at night. Without a word to not disturb your work, he leaves the room after kissing your temple.

As you type furiously on your keyboard, from time to time, you can catch faint sounds coming from the other rooms. You guess it must be Spencer who’s having dinner and then taking a shower. But after some moments, there is only silence. You settle with the idea of Spencer finally going to bed.

Time passes, and you don’t dare glance at the clock until you save the finished document and email it to your editor. It's incredibly late. You lost track of the time once you locked up there. Turning off your laptop and flicking off the lights, you softly pad from your desk to the bedroom.

Pushing the door open, you see Spencer lying in bed, dressed in his pajamas but barely covered by the sheets. His lamp is still on. Soft snoring escapes his lips. He has a book on his lap, a sign he didn't want to fall asleep yet. He was probably waiting for you, although you told him you would take time before finishing work.

Carefully, you take the book and leave it on his night table. The same treatment you do with his glasses, hanging low on the bridge of his nose. Spencer doesn't even flinch, scooting further into the mattress as you push the sheets back so he can adjust deep in the mattress. You kiss his cheek and speak softly. “Keep sleeping, baby. I’ll be back in a minute,” you mumble, flicking off his lamp.

In his sleepy state, he mumbles something you can’t hear correctly, but you assume it’s something about “time” and “late.”

After a reduced version of your nightly routine, you get into bed, scooting to Spencer's side, hugging him from behind like he’s the little spoon. Breathing his scent and feeling his warmth is comforting. Nine days apart is a long time, and you must admit that sleeping without him is harder than when he's home.

You don’t think you will fall asleep anytime soon, though. The adrenaline from the working hours is still high, but you’re content being literally a clamp attached to Spencer’s back.

“Did you send it?”

Spencer’s raspy voice breaks the silence in the room. Due to his steady breathing, you didn't notice he was awake until now.

“Yeah. All done. Let's get to sleep, baby,” you whisper, kissing his covered shoulder blade before resuming your position as the big spoon.

“But you won’t.”

You chuckle, muffling the sound with your mouth pressed to his back. He knows you so damn well.

“But you can, and you should. So don’t worry, and go back to sleep, mister doctor profiler.”

“It's mister-doctor-boyfriend-profiler to you,” he corrects, stirring and slowly turning to his side, to get face-to-face with you. Despite the darkness in the room, and thanks to the moonlight seeping through the curtains, you can see his blinking eyes, a tired smile gracing his lips.

“Spencer!” you whisper-yell. “Don’t wake up!“

“Why not? Can't I admire the love of my life in the moonlight after so many days gone?”

You sigh. You should have suspected that Spencer was going to use his adorable brain and logic to achieve his goal of doing the opposite of what you want.

“You'll regret it when the alarm goes off in only four hours.”

“It’ll totally be worth it. Now, come here,” he requests, his arm already stretched for you to scoot to his side. You tuck your head under his chin, arm resting loosely over his chest.

“Are you okay?” Spencer’s question hangs in the air, soft and quiet.

“Uhm?” Your brows furrow. Why wouldn’t you? Lying in bed next to him after nights sleeping alone is enough to feel more than okay now.

“You have been stressed lately. And I’m not only talking about this particular deadline.”

Sometimes, it is easy to forget what Spencer does for a living, but beyond that, there are times you forget how well you have gotten to know each other over the years.

As you contemplate your answer, Spencer is patient. He strokes your hip in soothing patterns and uses his steady breathing to help you mimic.

“The deadline,” you repeat. The concept is floating around in your brain as your thoughts go back and forth to the past weeks. “It's fine, Spencer. I was stressed about it, but it's done now.”

Your words try to sound sure and reassuring, but not even you buy it. Spencer hums, before untucking your head from his chin and leaning a bit back to get a better look at you.

“Are the constant deadlines bothering you more than you want to admit? It's okay if you tell me, you know. We agree we can tell those things to each other.”

Spencer is right. You got through a really rough patch in your relationship when Spencer got arrested and locked up in Milburn. So bad that it almost ends everything between you both. After that, you promised to get better at communicating and not hiding things, even if you think it’s for each other’s sake to do it.

“I know. But I really think it's silly, it's not worth even mentioning,” you try to dismiss.

“I wouldn’t say it's silly if it has been bothering you.”

And sometimes it works, but Spencer looks too focused on getting you to talk even for 3 AM on a random Thursday.

“People can be bothered by silly stuff, you know?”

Spencer chuckles at your poor attempt to overcome his impromptu interrogation.

“Not the kind that keeps you awake at night, distracted during the day, and too quiet in a noisy place.”

You grumble in frustration and slump back onto the mattress, your eyes on the ceiling. Spencer straightens, leaning on his forearm, patiently waiting for whatever you're about to say.

“You know, my problem is that there shouldn't have been a problem in the first place.”

Spencer doesn't interrupt, knowing you need to express what's on your mind right now, whether or not it makes complete sense.

“I love what I do. I really do. I mean, who can go around saying, 'Look, I do what I love most in life, which is writing. And I get paid for it!'? I can. And it's wonderful.”

"But?" Spencer prompts. A sigh escapes your lips.

“But when someone tells me, 'Hey! We have a schedule to follow, and you promised two drafts this year and haven't even given me one,' I start to panic and question whether I'm good at this or not. And I hate to feel this way. But you know what I hate the most?”

Spencer shakes his head, although he has a clue about it.

“To make a fuss over it. Come on!” You wave your arms in the air. “I can’t really be making a commotion about this, because I know this is how it works!”

Spencer sits up a little more on the mattress so he can be in your line of vision. A hand caresses your cheek, from which a few treacherous tears begin to fall. "Maybe what I'm about to say sounds out of character, but haven't you considered taking a break for a while?"

Your face quickly turns to look at him. A furrowed eyebrow graces your face.

“A break?”

Spencer nods. “Yeah, a break. Vacation time. Time off. A change of pace, whatever you want to call it.”

You look at him like he has grown two heads.

“Is Spencer Reid telling me I need vacation time?”

Spencer chuckles. “I told you it would sound out of character coming from me, but I really think you need a break.”

“Well, if that's the case, if I were you, then I would need to retire,” you mumble. Spencer’s eyebrows crease.

“What do you mean?”

It is not that Spencer doesn't understand what retirement means, but why are you bringing it up, compared to you taking some time off?

“What I'm trying to say is that if it's difficult for me to handle this level of workload and stress, so much so that I need a break, then if I were you, and with your workload and constant level of stress, I should have retired already.”

“Love, we have already talked about this. You can’t say what I do is more important than what you do. That is not the point and is not true either.”

“Of course it is, Spencer. You and the team save lives from the worst scum in this world. I only write books for teenagers. They're words on a piece of paper. If I'm late on a submission, I just piss off my editor and stress myself out. If you don't go on a case, more people could die. I think it’s a big difference.”

This isn't the first time you've had this conversation, and while Spencer has always tried to make you see how important what you do is, the fact that lives are at stake on the BAU daily basis, always buries his attempts.

Spencer indeed believed the same thing you do for a long time, but since his freedom was taken away and his life threatened in ways he never imagined, he's taken a different view of things—something he's tried to get you to see as well.

Time for a different approach, then.

“Do you remember how angry I was when Emily told me that after every 100 days in the field, I had to take 30 days off?”

“Yeah. You wanted to kill her.”

“Well, sometimes I still want to, but for different reasons. But the point is, I believed it was the worst punishment they could have inflicted on me.”

You remember that time. It was like the world had betrayed him, doubting his ability to do his job. But you never heard the word ‘punishment’ coming from his mouth.

“Punishment?”

“Yes. And it was because I couldn't see myself doing anything different than what I'd been doing for over 12 years. I still have a hard time accepting it sometimes, but, you know what? I think it's the best thing Emily has ever forced me to do,” Spencer pauses for a second. “Well, the second one, actually.”

You squint your eyes at him. “The second one?”

“Yeah, the first one was pestering me enough to ask you out.” He beams, making you roll your eyes.

“Kiss ass,” you retort, trying to hide the warm smile tugging at your lips. A hand comes to rake some of his wild curls falling into his eyes. “Why are you telling me all this?” Spencer catches your hand in his hair and brings it to his lips, planting a sweet kiss on your knuckles.

“What I'm trying to say is that it's okay to stop sometimes. And although I know it's difficult for both of us, I want you to think of it as a way to take a moment and breathe. And if it's with me, even better.”

"Is Doctor Reid suggesting something?" you joke, and Spencer laughs.

“There are so many things I'd like us to do together, and I know I don't help much by being away for most of the 100 days I have available to go to the field, but you know? When I close my eyes at night, lying in those excuses they call hotel beds, all I can see is you, think about you, and wish I could come home with you. And that feeling is more powerful than the guilt of not being there 24/7 solving cases at the BAU.”

Your eyes soften at this confession.

In the years you’ve indeed spent together, it's almost unspoken how much you love each other and miss each other when you’re not together, but until now neither has explicitly expressed any plans, and hearing him speak like this, with such conviction about your relationship, makes the butterflies in your stomach go crazy and your heart skip a beat.

“I hope this isn't your way to propose. Pretty ill-advised for 3 a.m. on a Thursday,” you deadpan. Spencer laughs and shakes her head. "I know I can do it better than this, and I will, believe me. I just want you to know that my intentions are clear and that I can't think of a future without you. I love you so much that even picturing myself without you by my side is nonsense.”

“And I love you, my nightly parrot,” you whisper, closing the distance and capturing his lips with yours in a slow and lazy kiss. Spencer smiles into the kiss. You part, to look at his puppy dog eyes.

“What?” you ask, suspicious in your voice.

“Will you think about it?”

That’s when you remember the reason for this conversation to happen in the first place.

“Spencer!” You swat his chest playfully.

“Please?”

Biting your lower lip, you narrow your eyes in deep thinking mode.

You know Spencer's right and that he wouldn't bring up the subject if it weren't a genuine concern. And honestly, it's starting to be one for you, too.

"What are you offering?" you ask, as if you're negotiating with the mafia. Spencer smirks at your question.

“What about a full two weeks in Rossi’s cabin, lost in the woods. No computer, no cases. Just the two of us, waking up late, staying in bed most of the day, walking around the lake, cuddling on the couch in front of the fireplace at night, enjoying each other's company, and maybe planning the future. Sounds good enough to you, ma’am?”

You throw your arms around his neck, lips brushing his.

“Deal. A condition, though.” Spencer purses his lips, trying to anticipate what your apprehension could be.

“Okay? Which is?”

“Let’s get some sleep now. I don’t want Emily hating me because her boy genius hasn’t got enough hours of rest to solve cases.”

Rolling his eyes, Spencer pulls you into his body, wrapping his arms around your waist to assure you won’t go anywhere.

“Sleep is then. But I warn you. Those days at the cabin? Sleep at night will be the last of your priorities.”

Your giggles and the flush in your cheeks are hidden in Spencer’s chest, and he’s very pleased knowing he can still make you flush and see you get shy about things.

And that’s how your pillow talk ends tonight. It’s not the first, and for sure is not going to be the last.

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[aperrywilliams]

This is so sweet! I stand for dad!Spencer as always!

baby, just say yes

plot: you and spencer keep hitting life milestones, and it’s time for another

pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader

genre: fluff

wc: 1.7k

warnings/tags: no use of y/n, talk of pregnancy and periods, weight gain, it’s just tooth rotting fluff it’s insane, spencer is such a dad

a/n: oh m g i can’t believe im actually going through and posting my first fic on here. it might be odd for my first real fic to be a pregnancy fic but idrc i love dilf spencer. i lowk want this to be a series so i hope this catches some people’s attention, but i had fun writing this either way! this was not proofread and it’s 12 AM. enjoy

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Since the day you first met him, you knew Spencer Reid wanted kids. It came up in casual conversation as you looked at JJ’s desk for the first time on your first day at the BAU.

“Oh, he’s so cute! What’s his name?” you cooed while tapping the glass encasing the baby photo. JJ sat holding her baby boy with a winning smile.

“That’s Henry. He’s five now, but that was a few months after I had him,” she replied, grinning wildly at the memory.

“I’ll bet he’s just as adorable now,” you assure her, to which she offers a smile. JJ gives Spencer a sidelong glance, who is speaking to Morgan about something that’s involving a lot of gesticulation.

“Spence here is actually Henry’s godfather,” she informs you, but watches him as he gets dragged out of his conversation. You turn to look at said ‘Spence’, who you’ve yet to be introduced to, and the same goes for the man he’s speaking to. You give him a warm smile with a small wave. He returns it with the same wave and a flattened-lip smile.

Spencer takes a single step forward with Morgan lurking a foot behind him. “I am, actually — Henry’s godfather,” he assures, like JJ didn’t just say that. Morgan also seems to catch onto this and chuckles to himself.

“I think she gets that, pretty boy.” He claps his shoulder, then holds out that hand to you. “I suppose you’re the new addition to the team?” You nod, shake his hand, and introduce yourself. Starting off with ‘Agent’ still feels weird on your tongue. “SSA Derek Morgan,” he states while beaming.

You pause for a moment before turning back to Spencer — or to you, the kinda cute nerdy guy who hasn’t formally introduced himself, instead settling on ‘Spence’. “So, Henry’s godfather. You like it?” you ask.

He doesn’t quite register that you’re talking to him until you’re staring up at him from where you’re sitting on the edge of JJ’s desk, awaiting an answer. Morgan finds this funny, according to his stifled laugh. “Oh — yeah, yes. I love having the opportunity. Henry’s like my own son sometimes, sorry JJ —“ he holds up a hand in forgiveness at this, to which JJ smiles and nods once, “—and I would love to have kids of my own someday because of him.”

Every time you thought of kids and Spencer, you thought of that day. That day brought on a lot of things: the start of your strongest friendship, a great partner to work with, your best relationship, and an amazing husband, all of which are Spencer. You worked for the BAU for four months before you got together officially, then dated for three years before he proposed. You married ten months after that and have been going strong as husband and wife for a year since.

You two have been through countless cases, injuries, and even Spencer’s time in prison, but you did it together. Now it was time for another chapter in the book of life.

You’d been nauseous for days at this point and more tired than you ever have been, even more so than that one time you were awake for thirty-seven hours during a case. Your missed period also factored into the conclusion you made as Spencer held your hair back over the toilet seat while you rode out the wave of nausea.

You rested your forehead on your arm, which strung out across the two sides of the seat, groaning at the feeling in the pit of your stomach. If you were pregnant, this could be a good thing. You’d talked about kids just a few weeks ago. In that conversation, you both concluded that you’d be okay with it happening.

You just didn’t expect it this soon.

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer had picked up on the clues a day before you did. You’d just come out of the bathroom after vomiting again, and when you flopped back into bed next to him on your stomach, you asked him to rub your back because it ached so bad. He also noticed the lack of missing menstrual products in the bathroom drawer when he predicted you were supposed to get your period. So, he had an inkling that this was the case.

Spencer shuffled to sit cross-legged on the floor while still holding your hair up, his other hand rubbing your shoulder to ease some of the annoyance of all the vomiting. “Do you want me to get you some water?” he asked ever so softly. You hummed a small protest and slowly picked your head up.

“Can you go get some pregnancy tests, actually?”

Spencer complied without question.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Spencer had returned from the pharmacy twenty minutes ago, but you’ve been pacing for fifteen of those minutes. “I’m scared, and I don’t even know why,” you explained, pointer and middle finger pressed to your temple as you stood with him in the bathroom. Spencer held you around your waist in an attempt to stop both your pacing and your worry. It was only helping you stay still for now.

“Hey, listen to me,” he coaxes, fingers splaying over the small of your back in hopes the warmth will help. “We just talked about this, remember? I’m ready for this if you are. We’re financially and physically ready. According to an article I read, we’re probably in the best position to have a kid. We’re both young and financially capable of supporting a child. But I’ll only go through with this if you want to, okay, angel?”

You’ve since stopped crying as he spoke, feeling the slightest bit more reassured at his ramble. Of course he knew the statistics for being stable enough to have a kid. That’s just so Spencer.

Your hand on his shoulder never moved, but your fingers on your temple shifted to wipe under your nose before mirroring the other hand. “Okay,” you breathe out with a hard swallow. Spencer began to grin a little at your calming demeanor before he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

That seemed like a sign enough that it was time to check the tests. You turned out of his hold to the spread of three upside down identical pregnancy tests on the counter. (“False positives are a less than one percent chance,” he told you when he came home, “so if we get more than one positive, then we know for sure. False negatives, on the other hand, are more common, with a five percent chance. Read it in an article on the line.”)

“I’m scared,” you whispered with your head turned down to the sink countertop. Spencer immediately put a hand on the middle of your back and soothed up and down your spine.

“Do you want me to look and then tell you?” You nod, then turn around to rest your head on his chest and swing your arms around him. He kept his hand soothing on your back, but did as you wished, flipping each of the tests around one by one.

You weren’t a profiler — that was his job — so his silence was only scary. You picked your cheek up off his chest and tilted your head up to rest your chin there instead. Still not a profiler, you couldn’t quite tell whether his opened mouth and wide eyes were from shock or disappointment.

“What? What, is it bad? Are they all negative? I knew I was so—“

He cut you off with the simple breathless way he said your name. “Look, angel.”

That was enough to get you to turn around with a displeased look. His hand hadn’t moved as you turned, leaving it to rest on your lower belly as you looked.

Three tests. Two pink lines on each of them.

“According to that article, it’s very rare to get three false positives, so…” he murmured in your ear. You didn’t even realize that he rested his chin on your shoulder, being too engrossed in the moment.

You didn’t even give the poor man a chance to breathe before you practically jumped into his arms, your own wrapped around his neck and tugging him down into you. The bathroom walls echo both of your laughter, soft and warm for the moment.

“Oh my God,” you mumble, almost breathless in shock. Spencer has since started kissing up your cheek and only gets four kisses in before your lips are on his. It’s chaste, only because you rest your head on his upper chest and hold him in another tight hug before he can blink.

“I’m so happy for you, angel,” he mumbles into your hair, somewhere near the crown of your head, which he seals with a kiss.

“Us,” you correct, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Biology speaking, you couldn’t have, he wants to say, but for once in his nerdy life, he holds himself back. Now is not the time for a science lecture or a ramble. You both are about to have a child. That’s the only thing that really matters.

“I’m happy for us, then,” Spencer delightfully corrects, one hand moving off your back to cup your cheek and angle your head up. Your eyes are wet, and he thumbs away a dribbling tear from the apple of your cheek. His own eyes are bordering on tears, brought on by both of your excitements.

“Y’know,” you start, a shaky voice, but he can recognize in the tone that you’re alright, “I thought I was gaining weight. Glad to know it’s for a good cause.” You laugh wetly, stricken with happy tears still, and he laughs in a short breath.

“I didn’t even notice. You still look gorgeous, angel,” he replies, thumbing the high point of your cheek as gently as one can. He slips a hand down your side, then rests it on your hip with his thumb on the lower point of your belly.

“I love you,” you mumble as you slip back into his hold, cheek against his chest. Spencer helplessly smiles while his hand on your cheek slips back to hold your head to him.

“I love you too. Both of you.”

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꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧ feel free to like and reblog if you enjoyed!

[aperrywilliams]

A new series is coming.

I Save Lives. You Don’t (Spencer Reid x Fem!OC!NonBAU)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! OC.

Summary: Another date with no-show is another stone in Julia and Spencer’s relationship. And after months of failed attempts to try to get their relationship on track again, things don't seem to improve.

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: Mostly hurt and angst. Some curses then and there. Spencer is kind of an ass and clueless.

A/N: I know OC’s don't get much love around here, but give Julia a chance. The story between them is far from ending.

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Jules’s POV

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The clock on the restaurant wall keeps ticking and mocking me: seven o'clock, seven and ten, seven-thirty, seven fifty.

I avert my gaze from it to my phone, but it is worse. It's another constant reminder of the time and the fact that Spencer hasn't even replied to my texts or calls.

Seven fifty, eight o'clock, eight-fifteen.

Did something happen to him?

That uneasy sensation settles in the pit of my stomach. But I know better. The rational part of my brain reminds me that there is no active case. If something happened, it hasn't to be related to that. Actually, it was one of the reasons for this date to happen. Work has been merciless lately with us both. Spencer has been in a constant back-to-back of cases, and my job has messed up my schedule for - I don’t know - weeks now?

That's why we planned this. That's why I almost didn't sleep the past two nights, so I could end my job early today and spend this time with my boyfriend, sharing a nice meal in a cute restaurant. I don’t even remember when we did something remotely close to a date night.

Today is not the day either, apparently.

Neither was the past week when Spencer swore he would make it home so we could watch a movie, eat popcorn, and cuddle. That afternoon, a serial killer decided the BAU had to go to Minnesota to catch him.

And not three weeks ago, when we had planned to go to the movies to see a prequel to one of my favorite films, that night, the team was called to solve a string of murders in Iowa. I ended up at the theater alone. At least one of those tickets wouldn't be wasted.

It's not that I don't understand. Spencer's work schedule has always been messy. But it's hard to be at peace with it when it’s me who’s trying, and he seems none the wiser. Not even a text acknowledging my existence. It hurts.

When the clock strikes eight-thirty, I give up.

After paying for the only drink I had, I left the restaurant.

When I get home, the apartment is quiet. Not feeling hungry and not in the mood for anything else, I start my nightly routine. It's still early to go to bed, but I’m so drained thanks to my job and frustrated for tonight that I don’t care if I eat something or not. All the energy I had left is gone after this non-date.

I’m removing my makeup in the bathroom when I hear the entrance door open and then shut. The unmistakable sound of Spencer's footsteps fills the wooden floor of our shared apartment.

'Shared' as a way to put it. It's Spencer's, but I have been living there since my lease ended, and Spencer asked me to move in five months ago. How I miss that time, when everything seemed easier.

"Jules? Baby?”

I don't respond. Why should I? Come on, IQ of 187, the lights are on, who else can be?

Spencer tries again anyway. "Are you home?" His steps follow down the hall to our room, and then to the ensuite, where I’m now brushing my teeth.

I know Spencer wants to hear me respond so he can gauge my ‘anger level.’ He knows what he did, and he's bracing himself for the argument we sure will have.

When he sees me, I catch the lump going down his throat. Sure, I look like hell: mid-pajama changed, clean face, tired expression, and a body screaming exhaustion.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't make it because -"

"Save it." I cut him off, spitting the toothpaste into the sink. Not loud. Not angry. Just fed up. Spencer's brow creases.

"I'm trying to explain," he says, like it's what I need—a reason.

"I don't want you to explain yourself. I wanted you there."

It's simple and complicated at the same time.

"I know. I wanted that too. But things at work got messy, and I couldn't call-"

"Did you? Did you really?" I cut him off again, drying my hands and face with the towel.

Spencer’s eyebrows furrow.

"What?" he asks, confused about what I mean. My eyes meet his.

"Did you really want to be there? Like last week? Like last month? Because if you did, the world is confabulating pretty hard against you," I scoff, exiting the bathroom and trailing to the kitchen. Spencer is right behind me, like a lost puppy. I know he can hear the sarcasm in my voice, but I don’t fucking care.

"Of course I wanted to be there! It's just-" He trails off.

I know exactly what he’s going to say, and I don’t need to hear it.

"The job. I know,” I supply, grabbing a glass to fill with water. “The thing is, Spencer, how do we fix it? The non-dates, the time we can't spend together, how?"

My body and brain are too weary to even try to hide my wrath, more so when Spencer doesn't seem to understand where all the frustration is coming from.

"We try again! That's what we do!"

Spencer's voice rises an octave. I put down the glass over the countertop, shaking my head.

"I think 'we' sounds like a lot of people. I'm trying, Spencer. I have been for months! And have you? Uh?"

A deep sigh leaves his lips. I don’t know if it's out of frustration or if he is truly contemplating my words. We already had this discussion before, more times in the past months than I would like to admit.

"I don't get why you're so mad at me. You know how my job is. I can be called to work at any moment. Your job has become unpredictable, too.”

Fucking shit. Is he really going to use that card? If Spencer wanted to defuse a bomb with those words, he failed with flying colors.

"Oh, believe me. I know it. But it doesn't mean you can ditch me every single time, Spencer!"

I think I’m yelling at this point. How can Spencer be so clueless and unfair?

"Don't be dramatic! I don't 'ditch on you.' You say it like I don't care about you."

It pains me to think like that, but I fucking do.

"Do you?"

My question apparently throws him off, because he starts to stutter.

"What-I-what kind of question is that?”

A question that hurts, but I can’t avoid anymore.

"Exactly what I asked. Do you care about me?"

The look I give him is intense, trying to read the truth in his eyes. Spencer maintains eye contact; he's not avoiding it this time.

"Yes! I care. You shouldn't even be asking something like that."

"Why not? I think it's a legitimate question. Because it doesn't show it."

Spencer scoffs. "Oh, come on, Jules! I love you! We live together. We share a life. I care how you have been. I kiss you every time I have to go and when I come back. I call or text you every chance I get when I'm away. I ask you about your day. I listen to the things you want to say."

I’m not going to say it's a lie. But-

“And that should be enough? It sounds like a lame checklist to me.”

“What?! It's not like that and you know it!”

There it is. The frustrated Spencer Reid is showing up, running his hands through his hair, clenching his jaw as if he’s holding back.

“Yeah? If you care so much, where were you when I needed you by my side? And you know I’m not only talking about the canceled dates or interrupted time together. Where were you in one of the most crucial achievements I have had in my career so far?”

“That’s not-” He tries to cut me off, but it's like a dam is broken now. I can’t stop.

“No, Spencer. No! I never asked you for anything, really. And it wasn’t a big deal, honestly. I understood. I always did. But I thought when the time came, you would be there for me the way I did for you!”

“Jules-”

“I hate to do this. I hate to bring this up. But I’m tired, Spencer. I’m so fucking tired.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, knowing I have already lost any composure I had. He tries to reach for me, but I don’t let him.

“I already told you I’m sorry for that. I knew it was important, and I’m so sorry for not being there. But we need to get over this, please.”

Have you heard the saying ‘put out a fire with gasoline’? Well, this is a very accurate example. Maybe some time ago, it would have worked. I would have backed up, agreeing that my ‘things’ weren’t important enough. But, right now? I hate to feel like they don’t.

“Why? Why do we need to get over it?”

"Jules, please, you wouldn't get it,” Spencer mumbles quietly, but I hear him.

Maybe it's from how tired I am that I feel like every word Spencer says seems worse than the last, or perhaps he’s just so exhausted he doesn't realize how much it hurts me to hear him talk like that. Either way, I’m not going to stop because of it.

"Why not, uh?"

Spencer glances at me with a mix of caution and regret. It’s like he wants to skip this conversation altogether because he knows it doesn't look good.

“Love, we both are fatigued right now, and I’m not expressing myself in the best way. Can we-”

I lift a hand to stop him, eyes shut. He does.

“Spencer, please. I asked you a question, and the least you can do it’s answer me.”

Spencer clears his throat, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Well, uh. I mean, our jobs are different, you know. Pretty different, actually."

"They are. We don't have the same job. But it's a job with highs and lows. Why wouldn't I understand if you explained it to me?"

Spencer rubs his hand through his face. Irritation is filling his features. I’m pushing harder this time, and I have to confess it scares me a bit.

“Spencer, why-?”

"Because-because you haven't been there! In the field! You haven’t seen people die!”

Putting it in that way, there seems to be no argument against it. But Spencer doesn't realize he is neglecting his own life to save others.

"Spencer, I know! I don't pretend to minimize what you have been through and do. But baby, you can't forget you do have a life to take care of.” I try to reach his hand this time, a pace offering, but he takes a step back.

"How can you say it like that? People are dying out there, Jules. Can’t you see it? I save lives, you don't. Some people need us, for fucks sake! They can die if we don't get there on time!"

There is pure logic in his reasoning. And I know he's right. The BAU saves lives. It's a laudable job, with sacrifices and a lot of stress. I don't deny that fact. But does that mean anything else is bullshit?

'I save lives, you don't.'

That's why I will never be at the top of his list. Is it because I don't save lives for a living? Is that the part that I’ll never get to understand about him?

What a selfish bitch I am.

“I save lives. You don't."

The definitive and quiet way I repeat his words tells him that he crossed a line or two.

"I wasn't saying -" He tries to explain, but for me, it doesn't need explanation at all.

"I heard you, Spencer. And I respect what you do. Sure, it is ten thousand times more important than what I do. The only thing that I can save sometimes is part of the budget from the editing department to invest in press equipment. And that's all."

“That's not what I meant. I'm not trying to minimize what you do. Of course not. All jobs are important. Society wouldn't function without any of them. It's statistically improbable, actually.”

Those words don’t bring me any sense of comfort, and Spencer can read it from my face in an instant.

“Don’t try to back down. I know it's not the same. Maybe a medical doctor, a nurse, a firefighter, or a first responder would get it better than I.”

Again, this isn’t the first time we have had this argument in the past months. But recently, it has been harder to find a middle ground for the two of us. I guess time has worn us more quickly than I thought it would, and I don’t know how much of a fight is left. I hate to even think about it, but having this conversation over and over again it’s only a reminder of how fragile we are, and I don’t think I can keep in this circle for much longer. Not when I see how I'm hurting the man I love with all my heart, and watching him hurt me. It's not fair to either of us.

Spencer sighs, almost defeated. I know he's thinking the same thing I am right now. This is the point where one of us gives up and decides to abandon the argument before breaking up what's left of us as a couple.

"Baby, we are both tired. Why wouldn't we better go to bed? We can talk in the morning. Well rested and with hours of proper sleep. Can we do that?"

It's Spencer who's waving the white flag tonight. He's right, we're both exhausted, but hasn't it been this way all along? I'm afraid of continuing to choke on unspoken things, and I'm so scared Spencer is holding onto the resentment I know he has against me for all of this.

“Spencer, I don’t know-”

“Please. I’m not trying to disregard the fact that we have an unsolved argument and that we need to talk about it thoroughly, but please, I promise we can talk tomorrow morning with fresh eyes and mind. I’ll even make breakfast with pancakes the way you like, and I won’t put blueberries on it.”

I chuckle at his offer. He knows how I love pancakes and hate blueberries. Those little things still get to my heart. And those puppy eyes he is giving me now. I can’t say no to them, no matter how mad I am.

“Promise?” I ask for confirmation, and Spencer opens his arms to me. Another offer I can’t resist.

“I promise. Come on, let’s go to bed,” he says, kissing my temple and circling his arms tightly around me.

We get into our bed, under the covers, and Spencer holds me in his arms. I close my eyes and let myself be engulfed by his scent, feeling at peace after hours of tension. It feels like home. I melt into his embrace and let a content sigh. If only things could be like this forever. If only we could have this for longer.

“I love you, Jules,” Spencer mumbles into my hair, kissing my head. I’m almost falling into slumber, so I think I don’t get to reply with words; instead, I tighten my grasp on his body to mine. But I know he knows.

- - - - - -

‘What?’ I ask when I see Spencer looking at me for quite a while without saying anything. His eyes are full of something I can’t grasp. It’s soft but intense, warm but makes my heart stop.

We were watching a movie at his place after he came back from a case, and I offered to come over with takeout. We have been dating for a while now, and I think I have never been so happy in my life. Right now, I was just laughing at some nerdy joke Spencer said about the movie, and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

‘I love you.’

That’s it. No preambles, no warning. And I think I can faint right now. His words bring to existence what I have been feeling and scared to say. I freeze for a second or two, and due I don’t know where my words have gone, I shift and kneel on the couch, crashing my lips to his. Spencer starts chuckling into the kiss at my eagerness, out of surprise by my reaction, and nervousness about what his confession means to us, although I can tell he has some clue. When I part from the kiss, lips swollen and eyes glistening, I give him the widest grin I have.

‘In case it wasn't clear from what I just did, I love you, too, Spencer. So so much.’

His grin matches mine, and the movie gets long forgotten, acting as background noise when we have more important things to focus our attention on.

- - - - - -

When I wake up the next morning, my hand stretches, reaching for Spencer, but his side is cold. I open my eyes, and the first thing I find is… nothing, or no one, better said.

We both went to bed together last night, and Spencer promised me we would talk in the morning after some sleep. I didn't dream that, did I?

I turn and peek at the nightstand. My phone is charging, and a sticky note is on the screen. Still half asleep, I get into a sitting position, narrowing my eyes to read the note I unstick from my phone.

'I'm sorry, love. I got called early to Tampa, and I didn't want to wake you up. I'll text you when I get there. S.'

The words take some time to register in my foggy brain, but when they do, my chest constricts, and the renewed energy from last night's rest is already gone.

Spencer didn't keep his word. He left again, despite everything I said last night, and his willingness to fix things.

I don't know what to think or feel about it, but my body has its reaction in the form of tears rolling down my cheeks, as my hands shake with the note looking at me mockingly.

A note? Really? A fucking note should be enough after everything we said?

He stood me up twice in less than twelve hours. It should be a record by now.

I crumple the piece of paper and throw it to the floor in rage, collapsing onto the mattress, unable to stop the tears. I don't know what hurts me more: my heart, my pride, or everything at once. And that's when my brain starts bombarding me with doubts and questions, with that stupid voice telling me over and over again how foolish, weak, and insignificant I am.

Stop. Stop it!

Eventually, I gave up, and there were no more tears to shed. I’m still sprawled over the bed, eyes on the ceiling, just contemplating. Maybe I’m overreacting; maybe I need to take a breath.

My phone dings. I just hope it’s not a text from him because I don’t want to start crying again. When I take the device to check, I see a text from my chief editor: ‘Julia, I know you asked for today off, but I got a call from the California team, it’s important, and I think we need to discuss it ASAP. Tell me if you can meet today or tomorrow.’

Work, uh? It could be a good distraction. I don't have many plans for today, anyway.

I type my response with no further thought: ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

It’s not how I expected to spend my day, but sulking won’t fix anything. Come on, Jules, get up. Literally and figuratively. Life is still out there, even if your heart is broken.

After that little trash pep talk, I make my way to the shower. I don’t want to think about Spencer for now. It hurts, and I’m tired of hurting.

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I’ll really appreciate comments, thoughts, likes, and reblogs. Thanks for supporting my work.

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[aperrywilliams]

They deserve all the love from each other. Our loved dork Spencer. I love this man and how perfect he is to Reader and Maddie. This is the little family they don’t know they have, but they already have.

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 15

Summary: Maddie’s first sleepover brings more anxiety than Y/N expected, but Spencer is there to help her navigate the ache of letting go. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: empty nest syndrome / separation anxiety, sexual content, heated makeout, word count: 10.4k

Series Masterlist

“I brought tangerines, popcorn, some juiceboxes, gummy bears, and a giraffe.”

The second I say it, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. But it’s too late—I’m already standing in the entryway holding the bag like it’s a peace offering, or maybe a bribe. Y/N looks up from where she’s kneeling at the coffee table, trying to zip Maddie’s overnight bag shut. Her eyes flick to me, then to the giraffe sticking out of the tote like it has a purpose.

“A giraffe?” she repeats, flatly.

“It looked… friendly.” I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how warm my ears feel. “And statistically, transitional objects can help kids feel more secure when they’re sleeping away from home for the first time.”

Before she can respond, Maddie appears out of nowhere—tiny feet pattering across the hardwood—and makes a delighted noise at the sight of the stuffed animal. I barely have time to hold it out before she grabs it, hugs it to her chest, and declares, “I’m naming her Orange.”

“Because of the tangerines?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“No. Because she’s orange.”

Right. Of course.

Y/N smiles under her breath and shakes her head like she’s trying not to laugh, but I see it—the way her fingers won’t stop fiddling with the zipper, the way her eyes flick to the bag every ten seconds like she’s forgotten something. Again. Like one missing item—one sock, one nightlight, one stuffed animal—might make the whole thing unravel.

The tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease. Not even a little. It just sits there, knotted and heavy, like she’s bracing for impact. Like letting Maddie go for one night might reveal some invisible flaw in her parenting. And I know that’s not rational. She probably knows it’s not rational. But that doesn’t stop it from sinking its teeth in.

She looks… stressed out of her mind. And if that wasn’t enough, she also looks like she’s about three seconds away from crying.

And I hate it.

I hate seeing her like this—this frayed, fragile version of the woman who commands bedtime routines like military operations and talks to her daughter with such gentleness it physically aches to witness. I hate that I can’t fix it. That all I brought were snacks and a giraffe and a bunch of soft words I don’t know how to say out loud.

What I want—what I really want—is to cross the room and pull her into my arms. Wrap her up and tell her it’s okay. That Maddie will be okay. That she will be okay. That I’ll stay as long as she wants. That I’ll stay longer, even if she doesn’t say it. I want to be the thing she leans on.

So I move.

I step across the room slowly, carefully—like approaching a wounded animal, like one wrong move might scare her off. My heart’s thudding in that awkward, top-of-your-throat way it does before I say something real. But I don’t let myself think about it too much.

I stop in front of her and reach for her hands—tentative at first, like I’m still asking permission even after I’m already holding them. Her fingers are cold. Or maybe mine are too warm. Either way, I bring both of her hands into mine and press my thumbs gently into her palms, rubbing slow, steady circles there. Like touch might anchor her. Like I’m trying to ground us both.

She doesn’t pull away.

“You know…” I say quietly, watching the movement of my thumbs against her skin instead of her eyes, “it’s just tonight. She’s gonna be okay.”

I glance up then, just briefly. Her eyes are glassy but not falling. Not yet.

“And if she’s not,” I add, softer still, “they’ll call. You’ll go pick her up. And she’ll come home and sleep curled up between us, and everything will be okay again.”

I shouldn’t have said us.

But I did.

And I don’t take it back.

Not because I’m brave. Not because I want to risk making it weird. Just… because for once, I don’t want to lie about the thing I want most.

“Us?” she says, barely above a whisper. Her voice is soft, but not confused. Curious. Like she heard it, felt it, and just needs me to say it again—like confirmation might make it real.

“I mean—” I start, immediately fumbling, my thumbs freezing mid-circle. “You. Next to you. I meant if she—if Maddie needed someone. I’d be on the couch, probably, or the floor, or—”

She squeezes my hands.

“I would love it if you stayed.”

There’s a pause. A small one.

But inside me, it splits the earth wide open.

I look at her. Really look this time.

She’s still scared. Still wound tight. Still clutching a thread of anxiety she can’t quite let go of. But there’s something else beneath it now—something softer. Like relief. Like she didn’t realize she was waiting for me to say it until I did. Like the idea of us wasn’t too much after all.

And maybe I’m not imagining it.

Maybe she’s just as scared of this as I am—of wanting something we can’t guarantee, something breakable and delicate and real. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t pull back from the wanting.

I lean in—just enough to brush my lips against her cheek. Barely there. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything in return. That just says, I’m here.

“I’ll stay,” I whisper, so close I feel her breath catch, “as long as you want me to.”

She doesn’t speak. Just nods, once, and squeezes my hands like she’s anchoring herself to the promise.

And I let her.

God, I let her.

I want to stay in this moment a little longer, want to hold her hands and watch the tension melt from her face completely. I want to say more, or maybe nothing at all. Just be here, where she’s letting me in.

“Are you two kissing?”

The voice cuts through the quiet like a cymbal crash.

I jump. Actually jump. Y/N lets out a startled breath that’s half laugh, half sigh.

Maddie’s standing at the hallway corner, one sock on, the other trailing behind her like it got tired halfway. Giraffe tucked under her arm. Wide-eyed. Suspicious.

“No,” I say quickly, too quickly.

Y/N arches an eyebrow. “That sounded convincing.”

“I—no, I mean—we weren’t—technically—”

“Mommy and Spencer were kissing! Mommy and Spencer were kissing!”

Maddie sings it like a playground chant, spinning in a little circle, one sock still barely clinging to her foot, the stuffed giraffe clutched tight under her arm like a witness to the crime.

I’m pretty sure I’ve died. Not metaphorically. I think my soul actually left my body and is now hovering above the room watching me suffer.

Y/N just covers her mouth with one hand, trying not to laugh—failing not to laugh. Her shoulders shake with it.

I rub the back of my neck, already beet-red and spiraling. “It was a cheek kiss. Just a cheek kiss.”

Maddie gasps. “A cheek kiss is how it starts!”

And that’s it. That’s the end of me. I’m done for. Melt me into the hardwood and donate my remaining bones to science.

Y/N’s full-on laughing now—eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed, everything about her warm and bright and real. And even through my mortification, I feel it bloom in my chest too.

This is what I want. This chaos. This closeness. This.

“So are you two married now?” Maddie asks, deadpan.

Y/N chokes on a laugh. I forget how to breathe.

“What?” I manage, voice cracking like I’m twelve again.

Maddie shrugs and plops onto the couch, giraffe in her lap like a wedding guest waiting for cake. “You kissed. That means you love each other. If you love each other, you get married. That’s the rule.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Nothing coherent comes out.

Y/N is trying—trying—to get control of herself, but her smile betrays her. She sits beside Maddie and brushes a hand through her curls. “Baby, kissing doesn’t always mean you get married.”

Maddie looks scandalized. “Then what’s the point?”

I blink.

That… is actually a good question.

Y/N turns to me, amusement still dancing behind her eyes. “Well, Spencer? What is the point?”

I’ve read 432 books on human bonding. I’ve studied attachment theory. I can recite courtship customs across twenty-three cultures.

And I have no idea how to answer that when she’s looking at me like that.

So I do the only thing I can.

I look at Maddie and say, “The point of kissing is to— to…”

My brain short-circuits.

“Some species of penguins mate for life and give each other pebbles. I didn’t bring a pebble. I brought a giraffe. Which… has absolutely nothing to do with kissing…”

Y/N’s eyebrows lift slightly, and Maddie’s staring at me like I’ve just recited the Periodic Table instead of answering a very simple question.

I keep going. I can’t stop.

“Did you know, kissing triggers the release of oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, which are all associated with bonding and affection—so kissing is to feel happy. Or—no, not just happy. Regulated. Biochemically secure. That’s why it’s called a ‘social grooming behavior’ in evolutionary psychology. Like—like chimpanzees picking bugs off each other.”

Y/N makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh. Maddie looks mildly horrified.

“Not that I think kissing you is like bug-picking. I mean—not you—I didn’t mean that you have bugs—"

“I think,” Y/N interrupts gently, voice laced with amused mercy, “what Spencer’s trying to say is that kissing can mean a lot of things.”

I nod, grateful. “Yes. Exactly. A wide array of things.”

Maddie wrinkles her nose. “You guys are weird.”

Y/N just grins and tosses a pair of socks into Maddie’s overnight bag like this is the most normal interaction she’s had all day.

“Go put on your shoes, princess,” she says, not missing a beat.

Maddie groans dramatically but obeys, dragging herself off the couch like we’ve asked her to scale Everest barefoot. The giraffe dangles from one hand, bouncing against her leg with each step as she disappears down the hallway.

And then it’s quiet again.

Just me and her.

Y/N zips the bag shut and sets it upright, then leans her weight onto it with a sigh that sounds like it carries weeks of love and exhaustion all at once.

“So…” she says, turning to face me. There’s a shift in her voice, playful, lilting. Dangerous.

Her hands rise, slow and unhurried, and settle lightly on the front of my sweater vest.

Right over my chest.

I think my brain blue-screens.

She looks up at me through her lashes. “We’re like penguins?”

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

She’s still looking at me—still touching me—and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to combust on the spot.

“I—uh,” I manage, clearing my throat. “Technically Gentoo penguins offer pebbles to establish long-term mating bonds. Kind of like a marriage symbol. At least the equivalent of it for them, which would just be mating for life, not actual marriage, because penguins don’t—”

I stop myself.

Breathe. Reset. Try again without sounding like I’m defending a dissertation on courtship behaviors.

“I don’t know if we’re penguins,” I murmur, sheepish, eyes flicking down to where her fingers still rest on my chest.

There’s a pause. She tilts her head, teasing, but there’s something honest beneath it.

“Because you don’t want to marry me?”

My eyes snap up. “No—no. I mean—I do want to—”

Her eyebrows raise slightly. My soul exits my body.

“I mean, not like right now,” I rush to explain. “Not because I don’t want to. Just—just because it’s too soon for that. But I do know that I really like you. I think about you constantly, and that this—” I gesture vaguely between us, “—is the only thing that makes sense lately. And I’m in this. All the way.”

I swallow, trying not to overcorrect.

“So… maybe someday,” I finish softly, “we can be like penguins.”

She doesn’t laugh.

She just smiles—slow and sure and so warm I feel it in my ribcage.

Then she leans in and presses her lips against mine.

And I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

Not just the kiss—the way she chooses to kiss me. Every time it happens, it feels impossible. Like she’s crossed some invisible line I still can’t believe I’m allowed to stand behind.

She kisses me like it’s normal. Like it’s something we do now. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world for her, and somehow I’m the one she wants.

So I kiss her back, because how could I not?

Her fingers curl a little in the fabric of my vest, and I swear my heart skips so violently it might be clinically concerning. I’m still getting used to this—to her—and part of me hopes I never stop.

Because the truth is… it doesn’t matter how many times it happens.

I’ll always be a little bit stunned that she picked me.

“You are getting married!” Maddie gasps from the hallway.

I immediately pull away like I’ve been electrocuted. My face goes beet red. Possibly purple.

Y/N lets out a startled laugh against my shoulder, her hand still lightly fisted in the front of my vest.

Maddie is standing in the doorway in one shoe, eyes wide with revelation, like she’s just witnessed a sacred rite.

“That was a mouth kiss,” she says, scandalized.

“I—it wasn’t—it’s not—” I stammer, tripping over every consonant. “That doesn’t mean marriage. mouth—romantic—kissing has no correlation to—”

Y/N doubles over laughing.

Maddie folds her arms. “Can I be the flower girl?”

I think my soul leaves my body again.

“Okay,” Y/N says through a grin, reaching for Maddie’s other shoe. “Come here, tiny wedding planner. Let’s just get you to the sleepover first.”

Maddie marches over with her arms crossed like a very tiny, very dramatic wedding coordinator. Y/N crouches to help her with the second shoe, still chuckling under her breath, and I just… stand there.

Still warm from the kiss.

Still short-circuiting from the fact that she kissed me.

Still trying not to think about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.

A minute later, the overnight bag is zipped and slung over my shoulder, Maddie is chattering about how many gummy bears she plans to eat before bedtime, and we’re loading into the car.

Y/N slides into the passenger seat beside me, close enough that her arm brushes mine. I try not to look at her mouth. I fail. She’s smiling faintly, like she knows.

The drive is short, maybe fifteen minutes, but it stretches in my mind like something cinematic.

Maddie fills most of the space with talk about her friend Amanda, what pajamas she packed, and whether or not giraffes are allowed to sleep on the floor or need their own bed.

Eventually, when her endless chatter started to slow, Y/N reached into her tote and handed her the battered portable DVD player she keeps strictly for car rides—no iPads, no tablets, just scratched discs and a firm belief that screen time should feel a little more 2004—and honestly, I find that kind of stubborn, analog parenting weirdly endearing.

I let the sound of the cartoon fill the car while I sneak glances at Y/N.

Her profile is lit up by the soft glow of the streetlights. She’s quiet now—watching Maddie in the rearview mirror, fingers tapping softly against her knee like she’s counting heartbeats.

I want to reach over.

Tangle my fingers in hers.

Say something stupid like you taste like cherry chapstick and I think I’m ruined for anyone else now.

Instead I say quietly, “She’s excited.”

“She is.” Y/N glances at me, smile curling in the corner of her mouth. “She’s gonna have a lot of fun.”

“Y/N…” I start, careful, soft. “It’s gonna be okay, you know?”

She lets out a breath. Not a dramatic one. Just enough to let me know she’s been holding it in.

“I know,” she says after a beat. “I trust Beth to take care of her, it’s just… I don’t know how to explain it…”

I glance over at her, only for a second, but it’s enough.

She’s staring out the window now. Not crying. Not unraveling. Just quiet in that way she gets when something big is sitting in her chest and she hasn’t named it yet.

“You don’t have to explain,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s not logical. It’s not supposed to be. It’s… you’ve been her whole world for four years. And tonight is the first time that world shifts, even a little.”

She blinks fast, still looking out the window. “Exactly. It feels stupid. But it feels… like I’m missing something already. Like I forgot to double-knot her shoelaces or remind her that monsters aren’t real.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, wishing I could do more than just drive.

“She’s just…” she starts, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s growing up, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

She turns in her seat, glancing back at Maddie in the rearview mirror.

Maddie’s tucked into her booster, legs swinging slightly, her eyes glued to the tiny portable DVD player balanced carefully on the armrest. The animation flickers across the screen—an old cartoon with grainy audio and over-exaggerated voices. Y/N said it was Maddie’s comfort show. Something they’ve watched together since she was still wobbling in footie pajamas.

Y/N watches her for a long time.

Her expression is hard to read. Soft, but aching. That kind of ache that only happens when you love something so much it starts to scare you.

“She still looks little,” she murmurs. “But she’s saying things now. Big things. Talking about space and monsters and what she wants to be when she grows up. And I’m just… I’m still learning how to let go of her pacifier.”

I don’t interrupt. I just listen. Let her say it.

“She’s going to grow up, and I’m going to be the one waving from the driveway,” she adds quietly. “That’s how this goes, right? You give them everything and pray you don’t mess them up too much.”

My throat tightens.

“She’s not leaving forever,” I say gently. “She’s just sleeping over at Beth’s.”

“I know,” she says, smiling faintly. “But this feels like the start of something. Of her needing me less.”

She turns back toward the windshield, blinking like the light’s suddenly too bright.

“She’s always gonna need you,” I tell her. “She might not always show it the same way. But you’re… you’re the center of her universe, Y/N. You built the gravity she orbits around.”

I catch her glance out of the corner of my eye. And I don’t know if she’s going to cry, or kiss me again, or just say nothing at all.

But she nods.

And in that moment, I feel it—that invisible string between us tugging just a little tighter.

We pull up in front of Amanda’s house just as the sky starts to shift—a soft, dusky kind of blue settling over the neighborhood like a blanket. The porch light’s already on. Warm, yellow, inviting. There's a paper cutout of a ladybug taped to the front window. I assume Maddie's friend made it.

Y/N turns around in her seat and reaches back, brushing her fingers through Maddie’s curls to gently get her attention. “We’re here, baby.”

Maddie blinks up from her movie, eyes glassy with that half-aware look all kids get when they’ve been watching the same cartoon loop for too long.

She sits up slowly, clutching Orange the giraffe to her chest. “Already?”

Y/N smiles. “You’re gonna have so much fun.”

Maddie doesn’t reply right away. She just hugs the giraffe a little tighter.

Y/N gets out first, slinging the overnight bag over her shoulder, and I follow, watching Maddie carefully as she slides out of the car. She’s quiet now. Too quiet.

She doesn’t run to the door.

She doesn’t say anything at all.

She just stands between us, looking up at the porch like it’s further away than it is. Like something about this is suddenly too big.

Y/N notices it too. She crouches down, her voice low and warm. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Maddie shrugs, eyes still locked on the front steps.

I kneel down beside them, not touching her, just close enough to offer something steady if she wants it.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Y/N says softly. “It’s okay to feel nervous.”

Maddie chews on her lip for a second. Then whispers, “What if I miss you?”

Y/N's breath catches.

I feel it like a punch behind my ribs.

She tucks a piece of hair behind Maddie’s ear and kisses her forehead. “Then you call me. And if it’s too much, I’ll come get you. No questions asked.”

Maddie looks between the two of us. Her eyes land on me.

“You’ll come too?”

My throat tightens. I nod. “Of course. We’ll both come.”

She thinks about it for another long moment, then finally takes a step forward. Small, but certain.

And just like that, the door opens. Amanda’s mom greets us with a warm smile and a wave, and Maddie heads inside—still clutching the giraffe, still glancing back every few steps like she’s not quite ready to let go.

She turns just before the door closes and calls out, “Love you, Mommy!”

Y/N waves, her voice catching a little. “I love you too, baby!”

The door clicks shut.

And suddenly, the quiet is heavier than I expected.

Y/N’s eyes are a little teary when I turn to look at her. Not crying—not yet—but close. She’s standing just a few feet away from me, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together, eyes still fixed on the front door like maybe it’ll open again. Like maybe Maddie will come running back out and say she forgot something.

She looks like she’s on the verge of breaking down.

And I can’t handle that.

Not because it’s uncomfortable, not because I don’t know what to do—but because I’d give anything to take that pain from her. Every last tremor of it.

“Hey,” I say gently, stepping closer.

Once I’m close enough, I don’t even try to fill the silence. I just wrap my arms around her—firm but careful, like she’s something precious that needs holding together. She doesn’t hesitate. She folds into me like she’s done it a thousand times before, like this is where she goes when it hurts.

She hides her face in my chest.

And I feel it—those little sniffles against my shirt. Barely there, but real. Raw.

“It’s okay, pretty girl…” I murmur, pressing my cheek to the top of her head. “We’ll come pick her up first thing in the morning. She’ll tell you all about the sleepover. And you’ll tuck her in twice as long tomorrow.”

She nods into me, and I tighten my arms around her just slightly. Not to fix it. Just to remind her she’s not doing this alone.

The last time the apartment was this quiet, Maddie had a fever and fell asleep on my chest before the sun even set. I remember the weight of her—small and burning up, breathing hot against my neck.

Her curls were damp, cheeks flushed, one hand tangled in the collar of my sweatshirt like she was scared I might get up and leave. She wouldn't even let me shift to grab the thermometer. Just whimpered softly in protest until I stayed completely still. I remember thinking, God, she's so little. Still so little.

Now, standing in the doorway of our quiet home, I realize just how long it’s been since I’ve felt that stillness. No trail of plastic toys across the floor. No little voice asking what’s for dinner or begging to wear her favorite mermaid pajamas. Just the soft click of the door behind me, Spencer’s gentle presence at my side, and the echo of a home that suddenly feels too big without her.

I know I’m being dramatic. It’s just a sleepover. Just one night. Other moms probably didn’t cry over this. Other moms probably used the time to clean the house or binge a show or finally do something for themselves. But I can’t seem to make this ache go away. It sits just beneath my ribs, stubborn and quiet, like grief for something I haven’t lost.

I toe off my shoes, leaving them by the door like always, and glance around like something might jump out and make the silence easier to bear. It doesn’t. The lights are low. The air smells like the candle Maddie insists on blowing out herself every night. I swallow around the lump rising in my throat.

I almost ask Spencer to put something on. Anything. Music. The TV. A podcast about ancient artifacts in lost cities. But before the words even make it out of my mouth, he’s already walking toward the little CD player on the shelf.

He doesn’t ask. Just starts flipping through the beat-up binder I keep tucked beside it—scratched jewel cases, faded album art, some discs so old the tracklists have worn off. I don’t think he even looks at the covers—he just moves with the kind of confidence that makes my heart twist. Like he already knows which one I’ll need. Like he’s memorized my patterns, the same way I’ve memorized Maddie’s.

When the disc whirs to life, it’s the one I always reach for on nights when I’m feeling too much. Just that familiar opening track, the one that’s held my sadness so many times I swear it knows my name. The type of song where you start to cry without even realizing you’re crying.

I sit down slowly on the couch. The cushions still hold the imprint of last night—where Maddie curled up beside me after brushing her teeth, where she insisted on one more cartoon even though her eyes were already half-shut. Spencer walks into the kitchen without a word and returns with the takeout bags we grabbed on the way home. He moves around me like he’s been doing it forever. Like this is normal. Like we’re normal.

He hands me a box of noodles, still warm. Our shoulders bump when he sits beside me, but neither of us moves.

For the first time since we dropped her off, I start to breathe again.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not looking at him yet. Just twirling a noodle around my fork, willing my voice to stay steady.

He glances over. “For what exactly?”

I don’t answer right away. I don’t even know how to. There are too many things. For the car ride. For the giraffe. For standing beside me on that porch while I tried not to cry.

“Being you,” I say finally.

It sounds too simple. Too light. But it’s the truth. And when I do look at him, he’s already looking at me—eyes soft, like he’s not sure he deserves the words but wants to believe them anyway.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders, slow and careful, like he’s testing the weight of the moment. Like he knows how close I am to falling apart in the best possible way. I lean into it without thinking. Just let my head rest gently against his side, let his warmth seep in through the fabric of his sweater vest.

And suddenly everything feels just a little warmer. A feeling I don’t ever want to go away.

“I know I thank you a lot,” I whisper, staring at the untouched noodles in my lap. “But I really mean it. Every time. I’m so grateful you stumbled into my life so suddenly.”

His chest rises beneath my cheek. A deep breath. Like maybe he’s trying to keep himself from saying something too big. Or maybe trying to hold it all together, the way I’ve had to do so many times.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just rubs his thumb gently along my upper arm, and that alone is enough to keep the ache in my chest from taking over again.

I pull my hand back and finally lift my fork, twirling the now-lukewarm noodles around the tines. Beside me, Spencer starts on his own box, quiet and careful, but I can feel the way his attention keeps drifting toward me. Little glances. Little checks. Like he’s trying to gauge if I’m okay without making a big deal out of it.

I take a bite. Chew. Swallow.

Then—

“Did you know,” he says suddenly, a little too brightly, “that chewing something crunchy can reduce psychological stress? It’s connected to the stimulation of the trigeminal nerve.”

I blink. “What?”

He holds up a piece of broccoli from his stir fry like it’s part of a TED Talk. “Seriously. The act of chewing—especially things with texture—activates sensory feedback pathways that can lower cortisol levels. It’s why people eat chips when they’re stressed. Or carrot sticks.”

I stare at him.

He chews the broccoli with a straight face. “Very soothing.”

A beat of silence.

And then I laugh. Not because it’s that funny—just because he is. Because Spencer Reid, who can quote nearly everything, and diagnose a psychopath in under thirty seconds, is trying to keep my mind off missing my daughter by weaponizing vegetables.

“You can't just tell me chewing is gonna make this better,” I say, shaking my head.

He grins. “It's not... Just trying to distract you. Is it working?”

I roll my eyes. “A little.”

He nudges my shoulder with his. “I’ll take it.”

“What else have you got stored in that beautiful brain of yours?” I ask, turning toward him with a smirk I don’t fully mean to wear.

He blinks.

I can actually see the internal buffering. Like I overloaded his circuits with one compliment too many.

“I—um—well,” he stammers, pushing a grain of rice around with his chopsticks, “did you know that laughter increases pain tolerance by releasing endorphins through social bonding mechanisms?”

I stare at him. “So you’re saying you’re trying to… trick my brain chemistry into cheering up?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. Then, quieter, “And also, you said my brain was beautiful and I’m still recovering.”

I laugh—fully, this time. A real laugh that shakes my shoulders and makes the heaviness in my chest loosen, just a little.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins again, that crooked, endearing kind of grin that he only pulls out when he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“But it’s working,” I admit, nudging him back. “Keep going.”

He hesitates—just for a second—and then straightens slightly, clears his throat, and starts in with a spark in his eyes like I’ve just flipped a switch.

“Okay,” he says, already sifting through facts in that impossibly fast brain of his. “Did you know that humans are biologically wired to form pair bonds through eye contact?”

I smile into my takeout box, already feeling the familiar flutter in my chest that only happens when he starts talking like this—half professor, half nervous schoolboy, all heart.

“I read a study that observed couples who maintained longer periods of mutual eye contact were more likely to self-report emotional closeness and relationship satisfaction. And that’s just the subjective part—neurologically, the same thing happens. Sustained eye contact stimulates the release of phenylethylamine, which is a natural amphetamine your brain produces during early stages of romantic attachment. It increases adrenaline, dopamine, and causes your pupils to dilate, which is why people look at each other and suddenly their hearts start racing even if no one’s said anything yet—”

He keeps going, hands moving now, gesturing as if the words alone aren’t fast enough to carry everything he’s trying to express.

“It’s tied to oxytocin too,” he adds, “especially in long-term couples. Eye contact during emotionally vulnerable moments—grief, for example, or stress—can regulate the nervous system. It actually helps you co-regulate, which is the scientific term for when two people subconsciously sync up their heart rates and breathing patterns. So technically—” he glances at me for half a second, then looks down just as quickly, “—even just sitting next to someone you trust while feeling anxious can make your brain and body feel safer.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to interrupt him. I just… watch.

There’s something about the way he talks when he forgets to be self-conscious. When the rhythm of knowledge and kindness takes over, and he’s not trying to impress me or prove anything—he’s just sharing pieces of himself because he wants to make me feel better.

Because he wants to make me feel safe.

And maybe it’s the dim light of the apartment or the weight of the quiet that’s been pressing on my chest since we got home, but suddenly I’m looking at him and thinking—I never want this to stop. The way he talks, the way he thinks, the way his voice slows down at the edges of big words like he wants me to have time to hold them. The way he’s sitting on this couch beside me like he belongs here.

God, I want him to keep talking forever.

He’s mid-sentence about emotional mimicking—something about how couples in love start to subconsciously mirror each other’s body language—when he suddenly falters. His hands stop moving. His voice drops off.

I turn to look at him, but he’s already ducking his head, eyes flicking toward the half-empty takeout container in his lap like it might save him from whatever embarrassment just hit him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost sheepish. “I’m not used to rambling for that long without being interrupted.”

The confession hits harder than I expect it to.

He doesn’t say it bitterly. Doesn’t even seem upset. Just… surprised. Like part of him only just realized it now. Like this moment—here, with me—is the exception to a rule he’s long since accepted.

“I mean—usually I get interrupted because we have case details to discuss,” he adds quickly, eyes darting down again. “And me rambling can be either really helpful, or really not.”

He tries to laugh, to play it off, but the way he’s gripping the box in his lap tells me the words meant more than he let on. Like maybe he meant, people don’t usually let me be too much for too long.

I shift closer, slow and easy, until our knees are touching. Just enough to let him know I’m here. Still listening. Still choosing him.

“I like when you talk,” I say gently.

He looks up at me, startled. Like I’ve said something scandalous. Like the idea that someone might actually enjoy hearing him think out loud is a completely foreign concept.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” I tease, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I’ve told you that before… at least I think I have.”

He just stares at me for a second—like he’s rewinding through every moment we’ve shared and replaying it under a different light. I see the exact moment he softens. The moment my words actually settle somewhere beneath the layers of doubt he carries like armor.

“I just… you really have a way of surprising me,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you show me something new. Something kind. Something I didn’t realize I needed.”

My heart stutters.

He exhales like he hadn’t meant to say all of that out loud. Like the words slipped out before he could dress them up as something smaller.

His gaze drifts to my mouth, just for a second.

And suddenly, the space between us feels charged.

Barely noticeable if I hadn’t been watching him so closely. But I see it. I feel it. That flicker of want, raw and hesitant, like he’s trying to swallow it down before it gives him away.

My chest tightens.

I feel the heat blooming slowly beneath my skin, starting low and curling upward like smoke, delicate and dangerous. I set my takeout box on the coffee table without taking my eyes off him. My hands feel a little too empty, a little too aware of themselves. Of him.

He’s still looking at me, not moving, but his whole body is tense in that way he gets when he’s thinking too much. Like he’s weighing every second, every breath, against what might happen next.

And maybe I am too.

The silence stretches, but it’s not empty.

It’s full.

Heavy with everything we haven’t said, with everything we’ve been circling around for weeks—brushing against by accident, then backing away like the contact was too much, too soon, too something.

But not now.

Now the air between us feels like a thread being pulled tighter. One of us is going to break it. And I think—I hope—it’s going to be me.

I lean in.

Slowly.

Like I’m moving through water. Like I’m giving him time to stop me. To hesitate. To second-guess the moment the way he second-guesses everything he lets himself want.

But he doesn’t stop me.

His eyes search mine as I move closer, like he’s trying to read the fine print of whatever it is I’m offering. I feel his breath when I get close enough—warm, just barely uneven. His lips part slightly, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean away. Doesn’t close the distance.

He’s waiting.

Not out of fear. Out of reverence.

Like he wants to be sure this is real. That I’m sure.

So I let my hand rise, slow and deliberate, and brush a stray curl away from his forehead. My fingers linger. I feel the way his breath catches in his throat, the way his eyes flutter closed for half a second like even that tiny touch is something he’s been craving.

And then I whisper, almost without thinking, “Spencer…”

That’s all it takes.

He meets me halfway.

It’s not fast. It’s not rushed. It’s a convergence—careful, aching, suspended in that strange space where time slows and every inch feels infinite.

Our noses brush first. Barely. Just enough for me to feel the trembling edge of hesitation in him—like even now, with my breath on his mouth, he’s still afraid of getting this wrong.

And I think—You won’t.

So I tilt my chin the tiniest bit, closing the space.

When our lips finally touch, it’s light—feather-soft, almost uncertain, like we’re both afraid that if we move too fast, we’ll lose the thread we’ve been pulling toward all night. But God, it’s real. The warmth of his mouth. The way his hand, hesitant at first, lifts to hover near my cheek, as if he wants to touch me but still needs permission.

So I give it to him.

I press in a little more, just enough to feel the full shape of him. The way he exhales shakily into me, like the relief of it is too much to carry in silence. His fingers finally settle—one at my jaw, the other brushing lightly at my waist. It’s not greedy. It’s not claiming.

It’s courteous.

Like I’m something precious and fragile and wanted. So wanted.

And I didn’t expect that part.

Because I thought it might be awkward. I thought he might overthink it, might hesitate too long or pull back too soon.

But he doesn’t.

He kisses me like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment and is still somehow terrified it might vanish.

And me?

I kiss him like I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without it.

There’s a part of me—small and quiet—that wants to cry from the sheer gentleness of it. From the way his lips move with mine like he’s memorizing the shape of every soft syllable we’ve ever left unsaid.

When we finally part, it’s not because I want to stop. It’s because I need air. Because I need to look at him and see if he felt it too—this shift in the universe. This tiny, perfect undoing.

He’s still close. So close I can see the smudge of pink on his lips, the dazed tilt to his expression. Like he can’t believe I kissed him back.

Like he didn’t expect this ending to be his.

I want to say something. Anything. But I can’t catch my breath.

He swallows, eyes fixed on mine. “Was that okay?”

My chest tightens.

“Spencer,” I whisper. “It was more than okay… It was perfect.”

A beat of silence.

Then we both sort of—laugh.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just soft, breathless chuckles that escape before either of us can stop them. Like our bodies are trying to let out some of the electricity we’ve been holding in for too long.

He ducks his head, and I see the smallest, most genuine smile tug at his mouth—the kind he usually tries to hide behind his hands or a sip of coffee. It lights up his whole face, boyish and stunned and so clearly happy that I want to bottle the sight and keep it with me forever.

“I can’t feel my hands,” he admits, and I laugh again, a little louder this time.

“God, you're sweet,” I murmur, biting my bottom lip.

“You know,” he says, even as his fingers tremble slightly where they’re still resting near my waist. “I’ve read over twenty books on human intimacy and I still almost forgot to breathe.”

“I’m not sure that’s something you can read your way through,” I tease.

He leans forward just enough to press his forehead against mine. “Tell me that after I kiss you again.”

This time, when our lips meet, it’s easier. Warmer. Less careful. Still tender, but touched with something lighter—like we’ve cracked open some hidden part of ourselves and found joy inside.

His hands settle with more confidence now, one sliding around my back, the other threading gently into my hair. I tilt into him with a sigh, my own fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater vest, needing to hold onto something.

The kiss deepens again.

There's a shift. Subtle at first. A lingering press of lips, a shared inhale that feels like the start of something we can't take back. And I don't want to. Not even for a second. His mouth parts, inviting, and when my tongue brushes against his, I feel the sharp, beautiful catch of his breath. It sends a ripple through me—heat curling low in my stomach, anchoring itself in the space between us.

He groans—soft, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out—and it vibrates against my mouth. I feel it everywhere. In my chest. My spine. The ache that’s been building beneath my skin since the moment he first looked at me tonight like I was something he didn’t think he was allowed to want.

But now he wants.

I can feel it in the way his hands move—more purposeful now, sliding down from my hair to my waist, fingertips pressing into the soft cotton of my shirt like he’s memorizing the curve of me. Like he’s trying to stay grounded in something real.

I shift forward on the couch, into him, across him. My leg hooks loosely over his, angling myself closer, needing to close the last of the distance. He gasps into my mouth, and suddenly he’s gripping my hips like he doesn’t quite trust himself to stay gentle if I keep moving like that.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, voice wrecked, low and tight with restraint.

It sends a shiver straight down my spine. Not because he’s warning me. Because he wants this—wants me—and is trying so hard to hold the line.

But I don’t want the line anymore.

I kiss him harder. Deeper. My hands leave his sweater and slide upward, over his shoulders, into the soft curls at the base of his neck. He melts into it, into me, groaning again—louder this time, more desperate, more real.

His hands slide beneath my shirt—warm, tentative, reverent. Calloused fingertips brushing over bare skin like he’s afraid to touch too much, like every inch is a gift he’s still not sure he’s earned.

“Spencer,” I whisper against his lips.

He pulls back just enough to look at me.

And God—his eyes.

They’re blown wide, pupils dilated, lips kiss-bitten and parted, chest rising like he’s been holding his breath since the moment we started. He looks wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked. And the sight of him like this—rumpled, flushed, barely keeping himself together—undoes something in me.

I cup his jaw with both hands and press my forehead to his again.

“Come with me.”

His breath catches. “Are you sure?”

I nod, brushing my lips against his. “So sure.”

He still hesitates—but only for a second.

Then he stands, helping me up with both hands like I might disappear if he lets go.

And I don’t look back as I lead him to the bedroom.

The bedroom is dim, just the hallway light casting a soft amber glow across the floor. We don’t turn on a lamp. We don’t speak. There’s no need to—everything we’re trying to say is still humming in the space between us, in every glance, every touch.

He follows me inside like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, I might vanish. And I can feel the restraint rolling off him in waves, feel how tightly he’s keeping himself in check, even as his fingers brush against my wrist like he’s not ready to stop touching me. Like he can’t.

I back up slowly until the backs of my knees hit the bed.

He stops in front of me, breathing shallow. Waiting again. Always waiting.

So I make the next move.

My hands go to the hem of his sweater vest, fingers curling in the fabric. I tug gently—not to pull it off yet, just to hold him there, close. Anchored. I feel the heat of him even through the layers, feel the way his breath hitches when I slide my palms up underneath, meeting the fabric of his dress shirt. He shivers. Not from cold.

It’s not long before the vest is off and my hands settle on the buttons of his shirt. Not sliding them off yet, just tracing them.

His hands settle at my waist again, a little firmer this time. Confident, but still reverent. He doesn’t pull me toward him—I go willingly. Pressing my body to his, chest to chest, heat to heat, until there’s no space left between us. I can feel everything. The rise of his breath. The quiet, frantic thump of his heart. The tension low in his abdomen, coiled tight beneath his clothes.

When I kiss him again, it’s different.

No more gentle pauses. No more testing the waters.

This one is slow and greedy. A kiss that takes and gives in equal measure, all lips and breath and hands that are suddenly desperate for skin. My fingers slide up his chest, unbuttoning as I go—slowly, carefully, tracing each line of fabric until I can feel the heat of him through the thin cotton. He exhales like I’m undoing more than just a shirt.

His mouth trails from mine to my jaw, kissing down with the kind of focus that makes me dizzy. He lingers behind my ear, then down to the curve of my throat, where he kisses—really kisses—and my knees nearly buckle. I feel his hands shift lower, steadying me, gripping my hips tighter like he’s not sure whether he’s helping or holding himself back.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmurs against my neck, voice low, breath hot.

I shake my head instantly, fingers fisting in his shirt. “I don’t.”

It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever said.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching. Not for doubt—but for confirmation. For trust. I give it to him with one look, one kiss, one press of my body against his.

That’s all it takes.

We tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, the kind of gracelessness that only happens when you’re not thinking, not posing—just feeling. I land on my back, laughing softly, breathless from how quickly the air shifted again. He follows, bracing himself over me, his curls falling forward. One hand at the side of my face, the other resting carefully near my ribs, like he wants to hold me and also be sure he’s not too much.

He kisses me again, slower now, letting it stretch. My legs part to let him settle between them, the pressure of his body against mine exactly what I’ve been craving for too long. My hands move greedily now—over his back, under his shirt, tracing the skin there like I need to learn him by touch.

When his mouth finds the hollow of my throat again, I moan softly and feel him shudder.

Like he wasn’t expecting it. Like I’ve undone something fragile in him without even meaning to.

“Y/N,” he whispers, like he’s praying. Like he’s asking permission every time he says my name.

“Yes,” I whisper back, even though he hasn’t asked a question.

Because whatever he’s asking, the answer is yes.

Yes, to this.

Yes, to him.

Yes, to us.

His hand slips beneath my shirt again, sliding along my waist, up to the curve of my ribs. And this time, when he touches me, there’s no hesitation. Only reverence. Only heat. His thumb brushes just beneath the edge of my bra and I arch into him, needing more.

His mouth is on mine again, slower this time, but deeper. Hungrier. And I give into it completely, my fingers fisting in the back of his shirt, needing to keep him close. Needing to feel all of him—his weight, his heat, the careful, reverent way he keeps touching me like he’s terrified I’ll disappear if he lets go.

We move together without speaking, all instinct and breath and the occasional desperate gasp when one of us touches a new place, finds a new reaction. He’s learning me like he wants to—like he’s memorizing every sound, every shift of my hips, every stutter in my breath when he kisses a little lower, touches a little firmer.

His mouth drags down my neck again, open and warm, and when he finds that sensitive spot just beneath my collarbone, my whole body jerks.

“Y/n” he whispers, voice ragged as his fingers skim beneath my shirt again, “You’re a dream.”

I moan softly, arching into him, pulling him closer until the friction is maddening—heat and want and pressure, and something sweeter, too. Something like awe.

The first time his phone buzzes on the nightstand, we both ignore it.

Neither of us moves.

Neither of us wants to move.

“It’ll go to voicemail,” he whispers, but I can tell he’s hesitant to let it go. That part of him that runs on responsibility, on logic and worst-case scenarios, is already pulling at the edge of him. But I’m still holding him here. And for now, that seems to win.

Still, he shrugs it off by bringing his mouth to my collarbone.

His lips are warm—softer than I ever imagined they’d be—dragging slowly over the delicate curve of bone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me with his mouth. He presses a kiss there, then another, then lingers with an open-mouthed breath that makes me arch involuntarily.

“God,” I murmur, one hand slipping into his curls, the other fisting in the fabric of the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he says, voice low, wrecked, and when he looks up at me, his pupils are wide, his mouth kiss-swollen, his expression caught somewhere between worship and desperation.

He kisses lower, lips dragging down my stomach in a slow, reverent path. My shirt is pushed high now, nearly forgotten, and my thighs are already parting before he’s even touched me there. I feel open. Offered. And he’s accepting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His fingers hook gently into the sides of my underwear, pausing only to glance up—asking. Always asking.

I nod, already trembling. “Please…”

He exhales shakily, like that word undid whatever thread he was clinging to, and begins to pull the fabric down with aching slowness. The air hits me, cool and sharp, and I feel his breath follow right after—hot and reverent and close.

So close.

I gasp as he kisses my inner thigh, teeth grazing lightly. His hands spread over my hips, anchoring me to the bed like I might float away.

And then—

The phone rings again.

A second time.

Louder.

Longer.

Neither of us moves. The sound vibrates through the silence like a cruel joke, like the universe itself is trying to tear the moment in half.

He groans—this quiet, wrecked sound that leaves his chest and presses right into mine like an apology. His forehead lowers to rest against my thigh.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “That’s… I can’t ignore it.”

I bite down on a whimper and force myself to nod. Because I know he’s right. Because if it’s a call from his job, something’s wrong. And he’ll carry that guilt with him whether I tell him to stay or not.

He rises slowly, like it hurts to put space between us. Like his body is still trying to stay pressed to mine even as he sits back on his knees, hands braced on either side of my hips, breath still uneven.

He reaches for the phone.

Checks the screen.

His jaw tightens. “It’s Garcia.”

A beat.

Then he closes his eyes like he’s willing the moment to hold just a few seconds longer.

“I don’t want to go,” he says, not looking at me. “God, I don’t want to go.”

And even though I’m still breathless, still aching in ways I hadn’t expected, I reach for his hand.

“I know,” I whisper, lacing our fingers together. “It’s okay, honey. Take it.”

He nods, reluctantly, and clicks the accept button, then brings the phone to his ear. His other hand remains tangled with mine, like he can’t quite let go.

“This is Reid,” he says, voice still thick, hoarse. Not professional yet. Not even close. He swallows hard, like he’s trying to drag himself back into the mindset of the man who solves murders, not the one who just had his mouth on my skin.

I watch his face shift as he listens. The tension coming back into his shoulders. His brow furrowing, his mouth tightening in the way it always does when the outside world seeps back in.

“Yeah,” he says after a long beat. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

His thumb rubs against the back of my hand—slow, apologetic.

He ends the call.

And the silence that follows is heavier than the one before. Not because we’re angry. Not because we’re upset with each other. But because we both know what we just lost in the space of a few seconds.

He finally looks at me.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt still halfway unbuttoned, lips flushed, skin warm with leftover wanting. He looks like he’s trying to memorize me—exactly as I am, in this bed, under this light, before the night splits away from what it could’ve been.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. “I really didn’t want—”

“I know,” I interrupt gently, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay.”

And I mean it. Even if every part of me is still humming with unfinished need. Even if I want to pull him back down and finish what we started. I won’t make him feel worse. Not when he already looks like he might break in half from guilt.

“Go,” I say. “They need you.”

He lingers for a second longer, like he’s waiting for something to anchor him again. So I lean forward and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—slow, tender, final.

“Be safe,” I murmur.

He nods, breathing out hard. Then rises from the bed with reluctant movements, grabbing his shirt from the floor, his phone, his jacket. He doesn’t bother buttoning everything properly—just throws it on over his rumpled clothes, half-zipped, his hair still mussed.

He looks like a man walking away from something he didn’t want to leave behind.

The door closes behind him.

And the room is suddenly, impossibly quiet.

At least it was for a moment—just long enough for the weight of everything that almost happened to settle in my chest. The warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, the ghost of his mouth still traced along the inside of my thigh. My body felt like it was still reaching for him even though he was already gone.

The ache hadn’t faded. Not entirely. But I could feel it reshaping into something else—something quieter. Something lonelier.

Then my phone rings.

I blink.

It vibrates against the nightstand, sharp in the silence. For a second, I just stare at it, brain still foggy with everything Spencer left behind.

Beth's Contact.

Maddie’s friend’s mom.

My heart drops.

I scramble to grab it, thumb swiping across the screen faster than my thoughts can catch up. I sit up straight, tugging the rumpled sheets over my chest even though there’s no one here to see.

“Hello?”

“Oh—hi, Y/N,” Beth says quickly, her voice hushed, apologetic. “I’m so sorry to call this late, but Maddie’s… um, she’s asking for you.”

My chest tightens. “Is she okay?”

“She’s not hurt or anything, just really upset. She started crying about ten minutes ago. I tried to calm her down, but she keeps saying she wants to go home.”

That’s all I need to hear.

“I’m coming to get her,” I say, already reaching for the clothes discarded beside the bed.

“Are you sure? She might settle down if—”

“She’s not ready,” I say gently. “And that’s okay.”

There’s a pause, then Beth sighs. “Okay. I’ll keep her bundled up until you get here.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up and sit for a second on the edge of the bed, fingers still wrapped tightly around my phone. I stare down at the sheets where Spencer’s hand had just been. The same bed where just minutes ago, I’d said please and meant it in a dozen different ways.

I’m still not ready either.

But for a different reason.

And somehow, that makes the ache easier to bear.

I grab my keys and pull on the first hoodie I find. My body is still buzzing from Spencer—half-finished, half-satisfied, half his—but my heart is already pulling toward the front door, to the little girl who still needs me most.

Previous Chapter |

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[aperrywilliams]

I Save Lives. You Don’t (Spencer Reid x Fem!OC!NonBAU)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! OC.

Summary: Another date with no-show is another stone in Julia and Spencer’s relationship. And after months of failed attempts to try to get their relationship on track again, things don't seem to improve.

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: Mostly hurt and angst. Some curses then and there. Spencer is kind of an ass and clueless.

A/N: I know OC’s don't get much love around here, but give Julia a chance. The story between them is far from ending.

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Jules’s POV

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The clock on the restaurant wall keeps ticking and mocking me: seven o'clock, seven and ten, seven-thirty, seven fifty.

I avert my gaze from it to my phone, but it is worse. It's another constant reminder of the time and the fact that Spencer hasn't even replied to my texts or calls.

Seven fifty, eight o'clock, eight-fifteen.

Did something happen to him?

That uneasy sensation settles in the pit of my stomach. But I know better. The rational part of my brain reminds me that there is no active case. If something happened, it hasn't to be related to that. Actually, it was one of the reasons for this date to happen. Work has been merciless lately with us both. Spencer has been in a constant back-to-back of cases, and my job has messed up my schedule for - I don’t know - weeks now?

That's why we planned this. That's why I almost didn't sleep the past two nights, so I could end my job early today and spend this time with my boyfriend, sharing a nice meal in a cute restaurant. I don’t even remember when we did something remotely close to a date night.

Today is not the day either, apparently.

Neither was the past week when Spencer swore he would make it home so we could watch a movie, eat popcorn, and cuddle. That afternoon, a serial killer decided the BAU had to go to Minnesota to catch him.

And not three weeks ago, when we had planned to go to the movies to see a prequel to one of my favorite films, that night, the team was called to solve a string of murders in Iowa. I ended up at the theater alone. At least one of those tickets wouldn't be wasted.

It's not that I don't understand. Spencer's work schedule has always been messy. But it's hard to be at peace with it when it’s me who’s trying, and he seems none the wiser. Not even a text acknowledging my existence. It hurts.

When the clock strikes eight-thirty, I give up.

After paying for the only drink I had, I left the restaurant.

When I get home, the apartment is quiet. Not feeling hungry and not in the mood for anything else, I start my nightly routine. It's still early to go to bed, but I’m so drained thanks to my job and frustrated for tonight that I don’t care if I eat something or not. All the energy I had left is gone after this non-date.

I’m removing my makeup in the bathroom when I hear the entrance door open and then shut. The unmistakable sound of Spencer's footsteps fills the wooden floor of our shared apartment.

'Shared' as a way to put it. It's Spencer's, but I have been living there since my lease ended, and Spencer asked me to move in five months ago. How I miss that time, when everything seemed easier.

"Jules? Baby?”

I don't respond. Why should I? Come on, IQ of 187, the lights are on, who else can be?

Spencer tries again anyway. "Are you home?" His steps follow down the hall to our room, and then to the ensuite, where I’m now brushing my teeth.

I know Spencer wants to hear me respond so he can gauge my ‘anger level.’ He knows what he did, and he's bracing himself for the argument we sure will have.

When he sees me, I catch the lump going down his throat. Sure, I look like hell: mid-pajama changed, clean face, tired expression, and a body screaming exhaustion.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't make it because -"

"Save it." I cut him off, spitting the toothpaste into the sink. Not loud. Not angry. Just fed up. Spencer's brow creases.

"I'm trying to explain," he says, like it's what I need—a reason.

"I don't want you to explain yourself. I wanted you there."

It's simple and complicated at the same time.

"I know. I wanted that too. But things at work got messy, and I couldn't call-"

"Did you? Did you really?" I cut him off again, drying my hands and face with the towel.

Spencer’s eyebrows furrow.

"What?" he asks, confused about what I mean. My eyes meet his.

"Did you really want to be there? Like last week? Like last month? Because if you did, the world is confabulating pretty hard against you," I scoff, exiting the bathroom and trailing to the kitchen. Spencer is right behind me, like a lost puppy. I know he can hear the sarcasm in my voice, but I don’t fucking care.

"Of course I wanted to be there! It's just-" He trails off.

I know exactly what he’s going to say, and I don’t need to hear it.

"The job. I know,” I supply, grabbing a glass to fill with water. “The thing is, Spencer, how do we fix it? The non-dates, the time we can't spend together, how?"

My body and brain are too weary to even try to hide my wrath, more so when Spencer doesn't seem to understand where all the frustration is coming from.

"We try again! That's what we do!"

Spencer's voice rises an octave. I put down the glass over the countertop, shaking my head.

"I think 'we' sounds like a lot of people. I'm trying, Spencer. I have been for months! And have you? Uh?"

A deep sigh leaves his lips. I don’t know if it's out of frustration or if he is truly contemplating my words. We already had this discussion before, more times in the past months than I would like to admit.

"I don't get why you're so mad at me. You know how my job is. I can be called to work at any moment. Your job has become unpredictable, too.”

Fucking shit. Is he really going to use that card? If Spencer wanted to defuse a bomb with those words, he failed with flying colors.

"Oh, believe me. I know it. But it doesn't mean you can ditch me every single time, Spencer!"

I think I’m yelling at this point. How can Spencer be so clueless and unfair?

"Don't be dramatic! I don't 'ditch on you.' You say it like I don't care about you."

It pains me to think like that, but I fucking do.

"Do you?"

My question apparently throws him off, because he starts to stutter.

"What-I-what kind of question is that?”

A question that hurts, but I can’t avoid anymore.

"Exactly what I asked. Do you care about me?"

The look I give him is intense, trying to read the truth in his eyes. Spencer maintains eye contact; he's not avoiding it this time.

"Yes! I care. You shouldn't even be asking something like that."

"Why not? I think it's a legitimate question. Because it doesn't show it."

Spencer scoffs. "Oh, come on, Jules! I love you! We live together. We share a life. I care how you have been. I kiss you every time I have to go and when I come back. I call or text you every chance I get when I'm away. I ask you about your day. I listen to the things you want to say."

I’m not going to say it's a lie. But-

“And that should be enough? It sounds like a lame checklist to me.”

“What?! It's not like that and you know it!”

There it is. The frustrated Spencer Reid is showing up, running his hands through his hair, clenching his jaw as if he’s holding back.

“Yeah? If you care so much, where were you when I needed you by my side? And you know I’m not only talking about the canceled dates or interrupted time together. Where were you in one of the most crucial achievements I have had in my career so far?”

“That’s not-” He tries to cut me off, but it's like a dam is broken now. I can’t stop.

“No, Spencer. No! I never asked you for anything, really. And it wasn’t a big deal, honestly. I understood. I always did. But I thought when the time came, you would be there for me the way I did for you!”

“Jules-”

“I hate to do this. I hate to bring this up. But I’m tired, Spencer. I’m so fucking tired.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, knowing I have already lost any composure I had. He tries to reach for me, but I don’t let him.

“I already told you I’m sorry for that. I knew it was important, and I’m so sorry for not being there. But we need to get over this, please.”

Have you heard the saying ‘put out a fire with gasoline’? Well, this is a very accurate example. Maybe some time ago, it would have worked. I would have backed up, agreeing that my ‘things’ weren’t important enough. But, right now? I hate to feel like they don’t.

“Why? Why do we need to get over it?”

"Jules, please, you wouldn't get it,” Spencer mumbles quietly, but I hear him.

Maybe it's from how tired I am that I feel like every word Spencer says seems worse than the last, or perhaps he’s just so exhausted he doesn't realize how much it hurts me to hear him talk like that. Either way, I’m not going to stop because of it.

"Why not, uh?"

Spencer glances at me with a mix of caution and regret. It’s like he wants to skip this conversation altogether because he knows it doesn't look good.

“Love, we both are fatigued right now, and I’m not expressing myself in the best way. Can we-”

I lift a hand to stop him, eyes shut. He does.

“Spencer, please. I asked you a question, and the least you can do it’s answer me.”

Spencer clears his throat, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Well, uh. I mean, our jobs are different, you know. Pretty different, actually."

"They are. We don't have the same job. But it's a job with highs and lows. Why wouldn't I understand if you explained it to me?"

Spencer rubs his hand through his face. Irritation is filling his features. I’m pushing harder this time, and I have to confess it scares me a bit.

“Spencer, why-?”

"Because-because you haven't been there! In the field! You haven’t seen people die!”

Putting it in that way, there seems to be no argument against it. But Spencer doesn't realize he is neglecting his own life to save others.

"Spencer, I know! I don't pretend to minimize what you have been through and do. But baby, you can't forget you do have a life to take care of.” I try to reach his hand this time, a pace offering, but he takes a step back.

"How can you say it like that? People are dying out there, Jules. Can’t you see it? I save lives, you don't. Some people need us, for fucks sake! They can die if we don't get there on time!"

There is pure logic in his reasoning. And I know he's right. The BAU saves lives. It's a laudable job, with sacrifices and a lot of stress. I don't deny that fact. But does that mean anything else is bullshit?

'I save lives, you don't.'

That's why I will never be at the top of his list. Is it because I don't save lives for a living? Is that the part that I’ll never get to understand about him?

What a selfish bitch I am.

“I save lives. You don't."

The definitive and quiet way I repeat his words tells him that he crossed a line or two.

"I wasn't saying -" He tries to explain, but for me, it doesn't need explanation at all.

"I heard you, Spencer. And I respect what you do. Sure, it is ten thousand times more important than what I do. The only thing that I can save sometimes is part of the budget from the editing department to invest in press equipment. And that's all."

“That's not what I meant. I'm not trying to minimize what you do. Of course not. All jobs are important. Society wouldn't function without any of them. It's statistically improbable, actually.”

Those words don’t bring me any sense of comfort, and Spencer can read it from my face in an instant.

“Don’t try to back down. I know it's not the same. Maybe a medical doctor, a nurse, a firefighter, or a first responder would get it better than I.”

Again, this isn’t the first time we have had this argument in the past months. But recently, it has been harder to find a middle ground for the two of us. I guess time has worn us more quickly than I thought it would, and I don’t know how much of a fight is left. I hate to even think about it, but having this conversation over and over again it’s only a reminder of how fragile we are, and I don’t think I can keep in this circle for much longer. Not when I see how I'm hurting the man I love with all my heart, and watching him hurt me. It's not fair to either of us.

Spencer sighs, almost defeated. I know he's thinking the same thing I am right now. This is the point where one of us gives up and decides to abandon the argument before breaking up what's left of us as a couple.

"Baby, we are both tired. Why wouldn't we better go to bed? We can talk in the morning. Well rested and with hours of proper sleep. Can we do that?"

It's Spencer who's waving the white flag tonight. He's right, we're both exhausted, but hasn't it been this way all along? I'm afraid of continuing to choke on unspoken things, and I'm so scared Spencer is holding onto the resentment I know he has against me for all of this.

“Spencer, I don’t know-”

“Please. I’m not trying to disregard the fact that we have an unsolved argument and that we need to talk about it thoroughly, but please, I promise we can talk tomorrow morning with fresh eyes and mind. I’ll even make breakfast with pancakes the way you like, and I won’t put blueberries on it.”

I chuckle at his offer. He knows how I love pancakes and hate blueberries. Those little things still get to my heart. And those puppy eyes he is giving me now. I can’t say no to them, no matter how mad I am.

“Promise?” I ask for confirmation, and Spencer opens his arms to me. Another offer I can’t resist.

“I promise. Come on, let’s go to bed,” he says, kissing my temple and circling his arms tightly around me.

We get into our bed, under the covers, and Spencer holds me in his arms. I close my eyes and let myself be engulfed by his scent, feeling at peace after hours of tension. It feels like home. I melt into his embrace and let a content sigh. If only things could be like this forever. If only we could have this for longer.

“I love you, Jules,” Spencer mumbles into my hair, kissing my head. I’m almost falling into slumber, so I think I don’t get to reply with words; instead, I tighten my grasp on his body to mine. But I know he knows.

- - - - - -

‘What?’ I ask when I see Spencer looking at me for quite a while without saying anything. His eyes are full of something I can’t grasp. It’s soft but intense, warm but makes my heart stop.

We were watching a movie at his place after he came back from a case, and I offered to come over with takeout. We have been dating for a while now, and I think I have never been so happy in my life. Right now, I was just laughing at some nerdy joke Spencer said about the movie, and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

‘I love you.’

That’s it. No preambles, no warning. And I think I can faint right now. His words bring to existence what I have been feeling and scared to say. I freeze for a second or two, and due I don’t know where my words have gone, I shift and kneel on the couch, crashing my lips to his. Spencer starts chuckling into the kiss at my eagerness, out of surprise by my reaction, and nervousness about what his confession means to us, although I can tell he has some clue. When I part from the kiss, lips swollen and eyes glistening, I give him the widest grin I have.

‘In case it wasn't clear from what I just did, I love you, too, Spencer. So so much.’

His grin matches mine, and the movie gets long forgotten, acting as background noise when we have more important things to focus our attention on.

- - - - - -

When I wake up the next morning, my hand stretches, reaching for Spencer, but his side is cold. I open my eyes, and the first thing I find is… nothing, or no one, better said.

We both went to bed together last night, and Spencer promised me we would talk in the morning after some sleep. I didn't dream that, did I?

I turn and peek at the nightstand. My phone is charging, and a sticky note is on the screen. Still half asleep, I get into a sitting position, narrowing my eyes to read the note I unstick from my phone.

'I'm sorry, love. I got called early to Tampa, and I didn't want to wake you up. I'll text you when I get there. S.'

The words take some time to register in my foggy brain, but when they do, my chest constricts, and the renewed energy from last night's rest is already gone.

Spencer didn't keep his word. He left again, despite everything I said last night, and his willingness to fix things.

I don't know what to think or feel about it, but my body has its reaction in the form of tears rolling down my cheeks, as my hands shake with the note looking at me mockingly.

A note? Really? A fucking note should be enough after everything we said?

He stood me up twice in less than twelve hours. It should be a record by now.

I crumple the piece of paper and throw it to the floor in rage, collapsing onto the mattress, unable to stop the tears. I don't know what hurts me more: my heart, my pride, or everything at once. And that's when my brain starts bombarding me with doubts and questions, with that stupid voice telling me over and over again how foolish, weak, and insignificant I am.

Stop. Stop it!

Eventually, I gave up, and there were no more tears to shed. I’m still sprawled over the bed, eyes on the ceiling, just contemplating. Maybe I’m overreacting; maybe I need to take a breath.

My phone dings. I just hope it’s not a text from him because I don’t want to start crying again. When I take the device to check, I see a text from my chief editor: ‘Julia, I know you asked for today off, but I got a call from the California team, it’s important, and I think we need to discuss it ASAP. Tell me if you can meet today or tomorrow.’

Work, uh? It could be a good distraction. I don't have many plans for today, anyway.

I type my response with no further thought: ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

It’s not how I expected to spend my day, but sulking won’t fix anything. Come on, Jules, get up. Literally and figuratively. Life is still out there, even if your heart is broken.

After that little trash pep talk, I make my way to the shower. I don’t want to think about Spencer for now. It hurts, and I’m tired of hurting.

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I’ll really appreciate comments, thoughts, likes, and reblogs. Thanks for supporting my work.

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[aperrywilliams]

That banter at the end!!!!!!! Love itttttttt

Hey girlieeee💃💃

How are you? Hope uni isn't killing yo ass(it's killing mine so😶‍🌫️)😭😭

Soo, I was thinking a fluffity fluff fluff, disgustingly cute fic with flirty!reader where she keeps flirting with Spence and he gets all shy and shit all the time and when he gets his boyband haircut and wears glasses and stuff and reader gets all heart eyed and keeps on gushing over him. But Mr. Doc here gets all insecure and tells her that she only flirts with him to be nice (she's genuinely in love him with, like down bad like we are for him - justified) and she consoles him and kinda accidentally confesses and it's all cute blushing ending.

Hope that made sense 😭😭😭

Love you girl! ♥️😘

flirty — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: flirty!reader, spencer being insecure for a moment a/n: hi hi !! such a lovely idea <3 hope you like this !

“Oh my god.”

That was all Spencer heard when you stepped into the bullpen. Just those three words, and he was already blushing, the warmth creeping up his ears, knowing exactly how red they must be. He didn’t even need a mirror to confirm it, the heat on his skin was evidence enough.

“Good morning,” he said, looking up from his desk, fingers pausing over the open case file in front of him. But you weren’t moving. You were just staring at him, lips parted slightly in surprise before curling into a slow, delighted grin.

“A haircut and glasses?” you said, stepping closer and leaning against his desk. “What did I do to deserve this?” His eyes darted away, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the file.

“I—uh, I thought the haircut was overdue,” he mumbled. “It was getting in the way of work.” He dared to glance back at you, only to find you still staring, your expression so openly affectionate it made his breath hitch.

“Well, you look very handsome,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag before stepping even closer. You hesitated for just a second, waiting for any sign of discomfort from him. There wasn’t any. So you reached out, fingertips brushing through the soft strands. “So soft,” you grinned. Then, you straightened his glasses, your touch lingering just a second too long before you finally dropped your hand.

Spencer, who had instinctively leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment, blinked up at you now, lips slightly parted.

“How am I supposed to focus on work now?” you huffed, pretending to be annoyed as you leaned back against his desk. “Are you trying to get me in trouble with Hotch?”

“W-What? No! No, not at all, why would I—” His voice pitched higher and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Spencer,” you said, shaking your head fondly. “I’m joking.” He exhaled, shoulders relaxing, but the blush didn’t fade. 

Throughout the day, you kept finding little ways to compliment him.

A soft “What have you got, handsome?” when asking about the geographical profile. Another moment where you reached over to adjust his glasses, grinning when his breath hitched. Each time, he responded with that same flustered blush, and you loved it, the way his eyes flickered away, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

But then, a few days later, Spencer finally spoke up.

The team had just wrapped up a case, and the two of you were among the last to leave the jet, trudging back into the bullpen to grab your things before heading home. As always, you waited for him while he gathered his mountain of books from his desk, because of course Spencer Reid couldn’t leave without at least five heavy tomes in tow. You leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile as he meticulously stacked them into his worn leather bag.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head, “most people just bring, like, a laptop home. Maybe a notepad. But you? You’re out here looking like a walking library.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but didn’t look up. You nudged his shoulder playfully. “Adorable and ridiculously smart? Unfair.”

And that’s when he froze. His hands stilled over the last book, fingers tightening slightly on the spine before he finally lifted his gaze to yours. There was something different in his expression, almost wary. You blinked, but didn’t back down, perching on the edge of his desk with the same flirtatious smile as always. Then, the words spilled out. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Your smile faltered. “Do what?”

“Compliment me.” His voice was quiet. “Just to be nice.”

For a second, you just stared at him. “What?” The word came out sharper than you meant it to, disbelief coloring your tone. Spencer didn’t reply. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

You jumped off the desk, closing the distance between you in one quick step. “Spencer.” His name left your lips softer this time, almost pleading.

He still wouldn’t look at you. Gently, you reached out, turning him toward you by his arm. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m not complimenting you just to be nice,” you said, your voice quiet. Your eyebrows furrowed, a pang of hurt twisting in your chest at the thought that he’d believed that all along. That he’d been dismissing every word, every glance, as nothing more than polite kindness.

Spencer finally met your eyes, just for a second, but it was enough. And you saw it. The doubt. The disbelief that anyone could mean it.

“I think you’re very handsome,” you said, your voice dropping, stripping away the playful tone you usually used. “And I’m not just saying that.”

Spencer stared at you, his brown eyes wide, still shimmering with that heartbreaking disbelief. So you continued, your thumb rubbing slow circles against his upper arm through the soft wool of his cardigan. "I meant every compliment I've ever told you." The fabric was warm from his body heat, and you could feel the faint tremor running through him. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You pressed on, giving him a small, crooked grin. "You really think I'd risk getting in trouble with Hotch for staring at you," you teased gently, "just because I wanted to be nice?"

That finally broke through.

A startled, breathy laugh escaped him and the way his face lit up made your own grin widen uncontrollably. Encouraged, you ran with it, your voice dipping into playful exaggeration. "Seriously, that was not funny. He gave me this look once , all stern and disapproving, it was terrifying." You shuddered dramatically, watching with delight as another quiet laugh shook Spencer's shoulders. The words kept tumbling out. "I like you so much that I'd get in trouble with Hotch for-"

Oh.

Your brain caught up with your mouth a second too late. The playful tone died in your throat as realization crashed over you. Your fingers stilled against his arm.

Oh no.

You just confessed.

Spencer's breath hitched audibly, his eyes widening further. His lips formed a silent "oh" of his own, and you could feel the sudden tension coiling through his body where your hand still rested on his arm. Your pulse roared in your ears as panic set in. This wasn't how you'd planned to say it, if you'd ever planned to say it at all. Time seemed to slow as you waited for his response, every second stretching unbearably. You could practically see the gears turning behind those beautiful, bewildered eyes.

"Okay well... yeah," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him, your words tumbling out. Your hand dropped from his arm like you'd been burned, fingers curling into your palm. "Guess I just... said that."

Spencer blinked rapidly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "You... like me?" The question came out breathless. Then, true to form, his brain kicked into overdrive. "As in romantically? Or in a friendship way or-" The words spilled faster, "-or in a professional admiration capacity, or-"

"Romantically." You cut him off with a blunt, flat delivery. There was no teasing tone. For one terrifying heartbeat, Spencer just stared. Then something miraculous happened. Slowly, so slowly, a smile began to spread across his face.

"I..." He started, stopped, then huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "I've been trying to work up the courage to tell you the same thing for... well. An embarrassingly long time, actually."

Your lips curved into a delighted smile as you leaned just slightly into his space. "How long are we talking, Doctor Reid? Weeks? Months?" You tapped a thoughtful finger against your chin. "Should I be flattered or concerned about your procrastination skills?"

Spencer's eyes darted away, then back, that adorable blush deepening. "If we're being statistically accurate... 7 months, 17 days since I first considered-"

"Seven months?" Your eyebrows shot up as you interrupted his precise calculation. You reached out to straighten his already-perfect tie, fingers brushing the warm skin at his throat. "And here I thought geniuses were supposed to be efficient."

He swallowed hard under your touch. "I was... compiling data."

"Oh?" You let your hand linger, smoothing the fabric of his tie. "And what conclusions did your research yield?"

Spencer's breath hitched as your fingers trailed down to his chest, coming to rest just over his racing heart. "That..." He cleared his throat. "That you have a 92% probability of saying yes if I asked you to dinner tonight."

Your grin turned downright wicked. "Only 92%? Those are rookie numbers, Reid." You gave his tie a playful tug. "Tell you what, skip the probability analysis and just ask me properly."

For a moment, Spencer looked like he might short-circuit. Then, with a sudden burst of courage that made your own pulse skip, he caught your retreating hand in his, his long fingers intertwining with yours.

"Would you," he started, then paused, his thumb brushing over your knuckles nervously, "let me take you to that Italian place you mentioned last week? The one with the... the homemade pasta?" His voice gained strength as he added, "Tonight. Just us."

You bit your lip, pretending to consider even as your stomach fluttered. "Hmm. I don't know... will there be dessert?"

"The best," he deadpanned, that shy smile playing at his lips.

"Then it's a date," you declared, giving his hand a squeeze. "But fair warning" You stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of his shampoo, close enough to make his breath catch. " I fully intend to steal at least one bite of whatever you order."

Spencer's laugh was bright. "Noted. Though statistically speaking, you're 98% more likely to steal two."

"Smart and pretty," you sighed dramatically, finally releasing his hand to grab your bag. "How's a girl supposed to resist?"

[aperrywilliams]

I don’t know if I ever linked it here, but From Now On is the sequel to this one.

Seven Months (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

(Nota my gif. Credits to the creator!)

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Author Masterlist

Part II: From Now On

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Summary: A field operation goes wrong, and you lose the most important person in your life. That's what you thought for seven months.

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: A character’s death and mourning are mentioned and discussed. Pregnancy is shown and discussed. A mention of possible abortion (not actually happening). Strong words. A character faint and needs medical attention. Angst with a happy ending.

A/N: Hey, my loves! I wrote this one based on this request I got the past weekend. Are you familiar with Doyle’s arc? Here is, but it’s not Emily faking her death; it's Spencer. I enjoyed writing this one, although it was painful in some parts. You can send me requests! I would love to work on those.

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Your life has been pretty good, in your opinion. It's not like you haven't been through dark times for a few years, but once you grew up and followed your dreams, things got a lot better. You became a reputable FBI agent working at the BAU, one of the most elite groups in the bureau. You earned excellent colleagues who are also your friends and your family. And you met Spencer Reid, your fiancee, the man who can light up your days and rock your nights.

Yeah, life has been pretty good to you.

Until today.

Until that bastard stabbed your fiancee in a raid.

A bastard who managed to escape.

You blamed yourself. You should have burst into the warehouse with Spencer. You shouldn’t have left him alone.

The hours in the hospital seemed endless for you. The team’s faces weren’t better than yours. He has to make it. Right?

He’s the love of your life. You can’t lose him.

You tried to stay collected, thinking of good scenarios and Spencer's recovery.

Your thoughts stopped when JJ walked through the hospital doors that separated the wards from the waiting room. She had tears in her eyes.

“He never made it off the table.”

That was the moment your life was turned upside down forever.

-

A widow. That's what you were and how you felt.

Crying for Spencer's death became a full-time activity. How could it not? Everything in your shared apartment reminded you of the life you both had together. The plans, the dreams, the memories, all were there in every corner. It took you weeks to grab Spencer's coffee mug he left on the kitchen counter the last morning you ate breakfast together.

Going to work didn't make things easy. The looks, the pity, the talk behind your back. It was like everyone walked on eggshells around you.

Spencer’s death affected the team, not only emotionally; two weeks after Spencer's funeral, Strauss split the group, sending Hotch to missions out of the country and Rossi to support another task group in the FBI. JJ was called to assist in other divisions from time to time. Morgan was the present team leader, and Prentiss, Garcia, and you were the permanent team members.

In the lonely nights at your apartment, surrounded by your memories, sometimes your mind tricked you, thinking that Spencer could walk inside with open arms and smile brightly at you. Maybe you would go insane.

At moments like those, you ended up knocking on Emily’s door. She was emotionally stronger than you, holding you as you cried for hours.

You will always be grateful to her. You knew it was unfair to Emily because as the same time you mourned Spencer as your boyfriend, she mourned Spencer as her little brother.

You started to feel sick most of the time. Emotional and physically sick. Your head throbbed constantly; your stomach couldn't stand the food you forced yourself to eat, and it was common to wake up in the morning with nausea making you run to the bathroom to empty your guts into the toilet.

Two months passed, and you couldn't feel better. Emily advised you to go to the doctor.

“They will tell me that I’m depressed and send me home. I can’t be home, Em,” you argued.

“But you need to be checked. Depressed or not, being like this doesn't help you. Please, just let them see you.”

You did what Emily requested. At your doctor's appointment, she asked the trivial questions and ordered urine and blood tests. You could feel her pity look on you when you told her what happened with your fiancee.

You hated people looking at you like that.

In the next appointment, with the results on hand, she disclosed two things: one of them you already knew; the other felt like a cold bucket on your back. You were depressed and pregnant.

What the doctor told you after that was a blur to you. You didn't listen, your brain only filled with one word: pregnant.

Still shaking, you managed to get out of the doctor’s office and dialed Emily’s number.

As in the past weeks, she comforted you and offered her support all the way. Whatever your decision could be.

You spent days and nights thinking about what to do. You didn't feel in a good place to be a mother, but it was Spencer's child, the love of your life. It was part of your plan together. You both wanted kids, but he was gone now.

Could you be strong enough to raise a child?

One night, curling in bed with Spencer's shirt in your hands, smelling the faint scent of his cologne, you noticed there weren’t more tears in you. The pain still was there, but you couldn't cry anymore. Instead, you started rubbing your lower belly with one hand. At that moment, you made a choice.

Telling the team made it more real. You will have a baby. Spencer's baby. Everyone hugged you, offering all the support you could need. You didn't know why, but JJ looked more emotional that day. You guessed that she felt like the baby would be his friend's living legacy. You always knew how strong was JJ and Spencer's friendship. It was a terrible loss for her too.

-

Emily became your partner in all the baby’s appointments you got, and she asked about all your therapist’s sessions.

You needed to acknowledge that therapy helped. Every day you felt a little bit better. Maybe it was because you focused on the baby: you needed to be okay for them. You needed to stand again because now a human life depended on you.

Months went by, and your bump started to be noticeable. Looking at you in the mirror every morning, you could see how the baby has grown.

You made changes in the apartment. Morgan helped to adapt your and Spencer’s old office into a nursery. You changed the furniture in your bedroom too, settling a bassinet by your bed. It was time to decide what to do with Spencer's belongings. You packed his clothes in boxes and left them in the basement storage room. Some of his books ran the same luck. But most of them, you wanted to keep it so your child could see part of his father there.

And so seven months have passed since that fateful day. Seven months in which there were days when it was difficult to get up, but you kept going. The support of your friends was essential.

The job also helped you overcome the pain and make each day count.

Your belly was growing and growing, and without knowing it, the baby you were carrying became the BAU’s top priority. Your baby was still not born but was loved by everyone.

“Come on (Y/N)! Tell us! It’s a boy or a girl?” JJ insisted. She, Emily, and you were in the conference room. You already knew the gender, but you didn't want to tell anyone, not even Emily.

“My lips are sealed,” you informed, sipping your tea. JJ huffed.

“We can profile you to find out, you know?” Emily warned. You narrowed your eyes.

“You wouldn't dare...”

“To know if I’m having a godson or a goddaughter? Of course!” Emily pointed matter-of-factly.

You shook your head, clucking.

Then Derek and Garcia entered the room. A severe expression on their faces. You three noticed immediately.

Something important happened.

“We found him,” Derek announced.

Your jaw dropped to the floor. JJ and Prentiss looked at each other, not knowing what he was talking about.

“Found who?” JJ asked.

“The son of the bitch who killed Reid. Steven Harmon.”

Your throat tightened, and your hands started to shake.

On the day of Spencer's funeral, when Derek hugged you, he promised to catch the man who killed your fiancee. And after seven months, he succeeded. You knew he was tracking him with Garcia's help, but no one mentioned or talked about that until now.

“We need to move fast, though. I called Hotch and Rossi. We are going to get him.”

Although your protests, Morgan didn't let you participate in the field operation. You begged him; you needed to catch the guy, but Derek reminded you that it could be dangerous for you and the baby, and he never would forgive himself if something happened to you.

Two days after that, the entire team, minus Garcia and you, finally caught who killed the love of your life, your baby’s father.

You thought that after his arrest you would feel relieved. This was what you needed to bring justice and peace of mind to you. But why it didn’t feel like that? Why did you feel like something was off?

Hotch called everyone to the conference room the next morning. After asking you to sit down, he folded his arms over his chest and spoke—JJ by his side.

“Seven months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you know, Spencer lost a lot of blood after his fight with Harmon. But the doctors were able to stabilize him. And he was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration. His identity was strictly need-to-know. And he stayed there until he was well enough to travel. He was reassigned to Paris, where he was given several identities, none of which we had access to for his security.”

You took in Hotch’s words, but they seemed extracted from a movie, not from reality.

“His is alive?” Garcia mumbled.

“But we buried him!” Prentiss shouted.

By reflex, you pressed both hands to your belly. Your pulse quickened, as did your breathing.

“As I said, I take full responsability for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me,” Hotch informed. The same calm and stern voice with which he started speaking.

“Any issues? Yeah, I got issues!” Morgan growled.

Emily's eyes flicked from Hotch to you, back and forth. Had anyone cared about you before disclosing this news?

And then everyone turned to the door. He was there. Spencer stood awkwardly, looking at each team member, but especially at you. When your eyes and his locked, you felt like you couldn't breathe. You stood suddenly because your limbs were numb, and you didn't know if you were dreaming or awake. You clutched your bump to ground yourself. Spencer’s eyes widened when he noticed your belly.

He didn't know you were pregnant.

He didn't know anything.

You noticed how he looked at JJ as if he was asking why. She knew. Hotch knew. Who else lied to you all these months?

The silence in the room was suffocating. No one dared to say anything.

Spencer took a step ahead toward you, but you stepped back. He lied to you. Everyone lied to you.

“Don’t! Don’t come closer!” you whined.

“(Y/N)...” Spencer tried to talk to you, but you continued moving backward.

“I don’t want to know. You - you...”

The air left your lungs, and you felt dizzy. The room started to spin, and in a matter of seconds, you fainted. Emily and Derek were fast enough and caught you before falling to the floor. Derek took you in his arms to move you to the nearest couch so you could lay down as Emily called the paramedics to get you checked.

Spencer tried to reach you, but Hotch stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s move to my office,” Hotch instructed.

Spencer glared at his boss with a look that revealed how betrayed he felt. JJ intervened too.

“Spence. We need to talk.”

Reluctantly and with his gaze still on you, Spencer left the conference room, heading to Hotch’s office. Rossi and Garcia followed suit.

“Why on earth you didn't tell me she is pregnant?!” Spencer shouted to JJ once they were in the office.

“Because you would have done exactly what you shouldn't,” Hotch explained. “Wouldn't you have taken the next flight to DC?”

“Yeah! Maybe I would have. She needed me here!” Spencer spat to Hotch. “I thought you were my friend?” Spencer now directed his anger to JJ.

“You have no idea the times I was about to tell you! But Hotch is right. You would have blown your cover, and we could never have caught Harmon,” JJ defended herself.

Spencer rubbed his eyes with his palms. In all the months he was away he wondered how you were. It hurt him not being able to talk to you, to say anything. To you, the most important person in his life.

His look darted to Rossi and Penelope.

“I’m so sorry. You didn't deserve this. Any of this. I - I’m sorry,” Spencer sniffled. Rossi approached and patted his back.

“It was for your safety, kid. It's hard now, but everyone would understand, she would understand,” Rossi reassured him. “It’s good to have you back.”

“My turn,” Penelope demanded, wrapping Spencer in a tight embrace. “I can’t believe I can hug you again. Now I’ll hug you every day, and I don’t want complaints,” she declared.

Spencer chuckled, still sniffling a bit.

“I missed you guys, and I really want to tell you all about this, but I need to know about (Y/N); when did she tell you about the baby? How has her health been?”

Rossi, Hotch, JJ, and Penelope looked at him in a way that told Spencer everything he needed to know: you have been through hell in the past seven months.

How would he fix this now?

-

The paramedics checked on you, and said there was no need to go to the hospital. Your vitals were okay, and the baby was okay too. They only recommended you needed to rest.

Easier said than done, you thought.

Emily and Derek were in silence by your side. They didn't want to rush you or pressure you in any form. When the paramedics left, you looked at them with the question on the tip of your tongue.

“That - that was real? He - he is really alive?” You asked, voice cracking.

“Yes. He is,” Emily confirmed.

You closed your eyes for a moment to inhale and exhale.

“Did you know?” You asked again, looking at Emily and Derek.

Both shook their heads.

“What is supposed to happen now?” You asked, more to yourself than your friends.

“I don’t know,” Emily told you honestly. “I mean, I can understand the whole thing, but it's not easy to accept as if nothing happened.”

Derek was still in silence.

“Morgan, please say something,” you demanded.

“I’m sorry pretty girl, I wish I could have something to say to you, but I don't.”

You sighed, rubbing your hands over your belly.

It was evident that everyone was shocked, but Spencer was alive. That would be a reason to be happy. Right? So why you couldn't stand and run to hug him? Maybe because you already accepted that you lost him.

You didn't dare to leave the conference room during the entire day. Emily brought you snaks, and lunch, making you company for most of the hours. You told Morgan that it was okay for him to leave you there, that you were okay. The same you told Emily, who seemed more reluctant. You convinced her by telling her that you needed to be alone to think.

Eventually, Morgan and Emily went to talk to Hotch, JJ, and presumably Spencer. But you weren't ready yet.

More hours passed, and you didn't know what to do. You knew that you will have to talk to him at some point. You couldn’t avoid him all day.

Peeking through the blinds, you saw Spencer sitting alone at his desk.

It was real. He was real.

The man you mourned for months was alive and a few feet from you. Rubbing your bump, you asked yourself if life was giving you a second chance, or maybe it was a test to prove how stronger you were.

Either way, you needed to confront this.

You opened the conference room’s door, and Spencer's head snapped instantly in your direction. You didn't say anything, retracting to the office but leaving the door open. You assumed it was enough for him to understand.

Spencer quickly strolled where you were. Cautiously he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“(Y/N)...” he mumbled, standing in front of you.

It was only then that you really noticed him. His hair was longer and his curls wilder than ever. He grew a little stubble and his dark circles seemed more prominent. His clothes looked different too: gray slacks, a black shirt, and a gray tie.

“Did you want to talk to me?” You asked him, your voice monotonous as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“Yes,” he replied to you almost in a whisper. “I didn't come earlier; Emily warned me that I needed to wait until you wanted to see me,” he explained.

“She only told you that?” You asked.

“No. After punching me in the arm and cursing me for hurting you, she told me that,” Spencer corrected.

“That sounds more like Emily,” you mused.

“Yeah.” Spencer acknowledged, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Looking at you didn't make it easy.

He was in front of you, and the only idea that plagued his mind was how bad he wanted to hug you and kiss you. But he couldn't.

To you, he was like a ghost.

“I - I’m so sorry, (Y/N). But I had no choice. I had to do it. And there wasn’t a moment being away that I didn’t think about you. When I regained consciousness, I was flying to Bethesda. The only information I had was a note with my destination and the prohibition of talking to anyone because it could mean Harmon hurting some of you. I couldn't let that happen.”

Spencer's eyes got glassy, and his voice trembled.

“So the only solution was faking your death? I thought you were a genius, Spencer,” you huffed, disappointment written on your face.

“I’m sorry. If I could go back in time, I would do it to prevent all of this. Believe me. It wasn’t easy for me either. To lose everything I had, not knowing if someday I could get it back? Trying to figure out how to solve this being miles and miles away. Away from you. It killed me day by day,” Spencer sighed, hands fidgeting with a notepad in his hands.

“Yeah? Big difference was that you knew we were here, alive. While we had to assume you were dead. We buried you! Do you know how hard it was? And do you want to know what it meant for me? Oh, God! To come back every day to an apartment full of your memories. Every night trying to sleep in a bed we used to share. It took me months to pack your things! Fuck you, Spencer!”

The rage and the pain mixed perfectly in your voice. Tears rolled down your cheeks. Spencer knew better. There wasn’t any word he could say to make that go away. So he was ready to take every stab coming from your mouth.

“I deserve all your anger. I deserve your cold shoulder, but please. Believe me when I tell you that this wasn’t how it should have happened.”

“No? Of course, because it was easier to trust JJ than me, uh? I was your fucking fiancee, Spencer!”

After you said that, Spencer noticed. You weren't using your engagement ring. Of course you weren’t. He was dead. You had the right to go on with your life.

“It wasn’t like that. I was trying to protect you,” he defended.

“Oh, please! Not that bullshit. What you did, what you all did, was the lowest thing I expected from you. Don’t ask me to be okay with it.”

“If I have known that you were...” Spencer trailed off, darting his eyes to your bump. Protectively you put your hands over.

“Pregnant? Would you have come back? I don't think so. Don’t lie to me, Spencer.”

You didn't believe him, and that broke Spencer.

“(Y/N)...” he wanted to argue, but you cut him off.

“I wasn't even sure if I wanted to keep it, you know? I was so depressed, in a hole that I didn't know how to get out of. But yeah, this baby symbolizes the love we shared at some point. It was something we both wanted. This baby gave me a reason to live when I thought I had lost everything!” you bawled, feeling your voice trembling.

Spencer couldn't help but sob, seeing you like that and hearing what you said. He had already lost too much of your life and pregnancy during those months, and the guilt was eating him alive.

Not having anything more to say, you grabbed your bag to leave. Spencer watched with horror how words failed him in an attempt to stop you. Before crossing the threshold, you turned one last time.

“(Y/N)... wait. Please,” he begged. You halted at the threshold, doubting if it was a good idea to turn around. But you did it anyway.

“Do you have anything else to say now?”

“No. But please, could you take this?” Spencer stretched his arm and offered you the notepad he had previously.

“What is this?” You asked cautiously.

“You know I’m not good at expressing my feelings, but I wrote them. I tried. Please, could you read it?” He pleaded. You noticed his hand shaking. You nodded, grabbing the notepad.

“I don’t know what you expect I find here,” you frowned, setting the item in your bag.

“My life in the past seven months. I know it couldn't be compared to what you went through, but I think you deserve to know,” Spencer hastened to say, his glassy eyes telling you it was important to him.

You didn't respond, but nodded instead.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

Fixing your bag on your shoulder, you turned again and left the room.

Spencer stood there and contemplated through the window how you walked to the elevator and disappeared behind the metal doors.

-

The notepad begged you to be opened. You shoved it over the coffee table earlier, debating if it was a good idea. You were curious but afraid of what was written there.

After dinner, you sat on the couch with a mug of tea. Your eyes darted to the notepad again while your free hand flew to your belly.

“I know what you are thinking; your mom is a mess right now. And you’re right. Adults could be so complicated, my little peanut. Mom and dad are not exceptions. Yes, your dad. It happens that he is very much alive. Can you believe it? We should be happy. Right?”

You sighed. Leaving your mug on the coffee table, you grabbed the notepad and opened it. You couldn’t help but smile at the scratchy-messy Spencer's handwriting.

The first page seemed like a letter.

-&-

My love,

I’m writing this even if I can't actually send it to you. Right now, I’m sitting at a desk in my hotel room in Paris. My flight arrived three hours ago, and I’m settled here until I can have my documents. Then I can rent an apartment here. I wish I shouldn’t have to. I wish I could take the next flight to DC. I wish I could come back to be with you and tell you that everything is okay.

I’m sorry. You and the team are thinking I died on the table by now. I’m so sorry. I should have been faster than Harmon. I should have stopped him somehow. I failed. And now we are miles away.

My body hurts from the wounds but what hurts me more is knowing that I’m dead for you. And I’m here with my life suspended for an undetermined time.

Would you forgive me someday?

I love you, and I’ll love you forever.

No matter if someday you forget who I was.

S.

-&-

Tears started to roll down. This was the first entrance in the notepad. The following pages were filled with more letters to you: 210 in total. He wrote a letter to you every day. Some were longer, others not. The first ones were filled with hope, the last ones with sadness and melancholy. But each letter showed how much he loved you, how much he missed you.

He wrote the last one on the plane to DC two days ago.

-&-

My love,

My heart is beating so fast right now. Hotch told me they caught Harmon and that I could come back. God, never did I pack a suitcase so quickly in my life. I’m so excited about coming back, but I’m terrified. They didn't tell me much about anything in the past months, even when I begged to know about you. Are you okay? Did you forget me yet?

I know this won’t be easy. And I wouldn't blame you if you hate me after this. But I have hopes. The hopes I was losing in the past months.

Just five hours and fifteen minutes more.

I love you. I love you. My body is shuddering, and I’m sure the old lady beside me must think I’m crazy because I’m mouthing the words as I write them.

Just a few hours more, my love.

S.

-&-

The man in the letters was the man you loved. And the man you still love. You couldn’t deny that. Was it a messy situation? Yes. Were you still confused? Sure you do.

But this is your Spencer. And he is alive. And he loves you.

What he did could be reasonable or not for you, but it was done. Why prolong the agony? You both deserve happiness. Rebuild what you both lost in the past seven months.

That’s how you stood from the couch, grabbing your coat and keys. It didn't matter the time. Nothing else mattered.

You didn't remember much of the text you sent Emily asking where Spencer was staying. You didn’t remember much of the cab ride or how you were in front of Morgan’s door.

After knocking insistently, a confused Derek opened the door. You were a sight to see: slippers, pajama pants, an oversized sweater covering your pregnant belly, and a coat.

“I guess you are not here to see me,” he teased you. You rolled your eyes.

“Not now, Derek, please,” you begged.

“Come in. He is sleeping on the couch. Or he was.”

Stepping into Derek’s apartment, you immediately saw a pair of hazel eyes looking at you with confusion.

“(Y/N)...” he muttered. Then panic appeared in him. “Are you okay? The baby is okay?” He hastened to ask, standing from the couch and moving closer to you. Derek didn't bother to say anything; he left you both alone.

“Everything is okay. Or I hope it will,” you told Spencer, daring to step closer to him. You could feel how Spencer's breath hitched. His puppy eyes looking at you, trying to decipher why you were there at 2 AM. Then it hit him.

“Did you...” Spencer gestured in the air. He didn’t need to finish the question because you knew he was talking about the notepad.

“Yes. I read it,” you admitted, pursing your lips to conceal the quivering on them.

Spencer cleared his throat.

“Oh. Okay?”

He was frozen on the spot.

It was the time for a leap of faith and love. For you, for him, and the life growing inside you.

You closed the gap between the two of you, your hand reaching his cheek and stroking it tentatively. He leaned into your touch.

It was real.

He was real to you.

You were real to him.

You could see the tears pouring from Spencer's eyes. You didn't do it better, sobbing as your other hand explored his face, touching his eyes, jaw, forehead, and nose.

“I love you,” he whispered, using his hands to mimic your actions. He left a trail of feather touches on your cheeks, eyes, chin, and lips. Then his eyes lowered to your belly. He returned his eyes to yours, silently asking permission. You nodded.

He kneeled, and with both hands, he caressed your belly over your sweater. With the tears came the whimpers. You were both fully crying now. Spencer couldn't believe that he was touching where his baby lay since seven months ago.

“Hey there,” he whispered. “I’m your daddy, you know? Yeah, the asshole who made mommy upset all these months. Sure she mentioned to you that,” Spencer spoke, guilt in his voice.

“You both need to talk about that later,” you conceded, gently stroking Spencer's hair.

“I have to tell you something now, though. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here and won’t leave you or your mom ever again,” Spencer mumbled to the baby, planting a kiss on your belly.

“You promise? Because I can’t lose you again. Mourning you twice would destroy me,” you confessed, looking down to find his eyes.

Spencer stood and took your hands in his to kiss your knuckles not breaking eye contact.

“I’ll stay forever if you will have me. I promise,” he assured you, now cupping your cheeks with both hands. You got lost in those hazel eyes. The same eyes that made you fall in love years ago.

He leaned and kissed you. You felt butterflies in your stomach, like always when he kissed you. You didn't think twice and kissed him back, pouring all your feelings and longing into that kiss.

When you parted, he rested his forehead on yours.

“I love you. I love you both,” he mumbled.

“And we love you, Spencer.”

Those words flooded so naturally from your mouths.

But they had a new meaning now.

For Spencer, those words confirmed that his life wasn’t suspended anymore. He recovered your love and gained a new one.

For you, those words brought to existence what you thought you lost seven months ago: the love of your life and the father of your child.

------------------

Spencer Reid’s Taglist: @dreatine​ @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @tvandfanfic​

[aperrywilliams]

Just Something - SR

This is just a taste of a WIP series I’m writing these days—SR series, of course. Several chapters have already been plotted, and some have been written too. I don’t know about dates, but well, time will tell.

Another reminder: requests are open, too.

--------------

When you’re removing your makeup in the bathroom, you hear the entrance door opens and then shut. The unmistakable sound of Spencer’s footsteps fills the wooden floor of your shared apartment.

‘Shared’ as a way to put it. It's Spencer’s, but you've live there since your lease ended and Spencer asked you to move in five months ago. Maybe the right word is ‘offered’ and not ‘asked’ since you sometimes feel he did it kind of obligated, even if he has insisted that’s not the case.

“Babe?”

You don’t respond. It’s unnecessary since you are clearly there. The lights are on, who else can be?

Spencer tries again anyway. “Babe? Are you home?” His steps follow down the hall to your room, and the ensuite, where you are still cleaning your face.

You know Spencer wants to hear you respond so he can gauge your anger level. He knows what he did, and he’s bracing himself for the argument you sure will have.

When he sees you, a lump goes down his throat. There you are, mid-pajama changed, clean face, tired expression, and your body screams defensiveness.

“I’m so sorry I couldn't make it because -”

“Save it.” You cut him off. Not loud. Not angry. Just fed up. Spencer’s brow creases.

“I’m trying to explain,” he says, like is what it’s needed, like it's what you need—a reason.

“I don't want you to explain yourself. I wanted you there.” It's simple and complicated at the same time.

“I know. I wanted that too. But things at work got messy, and I couldn't call-”

“Did you? Did you really?” You cut him off again.

“What?” Spencer asks, confused about what you mean.

“Did you really want to be there? Like last week? Like last month? Because if you did, the world is confabulating pretty hard against you,” you scoff. Spencer can feel the sarcasm, but he knows there is more than that.

“Of course I wanted to be there! It's just-” He trails off. How to say something without sounding like he’s running in circles.

“The job. I know. The thing is, Spencer, how do we fix it? The non-dates, the time we can’t spend together, how?”

Even if your body tells you how exhausted you are, it's difficult not to show your upset, more so when Spencer doesn't seem to understand your frustration.

“We try again! That's what we do!”

Spencer’s voice rises an octave. You shake your head.

“I think ‘we’ sounds like a lot of people! I’m trying, Spencer. I have been for months! And have you? Uh?”

The answer is ‘no,’ but Spencer isn’t ready to see how neglected your relationship has been and how much responsibility he has for it. So he does what he knows to do when he feels cornered: put up his walls.

“I don’t get why you’re so mad at me. You know how my job is. I can be called to work at any moment.”

“Oh, believe me. I noticed. But it doesn't mean you can ditch me every single time, Spencer!”

You are yelling at this point. How can Spencer be so clueless?

“Don’t be dramatic! I don’t ‘ditch on you.’ You say it like I don’t care about you.”

That's a lie, he thinks, of course, he cares about you. He loves you.

“Do you?”

Your question throws him off, because you really think he doesn't care about you or love you.

--------------

[aperrywilliams]

A tear rolled down. I swear. This is so beautifully written. And I agree with the idea of little gestures work to mend the heart a bit.

ꨄ Third time’s the charm — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: hurt/comfort, angst (with happy ending) word count: 1,7k

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings: none.

summary: Spencer’s always been good at showing up for the world. This time, he’s learning how to show up for you, and a third chance that you give him might be just enough.

author’s note: currently posting daily because I genuinely have nothing better to do. first time writing over 1,5k words, hehe. I am new to writing in tumblr format and in English, which isn't my first language, so please be kind. I will appreciate any input on how to improve my writing or other tips, but only in a respectful manner ! :)

You always knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Dating Spencer, that is.

You’d been friends long enough—met at a science conference three years ago, had long conversations about memory and metaphor over plastic coffee cups, and laughed over the mutual awkwardness of hotel mixers. The kind of friendship that came easy, like slipping into an old hoodie: warm, loose, no expectations. And maybe that’s why it lasted so long before either of you admitted there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Friends didn’t owe each other explanations. Friends didn’t have to arrange candlelit dinners or schedule around jet lag and crime scenes.

But love—love was more complicated. Love came with the hope of having someone there, and the quiet ache when they weren’t.

You knew what you were signing up for. You knew Spencer Reid was brilliant and kind and unlike anyone else you’d ever met. You also knew that the BAU didn’t exactly take holidays, not for anniversaries, not for birthdays, not even for Christmas. Still, you thought maybe—with enough time and care—you’d learn to live in the space between his absences.

You hadn’t seen him in three weeks. So when Spencer called to say he was back in D.C. and wanted to finally go on a proper date—just the two of you, no profile reports, no phone calls, no interruptions—you’d said yes without hesitating. You dressed up. Chose a restaurant with dim lighting and a soft jazz quartet in the corner. You smiled into your wine glass when he said you looked beautiful and teased him gently for overanalyzing the appetizer menu.

And then his phone rang. Not just a text. A call.

You saw it in his eyes before he even looked at the screen—the shift from soft to sharp. From yours to theirs.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, already pulling his wallet out, fumbling through apologies as he stood. “They need me to give an emergency lecture—someone dropped out, and it’s really time-sensitive—”

You nodded, of course. What else could you do? You kissed his cheek, wished him luck, and watched him walk out the door.

You didn’t cry, but you didn’t finish your meal either.

The second time, a week later, was supposed to be the redo. He made the reservation himself this time, texted you little updates throughout the day about how excited he was. It was raining when you met him, your umbrella half-broken and your coat damp from the metro. Still, he looked at you like you were a work of art. And for an hour, it really felt like you were getting your shot. You were halfway through telling him about a new project at work when his phone buzzed on the table.

You saw it again. That same shift. A case. Emergency flight.

He looked wrecked about it, eyes flicking over your face like he already knew he was letting you down. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I swear I didn’t know—if I don’t go—”

You stopped him before he spiraled. Smiled tightly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

But this time, you didn’t wait until the server returned. You gathered your bag, kissed him on the cheek like you were still okay, and left before the hollow feeling in your chest could settle in too deep.

Over the next week, you let the space grow.

You didn’t call as often. Left his texts on read longer than usual. When he tried to video call, you said you were busy. You didn’t bring up another date. You weren’t angry—just tired. Tired of trying to schedule time with someone whose life could be pulled away from you with one phone call. Tired of trying not to make him feel bad for something he couldn’t control. So you made it easier for both of you by stepping back.

Spencer noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the shift in your voice over text—shorter replies, longer delays. The way you didn’t ask when he was coming back this time. The way your usual “goodnight” didn’t come with a heart emoji, or anything at all. It wasn’t dramatic, not even really pointed. But it was enough. It was enough to make him sit alone in his hotel room three nights into the case, phone resting in his palm, thumb hovering over your contact while he stared at the blinking cursor in the message box, unsure what to type. He’d rewritten the same sentence five different ways before giving up and pressing “call.”

He never liked making phone calls—never liked the way his voice could sound too eager or too nervous when it wasn’t in person. But silence? That was worse.

It rang twice before you picked up.

“Hey,” You sounded small. Tired in a way that didn’t come from sleep.

“Hi, love,” he breathed, sinking back against the headboard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said. Your voice was quiet — quieter than usual. And cracked just barely at the end, like it had been recently worn thin. From crying, probably. He could tell. Spencer could always tell.

Still, he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “I saw something today. In the bookstore near the precinct.”

You didn’t respond right away, but he waited. Eventually, your voice came, softer now. “What did you see?”

“They had a copy of The Little Prince. Original French edition.” His voice warmed a little. “It was worn, kind of falling apart. It reminded me of the copy on your shelf.”

That made you smile, just barely. He heard it. Or maybe imagined it. Either way, he kept going.

“I thought about buying it for you. But I wasn’t sure if it’d survive the flight.”

You didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It’s the thought that counts.”

And there it was again — that sadness, thick between the syllables. He could feel it, even through the phone. The weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The heaviness in your throat that didn’t need a name. But he didn’t push. That wasn’t what you needed right now. You didn’t want to talk about why you hadn’t reached out, or how this second failed date in a row had taken the wind out of your hope.

So he told you about a bakery next to the station that made bread shaped like hedgehogs. About the cab driver who insisted on giving him a playlist of 80s jazz fusion. About how the team was tired, but safe, and how JJ had threatened to confiscate his sixth cup of coffee.

He talked gently, letting his voice fill the silence so you didn’t have to.

You didn’t say much. Just murmured in agreement here and there. But Spencer knew you were listening. And you knew that he was choosing every word with care — not to avoid the topic, but to love you without asking anything in return.

Eventually, you said, “I missed your voice.”

Spencer smiled into the receiver. “I missed yours too. A lot.”

Another pause. One of those full ones.

“I think I just need a little time,” you said finally. “Not away. Just… quiet.”

“I get it,” he said. And he did. He always did.

You both fell silent again. Not the heavy kind — this one was soft. Laced with understanding.

Before you hung up, he said, “That book in the window… I’ll see if I can get it shipped. I think it’d be nice on your shelf.”

And you whispered, “Thank you,” like it meant more than he’d ever know.

He didn’t need you to say more. He already knew.

When you turned the key in the lock and tiredly kicked the door of your apartment open, you didn’t expect him to come back early. You didn’t expect to walk into your apartment and find the lights dimmed low, the smell of your favorite takeout wafting from the coffee table, and Spencer sitting on your couch surrounded by a small army of snacks, two soft blankets, and three carefully stacked DVD options: The Princess Bride, Arrival, and Dead Poets Society.

When he heard your keys jingle, he rushed from the couch to wrap his arms around you tightly — warm, steady, and there.

“Surprise,” he whispered into your ear, his voice soft enough to make your knees tremble a little. He held you for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish.

You blinked, caught between a breathless laugh and a lump in your throat. “What… is all this?”

Spencer pulled back only enough to look at you, hands still resting gently on your arms. “I figured if restaurants are cursed, maybe the third time’s the charm.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I wanted to make it up to you. I know I haven’t been here… really been here, and I hate that. I hate letting you down.”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Your chest ached with too many emotions trying to surface at once. He reached behind the couch and retrieved a small paper bag. Inside were two of your favorite chocolate bars and a tiny potted plant — slightly crooked, clearly picked out with care. A label stuck out from the soil, handwritten and slanted “Date Night Survivor #3.”

Your throat clenched.

“I know it’s not exactly candlelight and violins,” he added, voice lower now. “But it’s what I’ve got. And I did it because… you deserve someone who shows up. And I want to be that person. Even if I have to keep trying until I get it right.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks before you could stop them — quiet, unannounced, like your body had decided it was safe now to finally let go. Spencer noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked briefly to the glint of moisture on your skin, but he didn’t say a word. He just reached for your hand and pulled you in again, gently, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come sit,” he whispered, like you were something precious, breakable, and not already breaking. “Food’s still warm.”

And just like that, the ache inside you softened. It didn’t vanish, but it eased. Because he was here. Because he tried. Because this — all of this — meant something.

It felt like breathing again. Like maybe love wasn’t about perfect plans or unbroken promises—but about choosing each other, over and over again, even when the world gets in the way.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[aperrywilliams]

The Sound of Winter (Spencer Reid x Gn!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn!BAU!Reader.

Summary: After a really bad case that hit you hard, you’re in denial and not taking the help people are trying to offer. You think it's a matter of time for you to be good again. But the trauma goes deep this time. And it seems Spencer, your ex-boyfriend, is the best card the team has to bring you back due to his experience with major traumas on the field. It's a tricky move, but Spencer is so sick and worried about you that he is on board immediately. You don’t seem thrilled, but maybe Spencer has something to say that you might listen to.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort. +16. Injuries, blood, and people’s deaths are mentioned. Nightmares and lack of self-care are part of Reader’s new routine.

A/N: I wrote this because everyone has their own ways of dealing with trauma, but listening to someone who might have experienced something similar can be actually helpful.

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“Just close your eyes. Inhale deeply. Keep it, maintain it there. Now exhale. That’s it. Let’s do it again.”

It's supposed to be ten repetitions, but although you weren’t keeping count, you can swear there are more than fifteen by now. Should you feel better now? Relaxed? It doesn't seem to work. Your mind is still clouded with vivid images of the past week. So vivid that you haven’t slept properly in days. Every time you close your eyes, you can see them. On the floor. Bleeding out. Eyes on you, pleading for something you couldn’t give them: a chance to live. It was already late when you got to the house. The unsub already hurt them the way any hope was futile. Even though you kneeled there, holding the bloody hand of the youngest girl. What were you thinking? That you could bring her some kind of comfort in her last seconds of life? You could barely say ‘I’m sorry’ when her eyes closed forever.

I’m sorry. I should have been here sooner, and I should have been able to stop him. I’m so sorry. I failed you and your family. I’m so sorry.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m -

“You can open your eyes now.”

The therapist's voice is soft, and a faint, reassuring smile graces her lips.

You don’t feel better, but when she asks you exactly that, you lie.

“Much better, thank you.”

Are therapists accustomed to being lied to their faces that way? If she knows, she doesn't say anything.

“Okay. Our time is up for now. See you next week?”

“Sure.” And you are not lying. Your reinstatement depends on your ability to pass the psych evaluation. Emily already told you she won’t make any exceptions for you.

It's on you: or you magically can overcome a major trauma after doing your job in the field, or you can be convincing enough to let people think you’re cured of trauma after some mandatory therapist appointments.

It’ll be what happens first, you think. And it's kind of obvious what it will.

With the mandatory therapy sessions, you’re on leave for two weeks until the psych evaluation is done and discussed. You don’t think being at home will do any better for your mental health. But again, Emily wasn’t keen to even discuss it. And you already have pissed your boss enough in the past days to try to act sly about it.

When you come home, it's late. You can’t exactly say why you chose sessions this late, having all day at your disposal.

The apartment is quiet, the same way you left it two hours ago, but now it's dark. You only flick one lamp on next to your couch, where you plop with a huff.

Why do you feel tired? You haven’t done anything all day besides being out of home the past two hours. Eyes on the ceiling, you try to think of something to do before going to bed. Watch TV? Read a book? Drink a full bottle of tequila? All the above?

If you were working, you wouldn’t be spiraling like this. At least you think that.

Fuck you, Emily!

If I had been faster, I would have stopped him, and I could have saved them. I didn't do my job. They should fire me. I’m not good at this anymore.

Knock-Knock-Knock.

Your head snaps. Who the hell is knocking at this hour? Maybe you summoned Emily with your thoughts and she’s here to check on you. Jeez, you don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Standing from the couch, you only hope it's a lost delivery man.

But when you open the door, neither of your possible outcomes becomes true.

Spencer Reid is who’s standing there, a neutral expression on his face. Hands in the pockets of his coat.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice hints more incredulity than annoyance.

“I wanted to know how you are doing,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It is a sign that he’s not sure how you’re taking the fact he came to see you.

“How am I doing? Great, wonderful. Thanks for asking,” you reply sarcastically. “Is that all?”

Spencer doesn't seem surprised by your reaction. He kind of expected it.

There is no explicit animosity between you both, but it's difficult to say you have maintained a closer relationship after your breakup. You can work together pretty well and behave professionally and civil most of the time. That doesn't mean you are friends, much less that you trust him with your issues.

But even though that’s the reality of your relationship, after what you went through in the last case, Spencer can’t look another way. Especially with something he knows by experience and with the suspicion of how bad it’s hitting you. The fact you’re not together anymore doesn't mean Spencer can just turn his back on you.

Life’s irony, if you ask him, considering he was the one who walked away first when everything went wrong a few years ago.

“No, that’s not all. I know it's late, but Emily told me your sessions end late.”

Emily. Of course.

“So she sent you? I told her if she wanted-”

You want a fight. You don’t know why, but everything looks like a good reason to pick a fight. Spencer cuts you off, though.

“She didn’t send me. I wanted to come. Can I come in, please?” His voice is firmer this time like he is talking about something serious.

Does he? Are you ‘something’ he needs to take care of? Truth or not, it doesn't matter; only having the idea in your brain intensifies your disgust.

So you think for a second. You don’t want to talk to anyone, but you know Spencer enough; he won’t leave if he isn’t getting what he wants. And you want a fight. Who’s better for that than your ex-boyfriend?”

Without a word, you swing back the door and step aside so he can come in.

The place isn't a complete mess, but as Spencer knows you, this is chaos by your standards. Things are out of place: coffee mugs and plates stacked in the sink, a coffee table full of papers and books, blankets sprayed on the couch, clothes in the back of chairs, and that smell. Cigarettes? Did you start smoking again? At least you have the windows open. But it’s December, not the best weather to do that at night. All those things travel through Spencer’s brain in the short walk from your entrance to your living room. You stand behind him. You know what he is doing, but you won’t even bother to explain yourself.

“I would offer you coffee, but I ran out of it today,” you say as you go to close the windows.

“It's okay. Thank you.”

Spencer sits on one corner of the couch, not waiting for you to invite him to. It’s like he owns the place, you think. A time ago, it was like that, though. You both could spend hours on that same couch.

You sit in the opposite corner.

“So?” you start. “If Emily didn't send you. Why are you here?”

Spencer clears his throat. You think you know what’s coming: a string of complicated, far-fetched, and rehearsed words just to say you’re a disgrace and an inconvenience to the team.

“Because we’re worried about you.”

There you go. Worried. That's a nice way to say you’re being a headache to a group of people who have better things to do than worry about a derailed member.

“We? Worried? So, are you some kind of team spokesperson now? And why are you worried? I probably won't even be able to return. I'd be relieved if I were you.”

You're all about sarcasm and provocation, something you know Spencer hates. You may well remember that during your big arguments, one thing that always got on Spencer's nerves was your inability not to say something snarky when he was trying to say something serious. The same way you’re doing now.

“Can you at least acknowledge you’re not okay?” Spencer says, exhaling sharply. “You don’t want us in the middle of this - whatever it is? Fine. But you’re hurting and not doing something about it.”

Aren’t you? The audacity of this man. You’re taking care of it but on your terms. Why should people mess with it?

You stand, huffing an incredulous laugh.

“How could you even know what I’m doing or not? Are we living together, and I didn’t know? Oh wait, we have not since a pretty good time!”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. You’re doing excellent work getting on his nerves.

“Can you stop that, please?” He asks, trying to sound still collected.

“Stop what, Dr. Reid? What I’m doing that is stressing you out?”

Oh, petty girl. Petty, petty girl. Even you feel the urge to slap yourself across the face. But you can’t stop. You don’t know how.

Spencer stands, biting his lower lip, contemplating how to proceed. He knows what you’re doing, and leaving right now would be a win for you. Not that he cares if he ‘loses,’ his reasons for being here are beyond his comfort or needs. That's why leaving is not an option for him. Do you want to play punching ball with him? Okay. He’ll take it if it means you're getting everything out of your chest. If it helps you, it's okay. He owes you this much or even more.

“Okay,” he prefaces. “Due I’m the one intruding here, it is fair I get to endure whatever you want to throw at me. So, go ahead.”

“Oh, poor baby,” you coo, condescendingly. Spencer rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. That too. Do that, I don’t care,” Spencer deadpan. You cross your arms over your chest, eyebrow raised.

“What are you trying to prove, Spencer? You’re trying to prove you can be here for me? When is it supposed I need it?”

He doesn't flinch at your comeback, his expression remains serious, though.

“Believe it or not, I’m not trying to prove anything. I'm just trying to provoke you enough to make you react and do something to stop sinking.”

It's raw and direct, and you didn't expect it that way, so you don’t have a retort to throw immediately. It makes sense, though. You have been spiraling for days with no end, and no one has been able to break the circle of shit and self-loathing in where you are. Not Emily and her mandatory leave imposition, not Garcia’s encouraging daily voice messages, not JJ’s calls to check on you, and definitely not the therapy sessions.

Those damn therapy sessions.

The ones you adamantly encouraged Spencer to take back then, and he didn't want to. Now you kind of understand why.

“What’s your problem, pal? I’m not sinking. My therapist doesn't think I am,” you say in the most nonchalant way you can. A statement that tries to look as a triumph, as a truth.

“Is that so? Then you have to stop lying to your therapist,” Spencer argues—an obvious truth to him.

“Excuse me?”

“It's clear you’re not talking to her. Almost can hear you saying, ‘It’s fine, I’m fine, everything is fine.’”

You huff in disbelief.

“Bold of you coming here to lecture me about the things I may say or not about me, don’t you think?”

“Well, didn’t you stop to think that's precisely why I’m doing it? I have been there. I know damn well how it is to want people to stop asking questions and leave me alone. With the pain, with the guilt.”

You don’t respond because you know exactly what he is referring to. You knew ‘that’ Spencer. You were one of those people asking him questions. But it was different back then. Your relationship was different. You were his partner, his best friend. And he pushed you away. And now you’re doing the same these days with practically all the people around you.

It's funny because Spencer is the one who knows better what’s happening to you, but he has less right to call you out about it, too.

“What do you want me to say? Uh?” Your voice has a tint of defeat on it. And exhaustion, a lot of exhaustion. You got what you wanted: a fight. But now you feel drained. Apparently, now is when Spencer gets what he has wanted from you since the beginning.

“The truth. Even if it's not to me.”

You furiously rub your eyes with your palms, trying to ease the sting in your eyesockets. You’re tired. So tired.

Tired? No. You’re weak. And useless.

“It's nothing you don’t already know.”

This time, you are fighting yourself. You are fighting to keep everything inside.

Don’t let it out. Prove you have left some strength. It's your burden—no one else.

“Try me.”

No. No. Yours. No one else. Don’t make another mistake.

“Spencer, don’t- I don’t think-” You shake your head no, avoiding making eye contact. You don't trust yourself anymore.

Weak. You can’t even handle it by yourself without spilling, can you? What a waste.

“Don’t listen to it. Please.”

What?

“What?”

Your head snaps up to him, eyes wide in confusion. Can he hear ‘it’ the way you do?

“The voice. Don’t listen to it. Talk to me. Please.”

A mist clouds your vision. You feel stripped to nothing. The voice in your head keeps torturing you. Your heart is pounding faster as it wants to jump from your chest. Your hands are trembling, and your legs are about to give in.

And there you are again. Kneeling on that floor, holding the little girl’s bloody hand, her eyes pleading.

‘Come on. Squeeze my hand. Help is on the way.’

‘I don’t want to die.’

And you want her to live, but you know there is no chance for her. Neither for her family lying lifeless on the floor around her. What can you do? What can you possibly do?

“I didn't save her! I couldn't - I-”

Tears flow freely as you scream at the top of your lungs. Spencer is now on the floor with you, holding you. Arms around your body, swaying you both back and forth.

“It's okay. Let it out,” he mumbles in your hair, a hand rubbing your back.

“Why? Why she-?”

“I know. It's unfair.”

You cling to Spencer’s shirt for something to ground you. Your sobs fill the room. It's like a dam was broken, and now you can’t stop.

It's unclear how much time has passed. Spencer keeps rocking you in his arms, and your cries have subsided a bit.

“Hey, I need you to inhale and exhale, okay? Focus on that,” Spencer encourages, and then it’s when you realize your breathing is irregular and full of hiccups.

Your eyes are fixed on one of Spencer’s shirt buttons as you do what he says. Breathe in and breathe out. Every exhale is shaky, but you can feel how your contracted muscles relax, and you’re not shaking anymore.

“That’s it. You’re doing great.”

Now that you feel more like yourself again, your voice comes back.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see her. There. Pleading. And then I see my face on her, doing the same.”

It has been your awake nightmare for the past five days. You haven’t slept because of the fear of closing your eyes.

“You know you did what you could, right? There is no way we could have gotten there in time.”

“Why not? If we had delivered the profile an hour before. Or if I had called Garcia at the exact moment when I saw the pattern. Maybe if I had run faster.”

Spencer tightens the grip he has on you and kisses your temple.

“Unfortunately, we don't know what would have happened if all those ‘ifs’ had gone true, but I'm sure of one thing: she wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself like this, not when you were who held her hand at that moment.”

Spencer must be right, but why does it feel heavy on you nonetheless?

Taking a deep breath, you can say your body is more yours than twenty minutes ago. Your brain, though? Another story.

“Am I going insane? This is a sign telling me I’m not cut for this anymore?”

The question pretends to be rhetorical, but Spencer doesn't think it is.

“No. It's your defense mechanism against the lack of control: trying to make sense of something that is beyond you. Trying to gain some certain between incertains.”

It sounds pretty clinical for you, but it feels like hell.

“Was it different back then?” The words leave your mouth without thinking. You’re not trying to antagonize Spencer with what happened in the past anymore. It's for real curiosity. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. I know you’re trying to help,” you apologize.

Spencer rubs your arm soothingly.

“It's okay. Don’t apologize. And the answer is I don’t know. I have an idea this might be pretty similar to what occurred to me before things between us went to the trash, but I can’t tell exactly if what you are feeling right now is the same as I did.”

You have wondered a thousand times - before it happened to you - what could you have done to help him, but he never talked to you. It’s pretty much like you right now.

“Would it really help me if I talk about it?” There is incredulity floating in that question. Spencer nods.

“Definitely. It’s something you were right back then, and I didn’t understand until a long time since that.”

“Who should have known one of my advice would return to bite my ass.”

Spencer chuckles. There you are. The woman he knows.

“Come on. It's not a good idea to stay on the cold floor. Besides, you need to eat something and get some rest.”

After he stands up, Spencer helps you by taking your hands and gently pulling you up. Your legs still feel weak, but you're able to stabilize once on your feet.

“Thank you.” And you're not only talking about him helping to get up from the floor, literally.

He smiles at you. “You're welcome.”

You insist on going into the kitchen with him to help prepare something to eat, but Spencer won't let you.

"I'll take care of it. Go to sit on the couch. If you want to put on some music or TV, that's fine."

It's hard not to reminisce about those nights you both shared in each other's homes, whether it was preparing dinner or simply coexisting in the same place. It was undoubtedly one of the things you resented the most when you decided that breaking up was the only option you had left.

It wasn't without much searching when Spencer realized your fridge and pantry were empty. "Well, pizza delivery will have to do the trick this time," he announced, taking out his phone and dialing the place he knows you love.

“I’m sorry; besides the mess of this place, I don’t have any food left,” you sigh from your spot on the couch. Your body feels as heavy as your eyelids, but you still don't want to close your eyes.

“Don’t worry. We can do some shopping tomorrow. To stock up,” Spencer says absentmindedly when he’s searching for plates and cutlery. When you don’t reply he notices what he said.

“I mean, I can go to buy things and bring them here if you don’t want to go.”

Spencer thinks you could be uncomfortable with the idea of you and him doing things together, like if he’s trespassing a line.

Your silence isn’t exactly meant that way. It's more about the domesticity of the situation, although you know this is related to exceptional circumstances.

“It's okay. Either way, I need to stock up,” you say, brushing it off.

The pizza arrives, and you both settle on the couch to eat.

You now realize how hungry you were. You’re practically devouring the whole thing.

“Good?” Spencer asks, sipping his water.

“Embarrassingly good,” you admit. “I know I’m not a pleasant sight right now, but I guess that’s has been the pace since I opened the door.”

Spencer giggles, "There's nothing that food and a good night of sleep can’t improve.”

“I admire your positive approach. It's like listening to myself at other times,” you joke.

“Yeah. Weird coming from me, but I’m sure this time it fits,” he winks, making you huff a chuckle.

Spencer gets another bite of his slice and there is something at the tip of your tongue that you need to say.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?” He replies in a mid-mouthful. You sigh, changing your expression to one more serious.

“I know I said some hurtful things tonight. And I’m sorry. I took it against you, and it wasn’t fair.”

Spencer is still swallowing as he ruminates on your words.

“Please, don’t say that,” he decides. You arch an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

With no pizza on his plate, Spencer lets it on the coffee table as he shifts on his spot to get a better view of you.

“Look. I don’t want to sound self-centered or anything like that, but I should have approached a long time ago and not waited until now. I’m months overdue.”

You sip your drink, trying to make sense of what he just said, but you don’t want to overinterpret.

“I don’t think I follow, but it's okay if you don’t want to explain to me.”

Pushy is the last you want to be right now.

“I do think it's not the right moment to talk about some things. But I want you to know I want to help. Really help. Not that shit I gave you back then.”

The memory makes your stomach churn. Those were difficult times for everybody. Spencer was facing a major depression; you didn't know how to help him, and the team played like they didn't notice. Most of the weight fell on you, and you weren’t ready to be what Spencer needed. Neither Spencer knew what he needed at the time. It was chaos, fights, and tears.

“You were right all along, and the less I can do now, it's trying to help you to see on time what I didn’t.”

In your still vulnerable state, you try to gauge if there is a hint of deception in his words. Honestly, you don’t see any. But he’s right. It's not the moment to bring it in.

“Yeah. That could be a worms can we’re not ready to open.” Spencer nods.

“If it is okay with you, I would like to be here all steps in the way, as your friend, as someone who really cares. I don’t expect anything in return, I promise, just the chance to see you to get your life back again. A reminder of the great profiler you are and how the team is lucky to have you, even if you don’t think it’s true now.”

You’re tempted to ask why he is so adamant about that purpose. He says he cares, but you assume Emily, JJ, Garcia, and Rossi care too. What's the difference? You don’t think you’re ready for that answer. But having Spencer in your corner feels right and washes you with relief you didn't know you were craving so badly.

As you eat pizza while sitting on your couch, you think it's the most peaceful you've been in weeks, and you're truly grateful to Spencer for that. Perhaps being more persistent could have prevented the failure at the time. But who knows, maybe you'll have a new opportunity to do it differently this time and thus win back that person as important to your life as Spencer Reid.

Falling asleep in his arms on the couch that night could be the first step to building better foundations now.

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[aperrywilliams]

THIS!!!!!! ☝🏼

There’s something quietly, heartbreakingly tragic about Emily Prentiss—about the way she’s been yearning to be loved for her entire life, and doing it so quietly, so subtly, that some people might not even notice.

It started young, with the coldness of Elizabeth Prentiss, all polished diplomacy and razor-sharp expectations, offering nothing soft for Emily to fall back on. No warmth. No trust. Just pressure and passports and places that never quite felt like home. She was always the new girl. Always trying to prove herself. Always chasing something that looked like belonging.

And then she was fifteen and pregnant - not because she was reckless, but because she was desperate. Desperate to be wanted. To be liked. To feel anything real in a world that felt so far away from her. She couldn’t even tell her mother. Not about the boy, not about the pain, not about the choice she had to make. That’s where the loss began. Quiet, unspoken, already buried under years of pretending everything was fine.

And then it just.. keeps going, doesn’t it? This pattern of aching. Of reaching. Of being the one who loves harder. Wanting to adopt Carrie not just out of duty, but because she needed to prove to herself that she could love. That she had love to give. That she was more than her job and her trauma and her silence. She wanted to believe she was capable of being someone’s person. But how do you believe that when no one ever chooses you?

Sure, she’s liked. Respected. Admired, even. But she’s never been the one anyone picks when the room is full. She’s the one people lean on, but never the one they stay for. And she carries it all with so much quiet grace you almost forget how much it must hurt. The guilt over Declan, even when she did everything right. The way she watches families from a distance, eyes soft and sad like she’s looking at a life that was never meant for her. The way she looks at JJ sometimes, wishing she had what she has. Maybe it’s just Paget’s quiet acting but it’s there.

Don’t even get me started on that damn moment in Season 15 - Emily staring at the baby stroller by that coffee cart like she’s mourning something she never even got the chance again to have. That one second of vulnerability, of wondering what if—and we move on like nothing happend.

I get it. I really do. The writers want her to be this… symbol of strength, the woman who married her job, who doesn’t need a partner or a family to be whole. And I guess that’s fine! some people really do find joy in that life. But if that’s the road you want to take her down, then at least make it look like she’s okay. Like she’s content. Like she’s not carrying all this silent grief behind her eyes. Because right now? She just looks tired. Dude they even took her freaking cat!

She deserved so much more. She still does.

[aperrywilliams]

It was your request, now I remember! Glad you liked it!

Glowing (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: The team has been out on a case for about ten days now. You're not with them this time due to your 21st-week pregnancy and doctor's order not to go to the field, and you miss your husband, Spencer, like crazy. When they come back, Spencer can't stop looking at you and your recent baby bump. To say it makes him feral is an understatement, and he wants to show you how marvelous you are despite your insecurities about your changing body.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: SMUT/18+/MDNI. Spencer and Reader are horny AF. There is a lot of teasing, heated kissing, heavy making out, oral sex, PIV sex, and breeding kink (a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy). Reader has some insecurities about her body.

A/N: This idea was requested a while ago. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get it done. But here it is! Someone asked for horny!future!dad!Spencer? Well, you’re welcome.

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You can't say you are thrilled about staying in Virginia when all of your team is fighting crime on the other side of the country. Not when it has been ten days since they are gone. Not when you haven't seen your husband that long because he happens to work on the same team.

It's not that you had another option, though. Considering you are almost in your 21st week of pregnancy, your doctor advised you to take it slow on the job. That means being on the field miles away from home became a big no, and this time, you had to settle for nightly phone calls and daily texts with Spencer.

So it doesn't surprise anyone to see the happiness on your face when Hotch calls around midday, announcing that the case is over and they are flying home.

Penelope, always the joyful human being on Earth, immediately got on board with Rossi to host a gathering in his mansion once they were back tonight. Of course, Rossi agreed. Virtually no one can say no to Penelope.

"Okay, mama-genius," she says after ending the call with David. "We have a party tonight and a lot of things to do."

You may be worried about what 'a lot' can imply, but it is just a saying. Penelope will do most of it anyway, claiming you can't do any strenuous task so as not to bother baby-genius. Since the moment you and Spencer told the team about the baby's coming, Garcia baptized you all: papa-genius, mama-genius, and baby-genius. You find it the cutest thing in the world.

Walking through the supermarket aisles, you get everything you'll need: snacks, alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, and all the stuff. And with the cart full, Penelope sends you home to get ready.

"But Pen, you need help to set all this up."

"Don't worry, honey. I already have Anderson waiting for me at Rossi's. The benefits of having a spare key," she proudly says, dangling her keychain full of keys. "Now go! Go to get ready for your man. I know you have been missing him like crazy."

She is not wrong in the slightest, so you don't fight her. A bath sounds nice right now, and with all the pregnancy going on, you'll need the extra time to get ready.

-

Ten days have been torture for Spencer Reid. It's the longest he has been apart from you since you guys discovered you are pregnant. Sure, phone calls and texts help, but it's not enough. Not to the overprotective Spencer, anyway. It's not that he doesn't trust you; he does. But his mind always works in overdrive, and he worries more than he should. Not to mention, he has missed you like he hasn't seen you in months.

When Rossi tells the team the plans for the night once they arrive, Spencer is a bit disappointed. He would have preferred to go straight home to be with you. But when JJ assures him you will be there, his apprehensions change to anticipation.

The kind of anticipation that keeps him anxious until everyone arrives at Rossi's past 8 p.m. They were a little bit late for the estimated time, but the traffic was hell today.

A happy Penelope opens the door before Rossi can reach his key.

"Welcome home, mon amis."

"My home, you say?" the old man corrects, no real annoyance in his voice.

"Share is care, so our home is," Garcia retorts, effusively hugging every team member crossing the threshold. The last one is Spencer. "Your woman is waiting for you," she whispers to him after almost crushing him in her embrace.

Spencer practically runs to the living room, where you are greeting everyone. His eyes nearly can't give credit to what he sees. Of course, he knows how you look. He has known you for years and has memorized every detail of you: your height, the way your head leans when you're listening to someone, the color of your eyes, the way you smile, your expressive hands, and every curve of your body. But today? Something looks different, alluring, magnetic, and so entrancing.

His brain has a suitable explanation for it. Sure, when you haven't seen your partner in days, you tend to enhance every detail you love about them. 'Love hormones,' others would say. But no, this is more than psychology and chemistry.

Pregnancy has made changes in you. It was expected, and Spencer knows that, but reading it in a book is way different than seeing it for himself. Sure, there were the headaches and the morning sickness in the early stages. Adding the mood swings and fatigue. But nothing prepared him for the body changes. And not in the bad way people must think, all the opposite. To Spencer, pregnancy has made you the most sexy woman in the world. And after ten days of being deprived of those changes, to him, all come at once. Your breasts got bigger, and you definitely started to show more. The sundress you're wearing just enhances those details, and Spencer feels like he can faint right there.

When your eyes meet across the room, his breath hitches; those eyes he loves so much are glowing and chanting a spell Spencer won't escape from. Not that he wants to, anyway.

Shameless, you leave your conversation with Prentiss and Luke and run to your husband, throwing your arms around his neck.

"I missed you," you murmur into his neck. Spencer hugs you back and closes his eyes, relishing how good you smell and how good it is to have you in his arms again. "We missed you," you add.

The mention of your unborn child melts Spencer on the spot. "I missed you both, too," he manages to say, reluctantly parting from your embrace to look at you and get lost in your eyes again. "I love you," he whispers, leaning to capture your lips with his. And just like that, the anti-PDA, Spencer Reid, indulges himself in kissing you in front of everyone.

The teasing from the team around is only background noise, and neither Spencer nor you are very concerned about it. Not until you involuntarily tug his hair, and Spencer needs to do everything in his power to stop the groan threatening to escape his lips.

Parting and clearing your throats, you both try to regain composure. All the team's eyes are on you, but the only one who dares to point out the obvious is Rossi.

"I have a guest room upstairs, at the second door down the hall."

The comment causes the team to laugh and you to be mortified.

"Sorry," you both mumble, a deep shade of crimson adorning your cheeks. Grabbing your hand, Spencer pulls you to a corner. You're still in sight of the people but far enough to talk and not be listened to.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He points to your baby's belly. It's not an accusatory question, more like an excited one.

"I wanted it to be a surprise. I would have liked to be in a more private setting, but I wasn't going to miss being here and waiting for you at home to show you."

Spencer's hand rests over your now prominent belly and rubs soothing patterns there. "It's amazing," he admits. "How are you feeling?"

You let out a content sigh, feeling the warmth emanating from your husband's palm to your lower stomach.

"Much better now you're here."

"They haven't done much trouble, have they?"

"Nah. Behaves like an angel." And it's the truth. The second trimester has been much better than the previous one: no morning sickness, less fatigue, and it has been great.

There are other 'issues' though. The boost of energy has been paired with an increase in your libido that sometimes is very hard to control. The times Spencer is around, having sex can be enough, but with days passing and with the tenderness and care Spencer has been touching you, it's getting hard to satiate your most primal needs. You know he does it because he doesn't want to hurt you, but even if you have assured him you won't break, he hesitates nonetheless.

And now, after all these days without him, you are sure another touch from him, even the most innocent, will set your body on fire. You are sure this night will be excessively long.

Spencer's thoughts are not very different from yours. The moment he sees you in your sundress walking to him was enough to make his mind wander.

"OK, mister. Enough lovebirds' moment for now. The girls need their time, too." Without warning, Penelope grabs your hand to lead you to the group where Tara, Emily, and JJ are.

You can only shrug to Spencer as Penelope drags you from him. Spencer gives you a reassuring smile. It's fine; you are both adults, he reminds himself. How can it be so difficult to keep his hands to himself for a couple of hours?

Easier said than done, he'll realize.

Neither of you can't help the stolen glances across the room or the subtle smiles you share as you talk to the team at different spots in the house.

Spencer doesn't know if he can control himself much longer. You look stunning and tempting, and his mind starts to fill with unholy things he wants to do to you.

"Reid?" Luke's worried voice gets him out of his mental predicament.

"I - uh. I'm sorry, what did you say?" 

"Are you alright, man? You seem distracted."

If alright means extremely horny and with an incipient boner tightening his pants, then yes, he's more than alright.

"Yes. Yeah. Uh - I'll grab some water. Excuse me, I'll be right back."

The trip to the bathroom is quick and mildly effective: Splashing cold water on his face and reciting the Declaration of Independence in his mind, Spencer regains some composure and gets back to where the people—and you—are.

The night continues in the same way. It's not like you are openly teasing him, but Spencer can't help himself.

The last straw comes when you're in the backyard talking to JJ and Emily, and you're laughing so hard that your body jolts, making your breasts bounce a bit, exposing more of your cleavage. It's not that evident to anyone, but for Spencer, who has been gawking at you all night, it is clear as day.

He wants you, and he wants you now.

Spencer sets his glass of water on the table and strolls where you are. Giving JJ and Emily a tight-lip smile, he leans to whisper something in your ear. The girls can't hear what it is, but the flush in your cheeks should give them an idea.

"Yeah, it's kind of late. And yeah, I'm feeling a bit tired," you tell Spencer, now looking at the girls, not wanting to disclose what Spencer actually said.

"Sure, carrying a baby Reid must be exhausting," Emily teases, gaining a roll of eyes from Spencer.

"Go, guys. Don't worry; I think I'll leave soon, too," JJ says, and you nod gratefully to avoid making more uncomfortable the moment.

With a tight grip on your hand, Spencer walks with you to say goodbye to everybody. Then, no later than that, you hop on the Uber, already waiting outside Rossi's.

-

All the ride home, Spencer's hand rests firmly on your tigh. His eyes can't peel off of you. All of you. It's like he hasn't seen you in months and wants to memorize each feature. You look back at him with a mix of amusement and self-consciousness. The lust is all written on his gaze, but there is something more, too. Love, longing, reverence. It's like there isn't anything else in the world but you.

The thought only fuels how much you love him and, of course, how horny you feel. Is it hot in this car, or is that just your idea? Why is the ride taking longer than you would like? You're about to huff in protest when the vehicle stops at your destination. Thanks God!

Spencer never falters his grip on you all the time. You can feel him everywhere: on your hand as you take the stairs, on your lower back walking down the hall, on your shoulder when you fish the key in your purse.

As the door shuts behind you, Spencer's lips are on yours in an instant. Kissing you hard. Like he's a drowning man, and you are the air he needs.

"God, you don't know how hard it was to control myself," Spencer mumbles, now peppering wet kisses down your neck to your collarbone.

"Hard, uh? Well, I guess I have an idea," you say, palming him over his slacks, making him hiss.

"Don't tease me, please," Spencer growls between kisses as he walks you both through the apartment to your bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in your path.

"I'm not, baby. I promise I'm not. I'm as desperate as you are." You're not lying. Your body has been on fire the whole night. You want him as much as he wants you right now.

When your legs hit the bed, you're both only in your underwear.

Spencer breaks the kiss to look at you. The bedroom is only lit by the hallway lights. He reaches for the nightstand to switch the lamp on, but before he does, you stop him.

"Can we just-" You don't finish the sentence, but Spencer understands what you're asking for.

"Yeah. We can, of course. But what's wrong?"

It's not the first time you have sex with the room's lights off, but those times, neither of you has explicitly requested it. You usually don't have trouble with Spencer seeing you naked, but since you got pregnant and your body started to change, you don't feel sexy, and it is mining your confidence. Spencer's suspicion goes in that same direction.

"Nothing," you say, pulling him to kiss him again with the same passion as before. Spencer almost surrenders at your doing, but he stops.

"Hey," he whispers. "Talk to me."

You sit on the mattress, knowing you have to tell him what's bothering you. He sits by your side, patiently waiting for you to collect your thoughts and choose your words.

After some seconds of deliberation, it is you who switches the lamp on. Standing from the bed, you plant yourself in front of Spencer.

"What do you see?" you ask, with your hands on your hips.

Spencer's eyes rack your body from head to toe, especially double-taking your lower stomach, where your pregnant belly is. The answer is obvious to him.

"My perfect and sexy wife, standing almost naked in front of me, trying to kill me because I can't touch her yet."

You roll your eyes, huffing. "Spencer, be serious, please."

"I am! Baby, I don't know why you could think I'm not being honest with you."

There is a scold on the tip of your tongue, but you relent, changing it for a deep sigh.

"But look at me! These-" you say, eyes darting between your breast and the skin of your stomach. "There is no chance this is sexy. I'm bloated half of the time; my skin feels gross, and the stretch marks are more every day. And my tits! God, if I unhook my bra, they are going to fall to the floor!"

It's true, your body isn't the same as it was a couple of months ago, and it'll probably continue to change as the weeks go by, but for Spencer, that doesn't make you any less attractive or desirable—quite the opposite.

"Hey, look at me, please," Spencer asks in a soft voice. You do as he says, now feeling more exposed in front of him. Spencer notices and takes your hands to bring you closer to him.

"You know you're carrying a human being in your womb, right?" he asks, tracing soft patterns with his finger over the skin of your arms. "That makes your body not look or feel the way it usually does. But it's perfectly natural, and I'm sure you know that." Spencer stops to kiss your stomach. "What you don't seem to know is that every change makes you more perfect than you already are. Love, you are perfect for who you are, and your body is perfect because it's yours—stretch marks or not, breasts enlarged or not, swollen or not."

"You have to say that," you complain with an adorable pout, and Spencer chuckles.

“I have to say that because it's true. Did I lie to you before?” You shake your head no. “Exactly.”

He pulls you to him so you can sit on his lap. Your arms rest loosely around his neck. He looks up at you with only adoration in his eyes.

“Love. You look amazing. Gorgeous. And so so sexy. I have been craving to touch you all night, renegaded to only see you from afar. That's torture,” Spencer says, lips hovering over your jaw before trailing down loving kisses—the feel of his wet lips pushing your heart rate to go up.

“You don't know what you do to me, do you? All these days thinking about you, what it's like to have you in my arms, what it's like to be able to kiss you, to smell you.” Spencer says, his fingers dancing over the patch of exposed skin of your breasts still clad in your bra. His lips sucking on that special spot on your neck. You can't help the nasty moan that leaves your mouth.

His eyes search yours for permission when one of his hands rests on the clasp of your bra. You nod, and he unclasps it, revealing your full breasts to him. You swear you hear him whimper at the sight, just as you feel him twitch beneath your thighs.

“Fuck, darling. They are so perfect. So round, so full, so soft,” Spencer praises as his mouth latches to one of your nipples and, with one hand, squeezes the flesh of your other breast. “I couldn’t stop all night thinking about doing this. Claiming these perfect tits.”

“Spencer, fuck!” you moan when he sucks harder. “Yes!”

“So sensitive. These tits are all mine,” Spencer mumbles as he switches his mouth from one nipple to the other.

He keeps lapping, swirling his tongue, sucking. It's like he can't have enough of it. And you can feel it in your bones.

'Extasis' keeps it short to explain how you feel right now. Just with the use of his mouth, Spencer is already pushing you close to the edge. In the back of your mind, you can hear his voice explaining how nipple stimulation can produce orgasms. You didn't think it would be possible at the time, but now you're nearing experiencing it.

"Spence, please. Just -"

One of his hands travels south, leaving goosebumps in its wake until it reaches the waistband of your panties.

“Tell me what you need, baby. And I’ll give it to you.”

“I need you to touch me,” you mewl, your voice cracking with desire.

“Here?” Spencer teases, trailing feather touches across your inner thigh. His mouth marks your neck, his favorite spot on you.

“More. Please, don’t make beg,” you plead. Spencer’s smirk could tell he was not done with the teasing. But in all honesty, he doesn't know how much he can contain himself.

“My baby is desperate already. Let's see how much.” A hand sneaks under your panties, and the slick pooling there tells Spencer everything he needs to know.

“Fuck, you’re soaked. It’s all for me?” He cockily asks as his fingers tease your folds. You gasp at the contact of his fingers on you.

“For you only. Spencer, I’m yours. Always.”

“And I am yours. No matter what. I love you so much,” Spencer says, now claiming your mouth with a searing kiss. It's like he wants to devour you whole, beyond the physics laws, if it's possible.

You let yourself go, kissing him urgently, your fingers tangled in his hair, giving experimental tugs, which Spencer rewards with grunts of pleasure.

You don't realize when you start rocking on his lap, seeking more friction from his fingers.

Spencer continues his assault on your center, alternating the thrusting of his fingers in and out with rubbing against your clit.

"Oh, God!" You whine, not fully believing how good it feels.

“So good, my love. So so good,” Spencer chants. His free hand on your back, maneuvering to lay you down on the mattress without stopping his ministrations in your pussy, and latching his lips to the crook of your neck. The new position allows him to reach deeper inside you with his fingers, massaging that spongy spot that makes you see stars.

“Right there! Oh, please.” You are on the verge of falling, your body surrending to Spencer’s experimented touch. He knows your body better than you.

Your moans go straight to Spencer’s cock, twitching inside his boxers, rock-hard and screaming for attention, but he has a mission before ever thinking of his pleasure. He needs you to come on his fingers first.

“Are you going to come for me, baby?”

“Yes! I’m so - so close,” you cry.

“I can feel you clenching on my fingers. That's it. Let go, my love. Cum for me; let me feel you,” Spencer encourages, and it's the last push you need. Your vision goes white, and your body starts to shake. The coil snaps and flows your body with waves of pleasure.

“Fuck! Yes!” You cry as your orgasm travels through your body. “Spencer! Yes!”

Spencer doesn’t stop the in and out of his fingers, still rubbing your clit, at a slower pace, helping you to ride it out. His breath is hot on your neck, mumbling praises of how good you are, how much he has missed you, and how good you feel around his fingers.

When the aftershocks subside, Spencer carefully retracts his fingers, sucking them clean before passionately kissing you. You can taste yourself on his lips, fueling the desire to have more of him.

“I missed you,” you say, still breathless. Spencer lies on the mattress by your side, stroking your cheek.

“And I missed you. Both of you,” he says, now rubbing a hand over your belly. You let out a content sigh. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can just prepare to go to bed.”

Your head snaps up in an instant.

“Are you fucking kidding me? No! We’re not done, mister. We have a lot of days apart to make it up to.”

Spencer laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Start with those boxers. Get them off,” you command, kneeling on the mattress and suddenly feeling a rush of adrenaline. Spencer pulls his boxers down, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric. It's hard, red, and already leaking precum. And your mouth waters.

“Like the view?” He teases.

“Very,” you shamelessly reply, gawking at the way his cock twitches under your gaze. You position between his legs. He is at your level sight with his elbows on the mattress. You wrap a hand around his shaft, giving a light squeeze, as your other hand looks purchase on his thigh. Spencer hisses at the contact.

“Baby, you don’t have to,” he reminds you, knowing this position could be uncomfortable for you.

“Oh, yes, I have to,” you counter. “I have been thinking about sucking you off for weeks, Spencer. Weeks!”

Spencer laughs at your dramatics, but still, he reaches for your chin to tilt up so you can look at him.

“Just let me know if it's too much, and we can stop, okay?”

Did you mention before about how careful he has been treating you since you discovered you were pregnant? Yes, you did. And here is a reminder.

“Okay,” you reassure him, giving an experimental lick at the tip. The salty taste just encourages you to lick the underside, from base to tip and back and forth. Spencer’s moans are music for your ears. You lower yourself now, taking him in your mouth—inch by glorious inch.

There is something special about giving Spencer head, and it’s beyond the sexual component of pushing him to orgasm. It's about the way he surrenders to your touch, the way he is splayed over the bed at your mercy. The way he trusts you in such a vulnerable position. He doesn't rush you; he’s pliant at your pace because he knows you know how to pleasure him.

“Fuck!” he groans when you go deeper. “So good, baby. You take it so good.”

As him with yours, you relish on his praises. He never stops complimenting you and vocalizing the way you make him feel. Evidence of how much you like it is the pool of wetness forming in your center just hearing him moan and talk.

With renewed vigor, you keep bobbing your head up and down, swirling your tongue, and extracting the more nasty and sexy noises from Spencer’s lips.

“Just - just like that. You are doing amazing.” His hands rest over your head, but he doesn’t push or pull; he just grounds himself in the midst of the pleasure cloud he is in.

But when that knowing coil is forming on him, Spencer knows he needs you to stop, or he won’t last much.

Gently, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls you back. You understand the signal and release him with a pop.

“What is it? You don’t want to?” You ask, licking your lips full of fluids of both of you. Spencer is panting, shaking his head no.

“You were amazing, but I don’t want to cum yet. And I want to cum inside of you.” The admission makes the heat in your body rise.

His hand caresses lovingly your cheek as you’re sitting on your haunches on the mattress. Spencer sits with his back on the headboard, raking your entire naked body from head to toe. His eyes are full of adoration.

Leave it to Spencer to look at you like you were Afrodite's incarnation, even with your grown breasts and bloated body.

“What?” You ask, giggling out of nervousness. Years with him, and that piercing gaze still makes your heart flutter.

"Marvelous. So beautiful. The most gorgeous. Perfect.”

Before you can protest the overflowing compliments, Spencer's hands cup your face to pull you into a deep kiss. You kiss him back with urgency, straddling him. Spencer’s hands go to your waist to keep you in place, where you belong, on top of him. From that position, you can feel his cock twitching with want.

"Spencer-" you mumble in his lips, almost like a whisper.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he asks, focusing on how you start swaying your hips, making contact with his hardness, and settling him on fire.

“I need to ride you, now,” you plead, and Spencer can’t say no to you even if he tried.

“Then ride me. Take everything you need from me,” Spencer says, leaving the grasp of your hips so you can lift yourself to position his cock at your entrance. You start to sink and you both are gasping for air. It feels so good. You feel so full with every pull and push of your core into Spencer’s cock. It's a sensation that never gets old.

“That's it. You are doing so well. Take your time,” Spencer reminds you, but you have been craving him so much that you don’t have patience anymore. Spencer's hands come back to your hips, and yours rest on his shoulders for balance. With a last bounce, you’re full to the hilt.

“Fuck!” You hiss. The stretching is a mix of pain and pleasure that’s driving you insane. Spencer’s concerned eyes seek yours.

“You okay?” He asks, his gaze now raking your body, looking for something that can tell him about your discomfort.

“Yes! I’m okay—more than okay,” you assure him. Then you remember there is something he needs to know, something you need from him.

"Spencer, look at me," you demand, and he does what you ask.

"Yeah?" he pants, eyes mapping your face for any sign of what you want to say.

"I want something. Better said, I need something,” you pant, feeling already the urge to move.

"Okay, whatever you need. I'll give it to you."

"I need to feel you. All of you.” Spencer nods.

“You are feeling me now, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Spencer. I’m talking about being rough. I need it hard. Please, baby, don't hold back."

“Oh.” Realization hits him at the same time you clench around him. “Fuck. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Love, I promise you, you won’t break me.”

Spencer looks still hesitant.

“Please, don’t deprive me of you. I need to be consumed by you. I need to feel you everywhere; I need to be reminded I'm yours, and you're mine. Remind me you’re the only one who can have me like this. Remind me who put this baby in me.”

The way Spencer’s cock twitches inside of you and the groan escaping his lips is enough for you to know he got the memo.

His eyes darkened even more, and you could swear you saw a smirk on his face.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, do you?” he says, thrusting up so you can feel him deeper.

“Ah! Show me! Give me what you think I deserve, please,” you beg, and for Spencer is the last straw. With both hands on your hips, he starts to bounce you up and down. Your hands rest on his stomach as you try to catch a rhythm. It starts messy and frantic, and you can’t care less. You’re riding Spencer, and that's what matters.

“So tight. I don’t know how I can fit here. Feels amazing.” Spencer's voice is strained, breathless.

As you gain more control over your movements, the grinding intensifies. Every part of your body is on fire. The bounce of your breasts makes Spencer feral.

“These tits. Are mine. All mine,” Spencer chants, hands squeezing them. “You’re mine.”

Damn right, you think. You are his. Every part of you is his, in the same way you are claiming him as yours right now.

Not fully satisfied with touching, Spencer leans forward and captures one of your nipples with his mouth, one arm around your waist to help you as you keep riding him.

“Fuck! Spencer!” You cry when he sucks harder. Tugging his hair, you speed your rhythm, feeling the coil forming, a new orgasm approaching.

At some point your legs start to falter, the exertion making them cramp, but you don’t want to stop. Spencer notices, though.

“I’ve got you,” he says, maneuvering you on your back without pulling out. Now he’s on top, and your legs over his shoulders. “That’s better, uh?”

You nod eagerly. “But don’t stop, please.”

“I won’t.”

With this new angle, Spencer thrusts deeper and harder. It's all you have wanted for weeks. The sinful sound of skin hitting skin fills the room, and you can respire the smell of sweat and sex.

“Yes! Just like that!”

“Oh, so you wanted it harder, uh? My sweet, dirty thing,” Spencer coos, head nestled in the crook of your neck. You feel his hot breath, how he’s panting while giving you precise and deliberate thrusts, in and out, in and out.

“Spence, I’m close,” you warn, and Spencer doesn't halt his movements, leaning a bit back to look at you.

“Me too, baby.”

You are a sight to behold. Your messy hair, sweat sparkling on your skin, eyes full of lust, the moans leaving your lips, tits bouncing with every thrust, and that bump, where your baby is. Spencer still can’t believe it's real.

“You’re so gorgeous. You look so good, pregnant with my baby. Everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Yours, always,” you half-sob, half-moan. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you can feel it in your bones. Spencer knows exactly how to get you there. He’s almost there too.

“That’s what you want? That I keep you nice a knocked up all the time? Do you want my cum, don’t you?”

“Yes! All the time. Please.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you nice and full.” Spencer vows, kissing your calf and sneaking down his fingers to rub your clit in tight circles.

“Oh, God.”

You’re on the verge of falling. The wet sounds your bodies are making, the panting and moans, Spencer’s words, everything is pushing you to the edge.

“Come for me, come on my cock,” Spencer demands, and it is like your body has to comply because as the words leave his mouth, your orgasm hits you like a freight train.

“Fucking shit! Yes!” You scream, feeling your body trembling with pleasure. Spencer’s pace keeps, now chasing his own end.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, losing some rhythm. “So good for me.”

You can feel him twitching inside with each thrust as you clench your walls, still riding your high.

“Spencer, please. Cum inside. Fill me up, baby. I need it so bad,” you plead, and Spencer loses it. After a deep thrust, he grunts and stills inside, spilling everything he has. You feel his warmth filling you up, a content sigh leaving your lips.

For a few seconds, you both remain still, panting and trying to catch your breath. Spencer is the first to react. Not pulling out, he lowers your legs from his shoulders, massaging them gently while he peppers your neck with kisses. You giggle, still drunk of post-orgasmic hormones.

“You did so good, my love,” he praises. Your hands cup his face so he can look at you.

“I love you, Spencer. I missed you so much,” you declare as you lean in to kiss his lips. Spencer reciprocates immediately. This kiss is sweet, not rushed, but takes your breath away as all Spencer’s kisses do.

“I love you, too,” he mumbles on your lips. “And it was torture being away from you for so many days. But I’m here right now; I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good, because tonight I’m not done with you yet.”

With the whimper that escapes Spencer’s lips and the twitch of his cock still inside of you, it’s clear he knows exactly how the night will go from here.

------------------

[aperrywilliams]

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 6

Summary: Spencer’s rainchecks start piling up, forcing him to finally come clean about his job. When Y/N learns the truth, she realizes her feelings might run deeper than she ever meant them to. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: subtle control/anxiety behaviors (Spencer trying to over-manage his environment), mentions of Spencer's trauma (drug addiction, kidnapping, prison, etc.) Word Count: 7.8k

Series Masterlist

It was late when I got home.

I had just come back from a case, the second one in less than two weeks, and I was starting to lose track of time in the worst way — in that bone-tired, half-awake kind of way where days blur together and guilt settles in between the cracks.

I still hadn’t told her about my job. And I’m starting to realize I can’t keep hiding it... at least not If I want to keep seeing her. Lately, every excuse I offered felt like stitching lies into a tapestry that was already unraveling. I know I’ll have to tell her soon.

Because these rain-checks are becoming too frequent. Too many "next times." Too many "maybe this weekend" texts that never happen. And I’m scared she’ll think it means I don’t care.

Maybe I’m just overthinking. Probably. I tend to do that.

Still, she texts me. Every day. Even when I’m late. Even when I’m distant. Even when I don’t deserve it. I hate cellphones, I always have, but with her… I check for the messages. I look forward to them. It’s easier than I thought it would be—talking to her.

Especially at night. Once Maddie’s asleep, she calls sometimes. And I’ll just listen. Sometimes I interrupt with facts about whatever she’s saying, and she always laughs like she actually enjoys it.

The truth is, I don’t always call her because I have something to say. Most of the time, I just want to hear her voice. It’s soft. Steady. Like a kind of calm I haven’t known in years.

And lately… I think I miss her more than I’m willing to admit. Even when we’re talking, even when I’m listening. There’s still this ache. Like I want to be closer — but I don’t know how to ask for that.

I thought about what I was going to say three times before I even sent the message. First, when I pulled into the driveway. Again, while unlocking the door. And once more while boiling water for a cup of tea I wasn’t even sure I wanted.

The apartment was quiet — sterile, in a way that used to feel safe. Predictable. But tonight, it just felt cold. Like a room waiting for someone to come home. Like I’d built my whole life to avoid needing anyone… and now, I’m not sure I want that anymore.

I stared at the phone in my hand for too long. Typed, deleted, retyped.

Spencer: Still up?

I sent it before I could think better of it. Followed by another message, quickly, before the silence could start to stretch.

Spencer: I was wondering if you and Maddie might want to come over tomorrow. Just a quiet night. Tea?

I wasn’t expecting her to reply, after all, it was pretty late… but she replied just a couple minutes later.

Y/n: Tea?

Spencer: What’s wrong with tea?

Y/n: nothing

Y/n: just didn’t expect you to drink tea, since you practically breathe sugared coffee.

Spencer: well, I like tea.

Y/n: Maddie’s going to be giddy at the thought of a tea party with you. She’ll even dress up as a princess.

Spencer: Can’t wait.

And I meant it.

I didn’t know what it was exactly — the tea, the quiet, the way Maddie lights up over the smallest things — but something about tomorrow felt… right. Like a step forward, even if I wasn’t sure what direction I was heading.

I stared at our messages for a little while longer. Thought about saying something else. Typing something like I missed you or I’m glad you said yes. But the words stuck in my throat, even in text. Too much. Too soon.

Instead, I set the phone down on the counter and poured the hot water over the tea bag. Chamomile. Mostly because it was the first box I grabbed, not because I liked it. I didn’t even sit down. Just stood there at the counter with the mug in my hand, thinking.

This apartment used to feel like enough. Quiet. Controlled. Predictable.

But lately… it’s just been quiet.

And tonight, for the first time, that didn’t feel like peace. It felt like absence.

I thought about Maddie’s laugh. The way she held onto my sweater like it was the treasure chest at the end of the rainbow. The way Y/n looked at me when I told Maddie that she could keep it.

Maybe tomorrow won’t be anything big. Just tea. Maybe another book reading and some crayons. But that already sounds better than most of my good days.

So yeah.

Can’t wait.

And for once, I meant every word.

Really.

I took a couple sips of my tea before I got too antsy. The kind of stillness that makes you itch — not on your skin, but somewhere deeper, like your thoughts are pacing even if your body’s not.

I put on a CD JJ gave me for my birthday. She said I needed to listen to music made after the invention of indoor plumbing. Her words, not mine. Mostly soft vocals, acoustic stuff. She never picked anything too loud, since she knew I wouldn’t like it.

With that in the background, I started moving. I’d love to say it happened without thinking — some subconscious, effortless burst of inspiration — but that would be a lie.

I was thinking the entire time.

I cleaned. Really cleaned. Not just wiping things down, but checking every corner, every cabinet, every drawer. Anything Maddie could bump into, pull down, swallow, trip over. Gone. I vacuumed. I scrubbed the baseboards. I reorganized the bookshelf she might wander near just in case she wanted something to look at.

After that, I started prepping.

I pulled my softest blankets out of storage. Had to wash them since they smelled like dust and disuse. While they tumbled in the dryer, I set up the old DVD player I’ve had since 2013. The one I’ve been meaning to reconnect but never actually did. I tested it three times, made sure the cables were secure. Gathered every kid-friendly DVD I owned — Finding Nemo, Princess and The Frog, Wall-E — and stacked them neatly on top.

Then came the books. Every children’s book I’ve collected over the years, mostly out of nostalgia or habit, I laid them out across the coffee table like a tiny library. I arranged them by age range, then switched it to color, then finally just left them in a casual pile like I hadn’t overthought it.

And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

So I went online, typed “free printable coloring pages” into three different websites and spent way too long picking the ones I thought she’d like. Dinosaurs, stars, flowers, a couple princesses. I printed them all. Stapled some into makeshift booklets, spread others out on the table beside a brand-new box of crayons I didn’t even remember buying.

I think I just wanted everything to be perfect.

Or if not perfect, then at least… easy. Inviting. Safe.

Like a place she might want to come back to.

Like a place they both could.

By the time I finished, I collapsed on the couch and passed out.

I didn’t even try to make it to my bed — I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to. My legs felt like concrete. My brain was still buzzing, like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the body was done for the night.

There was a stack of coloring pages on the table, a half-folded blanket at my feet, and a faint hum of JJ’s music still drifting through the room.

I don’t know exactly what time I’d fallen asleep, or how long I was out — the last thing I remember was staring at the ceiling and wondering if I’d overdone it. If the tea party setup was too much. If the crayons were the wrong brand.

But I woke up to the sound of a phone call.

Muffled, insistent.

My ringtone — the default one I never bothered to change — echoed from somewhere under a blanket or cushion. It took me a second to even realize where I was. My neck ached from the angle, my arm was completely numb, and there was a colored pencil jabbed under my ribs like it had lodged itself there while I slept.

I groaned as I sat up, blinking against the morning light filtering through the curtains. My apartment looked… full. Not messy, just lived-in. Like I’d been preparing for something real.

Because I had.

The phone rang again.

I dug it out from between the couch cushions, squinting at the screen.

Y/n.

I sat up straighter right away. Ran a hand through my hair like it might help. Cleared my throat before I even answered — like that’d somehow cover the fact I’d just woken up face-first on the couch.

“Hello?”

My voice came out rough. Lower than usual. Tired.

There was a pause. Then, soft — cautious:

“Did I wake you?”

Her tone was gentle, the kind she used when she wasn’t sure if she was crossing a line.

“Yeah— I mean, kind of. It’s okay. I fell asleep on the couch.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “Sorry… I just figured you’d be up, since It’s already two.”

Two? Had I really slept that long?

“Normally I’m an early riser,” I mumbled, dragging a hand down my face. “Last night just… got away from me.”

“Yeah, sounds like it.” A pause. “You kind of sound like you were hit by a truck.”

“Do I?”

“Not really,” she said, teasing. “Maybe just... bumped by one of those tiny grocery carts Maddie insists on using.”

I huffed out a laugh, soft. “Noted.”

There was a quiet beat on the line. Then: “She’s really excited to see you. What time should we come by?”

I glanced around at the apartment — the blanket pile, the stack of DVDs, the basket of books.

“Um… does five work?”

“Five’s perfect.”

Three hours. I had three hours to make sure everything was perfect.

The movies were ready. The books, the coloring pages, the blankets — all set. But then it hit me.

Snacks.

How on earth was I supposed to host a tea party without anything to serve with the tea?

Oh god.

I can’t bake. I can barely cook. What was I thinking?

Think. Think… Why is thinking so hard right now?

Bakery. Right — there’s that bakery three blocks down. I could speed-walk, grab a box of sweets, and still make it back in time to shower, change, and pretend I didn’t panic over tiny pastries like this was a high-stakes diplomatic meeting.

Which, honestly… it kind of was.

The walk to the bakery felt longer than it should’ve.

Maybe it was the way my heart kept picking up speed, like it thought I was late even though I wasn’t. Maybe it was the fact that every step felt like more than just errand-running — like I was collecting evidence. Proof that I was trying. That I could do this. That I deserved this.

Three blocks. Cool air. The CD JJ gave me still playing in my head like a ghost track. I focused on the rhythm of my footsteps, the sound of traffic, the giant list forming in my head. something sweet, something soft, something Maddie would like.

Inside, the bakery smelled like comfort. Like powdered sugar and nostalgia.

I hovered near the glass display, overwhelmed in the worst way. There were too many choices, none of them labeled in a way that made sense to someone who once used a Bunsen burner to toast bread.

Scones. Mini cupcakes. Some tiny lavender shortbread thing that looked delicate enough to shatter just by looking at it.

There were people behind me. Probably normal people with normal lives who bought pastries for brunch or book club. I was buying cookies for a four-year-old tea party and trying not to cry over whether or not a macaron was too fancy.

God, I was spiraling again.

The girl behind the counter smiled at me, patient.

“Can I help you?”

I blinked. Nodded.

“Yeah, sorry. I… need a few things for a tea party. For a little girl. Something fun. Not too sweet. Not too crumbly. And, uh… I think that’s it.”

She smiled like she understood more than she let on.

Fifteen minutes later, I walked out with a small box tied in ribbon. Cookies shaped like stars. A few flower-shaped jam tarts. Something with sprinkles.

It felt like more than enough. And also, somehow, not nearly enough.

I clutched the box like it was fragile — not the pastries, but the meaning inside them. The attempt. The hope. The silent, ridiculous prayer that this time, I wouldn’t mess it up.

That they’d walk through my front door and feel… wanted.

Because they were.

They really, really were.

The walk back felt lighter somehow.

Like the tension had shifted from panic to purpose. Like maybe—just maybe—I’d done something right.

The box swung gently in my hand, and I kept glancing down at it like it might disappear. Like it might vanish if I let myself believe, even for a second, that things were going well.

It’s funny, how something so small can hold so much. Sugar and flour and careful shapes… and yet it felt like I was carrying a question I didn’t know how to ask.

Will this be enough?

Will I be enough?

By the time I got back to the apartment, I had and hour and a half to spare. I timed it. I don’t know why.

Maybe because part of me still couldn’t believe they were actually coming. That this wasn’t a dream or a passing moment I’d overreacted. That she’d said yes. That Maddie would be in my living room. That they’d be sitting on the blanket I’d laid out and holding the mugs I washed twice even though they were already clean.

Maybe this moment wouldn’t mean as much to her.

But to me?

It meant everything.

Letting them into my space — the one place I’ve always kept closed off, always kept safe, always kept mine — wasn’t just about tea and cookies and coloring books. It was about letting the walls down. The ones I built around myself years ago and forgot how to open.

And now, I was welcoming them inside.

I set the pastries carefully on the counter. Adjusted them. Re-adjusted them. Stepped back like I was curating an exhibit instead of just… trying to show I cared.

Then I went to shower.

Not because I was dirty, but because I needed to rinse off the version of myself that still didn’t think I deserved this. The version that kept whispering all the ways I might ruin it. The one that tried to sabotage anything good before it could get too close.

Getting ready didn’t take long.

I slipped on a lilac button-up — simple, soft, something Garcia once said brought out my eyes. I tried to do something with my hair, but no matter what I did, it still settled into the same stubborn mess of curls. I left it. Figured it was better to look a little undone than make it worse.

Everything was in place. Blankets folded. Tea prepped. Pastries arranged. I moved to the living room and tried to calm myself with a book, but it didn’t work. I kept rereading the same sentence.

The clock ticked. I had an hour and a half.

Too much time.

Time to overthink everything all over again. I started picking it apart — the cookie display, the angle of the throw pillows, whether the coloring pages were too juvenile, whether the air smelled too much like cleaning spray. Whether Maddie would notice.

Whether Y/N would.

But before I could spiral too far, a knock echoed at the door — light, followed by a little giggle.

I froze.

Shit.

They’re early.

They’re here.

And my place isn’t perfect. It’s not perfect and I should’ve— God.

“Spencer?” Y/N’s voice, warm through the door. “It’s Y/N.”

“And Maddie!” a tiny voice chimed in.

My breath caught.

Before I could overthink it, before I could second-guess how I looked or whether the apartment was warm enough or if I’d left too many lights on—

I opened the door.

“Spencer!”

Maddie was already mid-bounce, her little hands outstretched, and within seconds, she flung herself at me like I was gravity.

I barely had time to react before her arms wrapped around my leg, face pressed into my knee.

“I missed you,” she mumbled, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I crouched down so she could actually hug me — not just my leg — and the moment I did, she threw her arms around my neck without hesitation.

My hands moved instinctively — one around her back, the other gently smoothing down her hair. I held her close, careful, grounding myself in the weight of her. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and sidewalk chalk.

And for a moment, I forgot every single thing I’d been worried about.

Behind her, Y/N stood with a gentle smile tugging at her lips, one hand tucked into the pocket of her coat, the other holding a small bag of extra things. She chuckled softly, amused — and maybe a little charmed.

“Correction,” she said with a tilt of her head. “We missed you.”

She missed me.

Not just politeness. Not just convenience. She actually missed me.

“I missed you too,” I said, still stunned, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

I looked at her — really looked — standing in my doorway like she belonged there. Like this was normal. Like it was safe.

And there I was, still crouched, still holding this tiny human who clung to me like she’d always belonged in my arms.

Then Y/N’s voice broke through the quiet, full of warmth and something almost teasing.

“Whoa… Maddie, look. Spencer got everything ready for your tea party.”

At that, Maddie finally let go. She turned around and gasped — a genuine, delighted little intake of breath like she’d just stepped into a fairytale.

She marched past me with purpose, little feet pattering across the floor as she took it all in — the coloring pages spread neatly across the coffee table along with the children’s books, the stack of DVDs beside the television, the neatly folded blankets, the tiny pastries still in their ribbon-tied box.

And at the center of it all: the tea set.

She beamed like it was Christmas morning. “This is going to be the best tea party ever!” she declared, spinning back toward me with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Mommy’s going to be the princess,” she announced proudly, “and you’re going to be the prince!”

“Honey—” Y/N started, clearly embarrassed, her voice hitching on a quiet laugh as she gave me an apologetic look.

But I shook my head gently, smiling before she could say anything else.

“And who would you be, Maddie?” I asked, not to redirect — but to protect it. The moment. Her story. Her joy.

Because honestly… it did feel like a fairytale.

My apartment, usually so sterile and still, was suddenly alive — filled with soft laughter, crayon-scattered color, and the warm scent of jam tarts. And across the room were the only two people who’d ever made it feel like more than a place I went to be alone — one already wearing a crooked plastic crown, the other still standing in the doorway like she didn’t know she’d just rewritten the ending of something I never thought could change.

If this was a fairytale tea party… then they were my princesses.

“I’m going to be a fairy!” Maddie declared, bouncing in place, hands thrown in the air with the kind of certainty only a four-year-old can manage.

“Obviously,” Y/N murmured, biting back a smile as she finally stepped fully inside.

And just like that, the door closed behind them.

“Why don’t you go set up the table, oh magical fairy?” Y/N suggested, kneeling to unzip the small bag she’d brought.

Maddie, still beaming, gave a dramatic curtsy before darting toward the living room setup, completely immersed in her new royal duties.

Y/N straightened up slowly, then turned to me — eyes warm, but lingering with something quieter behind them. Something almost hesitant.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said softly.

I shrugged, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “I wanted to.”

Her gaze drifted up, scanning my face.

“You look tired,” she murmured.

I was. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones — the result of overthinking, overpreparing, and barely catching three hours of sleep on the couch. She could probably see it in the way the shadows under my eyes had darkened, in the way my shoulders didn’t quite settle.

But somehow, standing in front of her — here, in this small moment — it didn’t bother me.

“Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “I just had a rough night.”

Her eyes didn’t leave mine.

“You know,” she said gently, “we’re both more than happy just hanging out with you.”

Not for the tea party. Not for the magic tricks. Not for the stack of DVDs, the coloring books, or the box of pastries.

Just… me.

It caught me off guard — how easily she said it. How casually she handed me that kind of reassurance, like it was obvious. Like it had never even been a question.

I swallowed.

“I guess I just wanted you to feel like you’re not a guest… like you’re at home here,”

She looked at me then — really looked — and something shifted in her eyes. Not wide-eyed or surprised. Just soft. Certain.

“You don’t have to baby-proof your entire apartment for us to feel at home, Spence,” she said. “We already feel at home with you.”

And just like that, I forgot what it was I was even nervous about.

Because that? That was everything.

I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but before I could find the words, a small voice rang out from the living room:

“Table’s ready!”

There was a loud clatter of plastic and the unmistakable sound of a child dragging something across hardwood floors.

Y/N turned toward the sound, smiling to herself like it was a reflex. Like her body was hardwired to respond to that voice with warmth.

“We’ve been summoned,” she said, eyes flicking back to mine.

I nodded, still a little dazed. “Wouldn’t want to keep the fairy queen waiting.”

We walked into the living room together, and I swear — I’d spent hours preparing it, arranging every detail, but seeing her there, Maddie sitting cross-legged on the floor in a swirl of tulle and sparkles, somehow made it all feel brand new.

She had arranged everything. Plastic teacups carefully placed in a triangle, with napkins folded beside each one — uneven and slightly wrinkled, but deliberate. A stack of coloring books sat like menus in the center of the table, and my DVD pile had been repurposed into some kind of throne. She was clearly very proud of that part.

“Spencer, you sit here!” she exclaimed dramatically, pointing toward our spots. “Mommy next to me, and me in the middle cause i’m the fairy queen!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Y/N said with a mock curtsy, lowering herself beside her daughter.

I followed, settling onto the blanket across from them. Maddie began pouring invisible tea into each tiny cup with absolute seriousness.

“This one’s lemon,” she said, handing mine to me. “Yours has sparkles.”

“Perfect,” I said, taking it with both hands. “That’s exactly how I like it.”

Y/N glanced at me, trying to suppress a grin. “He’s very particular about his sparkle ratio.”

“Oh,” Maddie replied solemnly. “This one’s extra sparkly.”

I pretended to sip it and made a face. “Wow. That is very sparkly.”

Maddie beamed. “You’re welcome.”

She then offered a cookie from the pastry box — one of the star-shaped ones I’d spent too long choosing — and placed it on a napkin in front of each of us like she was hosting a diplomatic summit.

“You guys have to talk,” she instructed, crossing her arms. “That’s what people do at tea parties.”

I blinked. “Talk about… what?”

“Feelings,” she said seriously.

Y/N laughed. “Oh, we’re in trouble.”

But Maddie didn’t flinch. “It’s the rules.”

So I looked across the table — at the little girl in a too-big tutu with frosting on her chin, and at the woman beside her who made my apartment feel like it had finally exhaled — and I said the only thing I could think of

“Speaking of feelings… did you know the brain releases the same chemicals when you’re in love as it does when you eat chocolate or go skydiving?”

Maddie’s eyes went wide. “Even chocolate?”

I nodded solemnly. “Even chocolate.”

Across from me, Y/N tilted her head, smiling like she already knew I was dodging something.

“So what you’re saying,” she said, “is that love feels like dessert and imminent death?”

I pretended to think it over, cradling my tiny plastic cup like it was fine china. “Biochemically speaking… yes. Dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline. It’s a hormonal free-for-all. Your brain’s basically throwing a party and hoping you don’t notice you’re completely unprepared.”

Maddie giggled, crumbs on her cheeks. “I think I’m in love with cupcakes.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “Cupcakes don’t lie.”

Y/N laughed quietly beside her — the kind of laugh that doesn’t fill a room, but settles into it. Gentle. Familiar.

Then she looked at me, eyes warm, playful — and something else, something softer underneath.

“And you?” she asked, her voice almost teasing. “Is your brain throwing a party too?”

I blinked.

The question was light, easy — a sugar-coated inquiry, but it landed heavy. Not because I didn’t know the answer. But because I did.

I thought about the way my heart had stuttered when they knocked on the door. The way my apartment didn’t feel like mine anymore, not really — not in the presence of glitter crowns and bare feet and soft voices calling me by name. It was the first time they’d ever been here, and yet somehow it didn’t feel like a visit. It felt like they’d always belonged. I thought about how nothing in this room was perfect, and yet everything felt exactly right.

Yes. My brain was absolutely throwing a party — one lit by Maddie’s tiny, tinkling giggles and the quiet hum of Y/N’s soft-spoken voice. A party that didn’t need confetti or music or anything at all, really. Just them.

I smiled, lifted my cup in a quiet toast.

“Well,” I said, “I did have two cookies. So… probably.”

She held my gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between us. And then she smiled too, like she was letting me get away with it — just for now.

The evening passed quickly. Maddie begged to let her eat the entire cookie box, and after some convincing from both her and Spencer — mostly Spencer, with that big-eyed, overly logical persuasion tactic I’ve never seen win a debate until now — I let her have two more.

I was sure I’d regret it. I pictured her bouncing off the walls, breaking something expensive, smearing frosting into Spencer’s bookshelves while he tried to pretend he wasn’t panicking.

But I was wrong.

About an hour later, as the sky outside started fading into that deep indigo blue, she was curled up on a blanket on the floor — crown slipping off her head, one hand still loosely holding a crayon, the other tucked under her cheek.

Out cold.

Which left us — me and Spencer — alone again.

The lights were dim. The tea cups still sat on the table, slightly askew, and the remnants of coloring pages were scattered across the rug like confetti after a quiet celebration. There was a stillness in the apartment now, but not an empty one. More like… the kind that lingers after laughter.

I looked over at him, sitting across from me, knees drawn in like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the sudden quiet.

He met my gaze for a second — just a flicker — before looking down at the now-cold cup in his hands.

“Pretty sure you’ve been promoted to honorary tea party host for life,” I said softly, because it felt like the kind of night where anything louder might break the calm we’d settled into.

He smiled. “I’m honored.”

“No, really,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “She really trusts you… I don’t know how you managed it, since it’s not something she does easily. But ever since that day in the library— I swear, she never, ever stops talking about you.”

“She doesn’t trust easily?”

“It’s not that,” I said, pausing, trying to find the right words. “I mean—kind of. It’s more that… it’s always been just the two of us. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we really love routine.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I swear, the first time I took her to kindergarten, she was so excited. She had her little backpack on, and she kept telling me she was gonna make so many friends.” I smiled faintly at the memory. “But the moment we got there and I started to leave… she panicked. She just—she bawled. Loud, messy, heartbreaking sobs. I had to carry her out and bring her home with me.”

I glanced down at Maddie’s sleeping form on the blanket — peaceful now, tucked under one of Spencer’s blankets like she belonged there.

“She doesn’t let go of people easily. And she really doesn’t let people in.”

When I looked back up, he was still watching me — quiet, open, listening in that way only he could. Like every word I said mattered.

“She sounds a lot like me,” he said. His smile faltered at the edges, flickering for just a second — and then, just as quickly, it came back, softer this time. Braver, maybe.

“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already had some idea.

He sighed, and I saw it — the tiny tremble in his hands, the way his thumb rubbed anxiously against his palm. Like saying it out loud might cost him something.

“Well… it’s just, a lot of people in my life have left,” he said quietly. “And I guess as a result, I find it difficult to let new people in.”

His voice was even, but the hurt sat just underneath — not dramatic, not even raw. Just worn-in. Familiar.

I reached for his hands, holding them in mine.

They were colder than I expected. Just slightly. Tense, like they hadn’t realized they were allowed to rest.

I couldn’t bear the tremble, the evidence of his hurt, and I just wanted to make it go away — not with words, but with warmth. Something steady. Something quiet.

He looked down at our hands like he couldn’t believe they were real. Like he wasn’t used to being reached for.

“How did we get in?”

The question wasn’t about Maddie or me, not really. It was about him — about the walls he kept up so carefully, and what it meant that he’d let us through.

He stared at our joined hands for a long moment. Then he exhaled, slow.

“I think I tried to keep you at more of an arm’s length,” he said. “But Maddie didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

His voice was quiet, but not bitter. Just honest. Like it was something he’d been carrying for a long time, and only now realized he could set down.

I smiled — not because it was funny, but because it was true. Maddie hadn’t given him a choice. Neither had I, in the end.

“Well, I think you didn’t actually want us at arm’s length…” I said, tilting my head, letting just the faintest smile pull at my lips.

He looked up, almost startled by the shift in tone. I raised an eyebrow, just enough to make it feel like a dare.

“I mean, you tried,” I went on, lightly. “You gave it a valiant effort. All those deflections. The awkward goodbyes. The book recommendations as emotional currency…”

That earned a soft laugh from him — a real one, just a breath under his breath.

“But then you started texting me back,” I said, mock-serious now, “first. You asked how Maddie was sleeping. You bought a whole box of crayons just because she said she liked pink… your arm was never that long to begin with.”

His eyes softened — the kind of look people give you when they don’t quite know how to say thank you without it coming out like something else.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t have to.

Because the hand still holding mine didn’t let go.

“You’d think that… but there’s so much about me that you don’t know.”

His voice wasn’t defensive. Just honest. Like he wasn’t trying to push me away — just warning me, in case I hadn’t realized what I was reaching for.

I watched him for a moment. His lashes low. Shoulders tense, even if his hand stayed curled around mine like he couldn’t quite let go of the contact, even if part of him wanted to.

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know either,” I said gently.

He didn’t look up, but I saw the small twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he wasn’t used to being met halfway.

He nodded, just once, and whispered so softly I barely caught it:

“I don’t want to scare you away.”

“You won’t.”

I said it before I could overthink it. Because I meant it. Because I wanted him to believe it — maybe even more than he wanted to say it out loud.

And for the first time that night, he looked like he almost did.

“You say that…” he murmured, gaze drifting to a spot somewhere over my shoulder, “but trust me… it’s darker than you’d think.”

His voice had shifted — not cold, but cautious. Like he was standing at the edge of something with no guarantee I’d follow.

So I leaned in, just enough for him to feel it — the closeness, the choice, the steadiness.

“Try me.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. Just two syllables — quiet, but sure. Like a match struck in a dark room.

He looked at me then, really looked. Eyes searching, like he was trying to find the limits of my patience, my empathy, my staying power. Like he didn’t believe they could stretch that far — but maybe, just maybe, he wanted to.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then he exhaled, and I watched something subtle shift in his posture. The tiniest crack in the wall.

“You’ve asked about my job several times now, and I have always deflected because, like I said, I didn’t want to scare you away… but it’s getting harder to keep hiding this from you. I need you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

My heart skipped.

Okay. Deep breath.

Was he about to tell me he was… what? A hitman? A spy? Secretly part of some underground black-ops program where he erases people for a living? Because that was definitely the tone of voice he was using — the slow, serious, this-will-change-everything voice.

I didn’t say any of that, of course.

Outwardly, I nodded, calm and open and collected. Inwardly? Full FBI case file unraveling.

He still hadn’t let go of my hand.

Still hadn’t looked away.

“I work for the FBI,” he said finally. “I’m a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We track violent criminals — serial offenders. People who do unspeakable things.”

I exhaled, the tightness in my chest releasing all at once.

“You’re a fed?” I asked, blinking.

He winced like I’d just accused him of something deeply uncool. “I mean—technically, yes. But that’s not usually how I lead with it.”

“No, yeah, sorry,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s just… you were so dramatic about it. I thought you were gonna tell me you were part of some secret assassin ring or that you had, like, bodies buried under the floorboards.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly, chuckling at the accusation. “I’m not a hitman.”

“Good to know.”

He ran a hand through his hair — a nervous habit by now — and let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “It’s just… I can’t put to words how dark this job is.”

“What do you mean? You catch bad people, that’s sick. Maddie’s gonna think you’re an actual superhero.”

He smiled at that — small, fleeting — but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I wish that’s all it was,” he said. “But it’s not just the catching. It’s the seeing. The knowing. The walking into rooms that don’t feel like rooms anymore because of what happened inside them. It’s memorizing the way grief folds a mother in half when she realizes her kid isn’t coming home.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Barely. Just enough for me to feel it.

“It’s carrying that home,” he added, softer now. “Even when you try not to.”

My heart sank a little, but I didn’t pull away. I squeezed his hand instead.

“You don’t have to protect me from that, you know,” I said quietly. “I mean, I get it — not all of it, but some. Life doesn’t let you come out untouched. But it doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone.”

His eyes met mine again. Like he was still waiting to wake up from this — from someone staying.

“A lot of things have happened to me in that job, Y/N…” he said, and something in his voice shifted — lower, almost like he didn’t trust it not to break. “I’m not going to involve you in any of them, but I do feel like you should know… and then you can decide if… if this is worth it.”

There it was again — the offer to leave. Not angry. Not manipulative. Just honest. And scared.

Like somewhere deep down, he’d already convinced himself I’d say no.

I didn’t rush to respond. I looked at him.

Really looked.

At the soft curve of his mouth when he wasn’t trying to guard it. At the lines near his eyes — not from age, but from squinting at too many details, reading too much between the lines. At the way his shoulders tensed, like he was bracing for impact.

And then I spoke.

“I already decided,” I said.

Just that.

Because I had.

I decided when he sat with Maddie in the library and made her laugh with nothing but a deck of cards. I decided when he showed up with crayons and cookies and a heart too big for his chest. I decided long before I knew the weight of what he carried — and the kind of strength it took to keep carrying it.

But he shook his head, almost pleading. “No… I have to tell you first.”

I wanted to stop him. Maybe because I wanted to protect the soft thing we were building. The bubble we lived in when it was just us and tea parties and easy laughter. But I didn’t. Because I saw the way his shoulders braced, and I knew this wasn’t just about protecting me — it was about trusting me.

“I… I’ve been shot during a case. Twice. Once in the thigh. Once in the neck,” he started, his voice slow, like the weight of each memory still lived somewhere just under the skin. “I’ve had anthrax poisoning. I’ve been set on fire while trying to outrun a bomb. I wasn’t fast enough.”

I stayed quiet. Let him have the space to say it.

“I’ve been held hostage more times than I can count. I’ve seen the same happen to my team — people I love. One of my best friends had to fake her death because of an unsub. For weeks, we thought she was gone. I mourned her like I’d buried her.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, as if looking directly at me would break the momentum.

“My ex-girlfriend was kidnapped. Killed. Right in front of me. I tried to save her. I couldn’t.”

He took a breath, and this time it shook.

“I was kidnapped too. Years ago. The man who took me—he drugged me. Over and over. Forced me into withdrawals. Pain so sharp I thought it would split me in half. I got clean, eventually. Stayed clean for ten years.”

I could feel my own throat tightening now, but I didn’t interrupt.

“And then, a few years ago, I went to Mexico. My mom—she has early-onset Alzheimer’s. I was trying to get her an experimental treatment. I arranged to meet a doctor. I thought I was helping her.”

His mouth pressed into a line. His voice dropped.

“It was a setup. I was drugged again—against my will. I woke up disoriented. There was a woman beside me. Dead. Stabbed. There were drugs in my car — heroin, cocaine. Enough to ruin me.”

My heart stopped.

“I was arrested by Mexican authorities. I was charged with murder and possession. I went to prison. For three months. Until my team could prove I’d been framed.”

He finally looked at me. And it wasn’t guarded — it was pleading. Like he’d opened every door he’d spent years keeping shut, and now he was waiting to see if I’d walk out.

The silence after was crushing.

I didn’t walk out.

I reached forward, slow and steady, and held his face in both hands.

“Spencer.”

He blinked like he didn’t trust what came next.

Hell, I couldn’t trust what came next — what I felt, what I thought.

On one hand, I was terrified. I hadn’t known it was possible for one person to survive that much pain and still be standing. Still be kind. Still be soft. His life didn’t sound real — not the kind you live, but the kind you watch from behind a screen with your hand half-covering your eyes. Fictional. Unreachable.

And yet, he was sitting right in front of me.

Breathing. Shaking. Still here.

And in that moment, something clicked. A quiet, irreversible truth. I wasn’t falling anymore. I had already fallen — hard. Deep. Past the point of recognition. I had hit the bottom of it weeks ago and hadn’t even realized it.

I was in love with him.

Hopelessly.

And how could I not be?

He was the most impossibly gentle man I’d ever met — not despite his wounds, but somehow because of them. Like every fracture had made more room in his chest for tenderness. Like everything he’d lived through had taught him how to hold others more carefully, more fully.

A heart too big for his body.

And still, he offered it.

To me.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and brushed my thumbs over his cheekbones, memorizing the shape of him. The quiet way he let himself be held. Not because he believed he deserved it… but because, for once, he wanted to.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Y/N—” he started, voice catching on something fragile.

“No, Spence…” I shook my head, just slightly. “You don’t scare me. What scares me is how much you’ve made me care about you, in this short amount of time…”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue — or maybe warn me again — but nothing came out.

So I kept going.

“I don’t want to run away from you.”

“I’m not saying you should, I don’t want you to… but I also don’t think it would be wise if you stick around.”

“Well… I was never the smartest in class.”

That pulled something from him — a quiet huff, half a breath of a laugh, almost involuntary. But his eyes stayed serious, searching mine for something he didn’t know how to name.

“I’m being serious, Y/N,” he said. “There’s still so much I haven’t told you. So much I probably can’t tell you.”

“I know,” I said. “I don’t need to know everything right now.”

He blinked, like that hadn’t occurred to him — that staying didn’t mean interrogating. That I wasn’t here to pick him apart.

“I’m not pretending it’s simple,” I added. “It’s not. You’re complicated. This is complicated. But I don’t want to walk away just because it’s hard.”

He looked at me for a long, quiet moment.

Then, softly: “Most people have.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, offering a small, crooked smile, “like I said — not the smartest in class.”

This time, the smile reached his eyes.

And for now, that was enough.

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tag list: @livbonnet @23moonjellies @saskiaalonso @ellaomalalaalala @deltamoon666 @person-005 @reidssoulmate @quillsandcauldroncakes @imaginationfever13 @measure-in-pain @reidrs @reidsjuno @un-messed @happydeanpotter @rhinelivinglife @skye-westwood @xxfairyqueenxx @alrat13

[aperrywilliams]

Glowing (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: The team has been out on a case for about ten days now. You're not with them this time due to your 21st-week pregnancy and doctor's order not to go to the field, and you miss your husband, Spencer, like crazy. When they come back, Spencer can't stop looking at you and your recent baby bump. To say it makes him feral is an understatement, and he wants to show you how marvelous you are despite your insecurities about your changing body.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: SMUT/18+/MDNI. Spencer and Reader are horny AF. There is a lot of teasing, heated kissing, heavy making out, oral sex, PIV sex, and breeding kink (a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy). Reader has some insecurities about her body.

A/N: This idea was requested a while ago. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get it done. But here it is! Someone asked for horny!future!dad!Spencer? Well, you’re welcome.

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You can't say you are thrilled about staying in Virginia when all of your team is fighting crime on the other side of the country. Not when it has been ten days since they are gone. Not when you haven't seen your husband that long because he happens to work on the same team.

It's not that you had another option, though. Considering you are almost in your 21st week of pregnancy, your doctor advised you to take it slow on the job. That means being on the field miles away from home became a big no, and this time, you had to settle for nightly phone calls and daily texts with Spencer.

So it doesn't surprise anyone to see the happiness on your face when Hotch calls around midday, announcing that the case is over and they are flying home.

Penelope, always the joyful human being on Earth, immediately got on board with Rossi to host a gathering in his mansion once they were back tonight. Of course, Rossi agreed. Virtually no one can say no to Penelope.

"Okay, mama-genius," she says after ending the call with David. "We have a party tonight and a lot of things to do."

You may be worried about what 'a lot' can imply, but it is just a saying. Penelope will do most of it anyway, claiming you can't do any strenuous task so as not to bother baby-genius. Since the moment you and Spencer told the team about the baby's coming, Garcia baptized you all: papa-genius, mama-genius, and baby-genius. You find it the cutest thing in the world.

Walking through the supermarket aisles, you get everything you'll need: snacks, alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, and all the stuff. And with the cart full, Penelope sends you home to get ready.

"But Pen, you need help to set all this up."

"Don't worry, honey. I already have Anderson waiting for me at Rossi's. The benefits of having a spare key," she proudly says, dangling her keychain full of keys. "Now go! Go to get ready for your man. I know you have been missing him like crazy."

She is not wrong in the slightest, so you don't fight her. A bath sounds nice right now, and with all the pregnancy going on, you'll need the extra time to get ready.

-

Ten days have been torture for Spencer Reid. It's the longest he has been apart from you since you guys discovered you are pregnant. Sure, phone calls and texts help, but it's not enough. Not to the overprotective Spencer, anyway. It's not that he doesn't trust you; he does. But his mind always works in overdrive, and he worries more than he should. Not to mention, he has missed you like he hasn't seen you in months.

When Rossi tells the team the plans for the night once they arrive, Spencer is a bit disappointed. He would have preferred to go straight home to be with you. But when JJ assures him you will be there, his apprehensions change to anticipation.

The kind of anticipation that keeps him anxious until everyone arrives at Rossi's past 8 p.m. They were a little bit late for the estimated time, but the traffic was hell today.

A happy Penelope opens the door before Rossi can reach his key.

"Welcome home, mon amis."

"My home, you say?" the old man corrects, no real annoyance in his voice.

"Share is care, so our home is," Garcia retorts, effusively hugging every team member crossing the threshold. The last one is Spencer. "Your woman is waiting for you," she whispers to him after almost crushing him in her embrace.

Spencer practically runs to the living room, where you are greeting everyone. His eyes nearly can't give credit to what he sees. Of course, he knows how you look. He has known you for years and has memorized every detail of you: your height, the way your head leans when you're listening to someone, the color of your eyes, the way you smile, your expressive hands, and every curve of your body. But today? Something looks different, alluring, magnetic, and so entrancing.

His brain has a suitable explanation for it. Sure, when you haven't seen your partner in days, you tend to enhance every detail you love about them. 'Love hormones,' others would say. But no, this is more than psychology and chemistry.

Pregnancy has made changes in you. It was expected, and Spencer knows that, but reading it in a book is way different than seeing it for himself. Sure, there were the headaches and the morning sickness in the early stages. Adding the mood swings and fatigue. But nothing prepared him for the body changes. And not in the bad way people must think, all the opposite. To Spencer, pregnancy has made you the most sexy woman in the world. And after ten days of being deprived of those changes, to him, all come at once. Your breasts got bigger, and you definitely started to show more. The sundress you're wearing just enhances those details, and Spencer feels like he can faint right there.

When your eyes meet across the room, his breath hitches; those eyes he loves so much are glowing and chanting a spell Spencer won't escape from. Not that he wants to, anyway.

Shameless, you leave your conversation with Prentiss and Luke and run to your husband, throwing your arms around his neck.

"I missed you," you murmur into his neck. Spencer hugs you back and closes his eyes, relishing how good you smell and how good it is to have you in his arms again. "We missed you," you add.

The mention of your unborn child melts Spencer on the spot. "I missed you both, too," he manages to say, reluctantly parting from your embrace to look at you and get lost in your eyes again. "I love you," he whispers, leaning to capture your lips with his. And just like that, the anti-PDA, Spencer Reid, indulges himself in kissing you in front of everyone.

The teasing from the team around is only background noise, and neither Spencer nor you are very concerned about it. Not until you involuntarily tug his hair, and Spencer needs to do everything in his power to stop the groan threatening to escape his lips.

Parting and clearing your throats, you both try to regain composure. All the team's eyes are on you, but the only one who dares to point out the obvious is Rossi.

"I have a guest room upstairs, at the second door down the hall."

The comment causes the team to laugh and you to be mortified.

"Sorry," you both mumble, a deep shade of crimson adorning your cheeks. Grabbing your hand, Spencer pulls you to a corner. You're still in sight of the people but far enough to talk and not be listened to.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He points to your baby's belly. It's not an accusatory question, more like an excited one.

"I wanted it to be a surprise. I would have liked to be in a more private setting, but I wasn't going to miss being here and waiting for you at home to show you."

Spencer's hand rests over your now prominent belly and rubs soothing patterns there. "It's amazing," he admits. "How are you feeling?"

You let out a content sigh, feeling the warmth emanating from your husband's palm to your lower stomach.

"Much better now you're here."

"They haven't done much trouble, have they?"

"Nah. Behaves like an angel." And it's the truth. The second trimester has been much better than the previous one: no morning sickness, less fatigue, and it has been great.

There are other 'issues' though. The boost of energy has been paired with an increase in your libido that sometimes is very hard to control. The times Spencer is around, having sex can be enough, but with days passing and with the tenderness and care Spencer has been touching you, it's getting hard to satiate your most primal needs. You know he does it because he doesn't want to hurt you, but even if you have assured him you won't break, he hesitates nonetheless.

And now, after all these days without him, you are sure another touch from him, even the most innocent, will set your body on fire. You are sure this night will be excessively long.

Spencer's thoughts are not very different from yours. The moment he sees you in your sundress walking to him was enough to make his mind wander.

"OK, mister. Enough lovebirds' moment for now. The girls need their time, too." Without warning, Penelope grabs your hand to lead you to the group where Tara, Emily, and JJ are.

You can only shrug to Spencer as Penelope drags you from him. Spencer gives you a reassuring smile. It's fine; you are both adults, he reminds himself. How can it be so difficult to keep his hands to himself for a couple of hours?

Easier said than done, he'll realize.

Neither of you can't help the stolen glances across the room or the subtle smiles you share as you talk to the team at different spots in the house.

Spencer doesn't know if he can control himself much longer. You look stunning and tempting, and his mind starts to fill with unholy things he wants to do to you.

"Reid?" Luke's worried voice gets him out of his mental predicament.

"I - uh. I'm sorry, what did you say?" 

"Are you alright, man? You seem distracted."

If alright means extremely horny and with an incipient boner tightening his pants, then yes, he's more than alright.

"Yes. Yeah. Uh - I'll grab some water. Excuse me, I'll be right back."

The trip to the bathroom is quick and mildly effective: Splashing cold water on his face and reciting the Declaration of Independence in his mind, Spencer regains some composure and gets back to where the people—and you—are.

The night continues in the same way. It's not like you are openly teasing him, but Spencer can't help himself.

The last straw comes when you're in the backyard talking to JJ and Emily, and you're laughing so hard that your body jolts, making your breasts bounce a bit, exposing more of your cleavage. It's not that evident to anyone, but for Spencer, who has been gawking at you all night, it is clear as day.

He wants you, and he wants you now.

Spencer sets his glass of water on the table and strolls where you are. Giving JJ and Emily a tight-lip smile, he leans to whisper something in your ear. The girls can't hear what it is, but the flush in your cheeks should give them an idea.

"Yeah, it's kind of late. And yeah, I'm feeling a bit tired," you tell Spencer, now looking at the girls, not wanting to disclose what Spencer actually said.

"Sure, carrying a baby Reid must be exhausting," Emily teases, gaining a roll of eyes from Spencer.

"Go, guys. Don't worry; I think I'll leave soon, too," JJ says, and you nod gratefully to avoid making more uncomfortable the moment.

With a tight grip on your hand, Spencer walks with you to say goodbye to everybody. Then, no later than that, you hop on the Uber, already waiting outside Rossi's.

-

All the ride home, Spencer's hand rests firmly on your tigh. His eyes can't peel off of you. All of you. It's like he hasn't seen you in months and wants to memorize each feature. You look back at him with a mix of amusement and self-consciousness. The lust is all written on his gaze, but there is something more, too. Love, longing, reverence. It's like there isn't anything else in the world but you.

The thought only fuels how much you love him and, of course, how horny you feel. Is it hot in this car, or is that just your idea? Why is the ride taking longer than you would like? You're about to huff in protest when the vehicle stops at your destination. Thanks God!

Spencer never falters his grip on you all the time. You can feel him everywhere: on your hand as you take the stairs, on your lower back walking down the hall, on your shoulder when you fish the key in your purse.

As the door shuts behind you, Spencer's lips are on yours in an instant. Kissing you hard. Like he's a drowning man, and you are the air he needs.

"God, you don't know how hard it was to control myself," Spencer mumbles, now peppering wet kisses down your neck to your collarbone.

"Hard, uh? Well, I guess I have an idea," you say, palming him over his slacks, making him hiss.

"Don't tease me, please," Spencer growls between kisses as he walks you both through the apartment to your bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in your path.

"I'm not, baby. I promise I'm not. I'm as desperate as you are." You're not lying. Your body has been on fire the whole night. You want him as much as he wants you right now.

When your legs hit the bed, you're both only in your underwear.

Spencer breaks the kiss to look at you. The bedroom is only lit by the hallway lights. He reaches for the nightstand to switch the lamp on, but before he does, you stop him.

"Can we just-" You don't finish the sentence, but Spencer understands what you're asking for.

"Yeah. We can, of course. But what's wrong?"

It's not the first time you have sex with the room's lights off, but those times, neither of you has explicitly requested it. You usually don't have trouble with Spencer seeing you naked, but since you got pregnant and your body started to change, you don't feel sexy, and it is mining your confidence. Spencer's suspicion goes in that same direction.

"Nothing," you say, pulling him to kiss him again with the same passion as before. Spencer almost surrenders at your doing, but he stops.

"Hey," he whispers. "Talk to me."

You sit on the mattress, knowing you have to tell him what's bothering you. He sits by your side, patiently waiting for you to collect your thoughts and choose your words.

After some seconds of deliberation, it is you who switches the lamp on. Standing from the bed, you plant yourself in front of Spencer.

"What do you see?" you ask, with your hands on your hips.

Spencer's eyes rack your body from head to toe, especially double-taking your lower stomach, where your pregnant belly is. The answer is obvious to him.

"My perfect and sexy wife, standing almost naked in front of me, trying to kill me because I can't touch her yet."

You roll your eyes, huffing. "Spencer, be serious, please."

"I am! Baby, I don't know why you could think I'm not being honest with you."

There is a scold on the tip of your tongue, but you relent, changing it for a deep sigh.

"But look at me! These-" you say, eyes darting between your breast and the skin of your stomach. "There is no chance this is sexy. I'm bloated half of the time; my skin feels gross, and the stretch marks are more every day. And my tits! God, if I unhook my bra, they are going to fall to the floor!"

It's true, your body isn't the same as it was a couple of months ago, and it'll probably continue to change as the weeks go by, but for Spencer, that doesn't make you any less attractive or desirable—quite the opposite.

"Hey, look at me, please," Spencer asks in a soft voice. You do as he says, now feeling more exposed in front of him. Spencer notices and takes your hands to bring you closer to him.

"You know you're carrying a human being in your womb, right?" he asks, tracing soft patterns with his finger over the skin of your arms. "That makes your body not look or feel the way it usually does. But it's perfectly natural, and I'm sure you know that." Spencer stops to kiss your stomach. "What you don't seem to know is that every change makes you more perfect than you already are. Love, you are perfect for who you are, and your body is perfect because it's yours—stretch marks or not, breasts enlarged or not, swollen or not."

"You have to say that," you complain with an adorable pout, and Spencer chuckles.

“I have to say that because it's true. Did I lie to you before?” You shake your head no. “Exactly.”

He pulls you to him so you can sit on his lap. Your arms rest loosely around his neck. He looks up at you with only adoration in his eyes.

“Love. You look amazing. Gorgeous. And so so sexy. I have been craving to touch you all night, renegaded to only see you from afar. That's torture,” Spencer says, lips hovering over your jaw before trailing down loving kisses—the feel of his wet lips pushing your heart rate to go up.

“You don't know what you do to me, do you? All these days thinking about you, what it's like to have you in my arms, what it's like to be able to kiss you, to smell you.” Spencer says, his fingers dancing over the patch of exposed skin of your breasts still clad in your bra. His lips sucking on that special spot on your neck. You can't help the nasty moan that leaves your mouth.

His eyes search yours for permission when one of his hands rests on the clasp of your bra. You nod, and he unclasps it, revealing your full breasts to him. You swear you hear him whimper at the sight, just as you feel him twitch beneath your thighs.

“Fuck, darling. They are so perfect. So round, so full, so soft,” Spencer praises as his mouth latches to one of your nipples and, with one hand, squeezes the flesh of your other breast. “I couldn’t stop all night thinking about doing this. Claiming these perfect tits.”

“Spencer, fuck!” you moan when he sucks harder. “Yes!”

“So sensitive. These tits are all mine,” Spencer mumbles as he switches his mouth from one nipple to the other.

He keeps lapping, swirling his tongue, sucking. It's like he can't have enough of it. And you can feel it in your bones.

'Extasis' keeps it short to explain how you feel right now. Just with the use of his mouth, Spencer is already pushing you close to the edge. In the back of your mind, you can hear his voice explaining how nipple stimulation can produce orgasms. You didn't think it would be possible at the time, but now you're nearing experiencing it.

"Spence, please. Just -"

One of his hands travels south, leaving goosebumps in its wake until it reaches the waistband of your panties.

“Tell me what you need, baby. And I’ll give it to you.”

“I need you to touch me,” you mewl, your voice cracking with desire.

“Here?” Spencer teases, trailing feather touches across your inner thigh. His mouth marks your neck, his favorite spot on you.

“More. Please, don’t make beg,” you plead. Spencer’s smirk could tell he was not done with the teasing. But in all honesty, he doesn't know how much he can contain himself.

“My baby is desperate already. Let's see how much.” A hand sneaks under your panties, and the slick pooling there tells Spencer everything he needs to know.

“Fuck, you’re soaked. It’s all for me?” He cockily asks as his fingers tease your folds. You gasp at the contact of his fingers on you.

“For you only. Spencer, I’m yours. Always.”

“And I am yours. No matter what. I love you so much,” Spencer says, now claiming your mouth with a searing kiss. It's like he wants to devour you whole, beyond the physics laws, if it's possible.

You let yourself go, kissing him urgently, your fingers tangled in his hair, giving experimental tugs, which Spencer rewards with grunts of pleasure.

You don't realize when you start rocking on his lap, seeking more friction from his fingers.

Spencer continues his assault on your center, alternating the thrusting of his fingers in and out with rubbing against your clit.

"Oh, God!" You whine, not fully believing how good it feels.

“So good, my love. So so good,” Spencer chants. His free hand on your back, maneuvering to lay you down on the mattress without stopping his ministrations in your pussy, and latching his lips to the crook of your neck. The new position allows him to reach deeper inside you with his fingers, massaging that spongy spot that makes you see stars.

“Right there! Oh, please.” You are on the verge of falling, your body surrending to Spencer’s experimented touch. He knows your body better than you.

Your moans go straight to Spencer’s cock, twitching inside his boxers, rock-hard and screaming for attention, but he has a mission before ever thinking of his pleasure. He needs you to come on his fingers first.

“Are you going to come for me, baby?”

“Yes! I’m so - so close,” you cry.

“I can feel you clenching on my fingers. That's it. Let go, my love. Cum for me; let me feel you,” Spencer encourages, and it's the last push you need. Your vision goes white, and your body starts to shake. The coil snaps and flows your body with waves of pleasure.

“Fuck! Yes!” You cry as your orgasm travels through your body. “Spencer! Yes!”

Spencer doesn’t stop the in and out of his fingers, still rubbing your clit, at a slower pace, helping you to ride it out. His breath is hot on your neck, mumbling praises of how good you are, how much he has missed you, and how good you feel around his fingers.

When the aftershocks subside, Spencer carefully retracts his fingers, sucking them clean before passionately kissing you. You can taste yourself on his lips, fueling the desire to have more of him.

“I missed you,” you say, still breathless. Spencer lies on the mattress by your side, stroking your cheek.

“And I missed you. Both of you,” he says, now rubbing a hand over your belly. You let out a content sigh. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can just prepare to go to bed.”

Your head snaps up in an instant.

“Are you fucking kidding me? No! We’re not done, mister. We have a lot of days apart to make it up to.”

Spencer laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Start with those boxers. Get them off,” you command, kneeling on the mattress and suddenly feeling a rush of adrenaline. Spencer pulls his boxers down, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric. It's hard, red, and already leaking precum. And your mouth waters.

“Like the view?” He teases.

“Very,” you shamelessly reply, gawking at the way his cock twitches under your gaze. You position between his legs. He is at your level sight with his elbows on the mattress. You wrap a hand around his shaft, giving a light squeeze, as your other hand looks purchase on his thigh. Spencer hisses at the contact.

“Baby, you don’t have to,” he reminds you, knowing this position could be uncomfortable for you.

“Oh, yes, I have to,” you counter. “I have been thinking about sucking you off for weeks, Spencer. Weeks!”

Spencer laughs at your dramatics, but still, he reaches for your chin to tilt up so you can look at him.

“Just let me know if it's too much, and we can stop, okay?”

Did you mention before about how careful he has been treating you since you discovered you were pregnant? Yes, you did. And here is a reminder.

“Okay,” you reassure him, giving an experimental lick at the tip. The salty taste just encourages you to lick the underside, from base to tip and back and forth. Spencer’s moans are music for your ears. You lower yourself now, taking him in your mouth—inch by glorious inch.

There is something special about giving Spencer head, and it’s beyond the sexual component of pushing him to orgasm. It's about the way he surrenders to your touch, the way he is splayed over the bed at your mercy. The way he trusts you in such a vulnerable position. He doesn't rush you; he’s pliant at your pace because he knows you know how to pleasure him.

“Fuck!” he groans when you go deeper. “So good, baby. You take it so good.”

As him with yours, you relish on his praises. He never stops complimenting you and vocalizing the way you make him feel. Evidence of how much you like it is the pool of wetness forming in your center just hearing him moan and talk.

With renewed vigor, you keep bobbing your head up and down, swirling your tongue, and extracting the more nasty and sexy noises from Spencer’s lips.

“Just - just like that. You are doing amazing.” His hands rest over your head, but he doesn’t push or pull; he just grounds himself in the midst of the pleasure cloud he is in.

But when that knowing coil is forming on him, Spencer knows he needs you to stop, or he won’t last much.

Gently, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls you back. You understand the signal and release him with a pop.

“What is it? You don’t want to?” You ask, licking your lips full of fluids of both of you. Spencer is panting, shaking his head no.

“You were amazing, but I don’t want to cum yet. And I want to cum inside of you.” The admission makes the heat in your body rise.

His hand caresses lovingly your cheek as you’re sitting on your haunches on the mattress. Spencer sits with his back on the headboard, raking your entire naked body from head to toe. His eyes are full of adoration.

Leave it to Spencer to look at you like you were Afrodite's incarnation, even with your grown breasts and bloated body.

“What?” You ask, giggling out of nervousness. Years with him, and that piercing gaze still makes your heart flutter.

"Marvelous. So beautiful. The most gorgeous. Perfect.”

Before you can protest the overflowing compliments, Spencer's hands cup your face to pull you into a deep kiss. You kiss him back with urgency, straddling him. Spencer’s hands go to your waist to keep you in place, where you belong, on top of him. From that position, you can feel his cock twitching with want.

"Spencer-" you mumble in his lips, almost like a whisper.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he asks, focusing on how you start swaying your hips, making contact with his hardness, and settling him on fire.

“I need to ride you, now,” you plead, and Spencer can’t say no to you even if he tried.

“Then ride me. Take everything you need from me,” Spencer says, leaving the grasp of your hips so you can lift yourself to position his cock at your entrance. You start to sink and you both are gasping for air. It feels so good. You feel so full with every pull and push of your core into Spencer’s cock. It's a sensation that never gets old.

“That's it. You are doing so well. Take your time,” Spencer reminds you, but you have been craving him so much that you don’t have patience anymore. Spencer's hands come back to your hips, and yours rest on his shoulders for balance. With a last bounce, you’re full to the hilt.

“Fuck!” You hiss. The stretching is a mix of pain and pleasure that’s driving you insane. Spencer’s concerned eyes seek yours.

“You okay?” He asks, his gaze now raking your body, looking for something that can tell him about your discomfort.

“Yes! I’m okay—more than okay,” you assure him. Then you remember there is something he needs to know, something you need from him.

"Spencer, look at me," you demand, and he does what you ask.

"Yeah?" he pants, eyes mapping your face for any sign of what you want to say.

"I want something. Better said, I need something,” you pant, feeling already the urge to move.

"Okay, whatever you need. I'll give it to you."

"I need to feel you. All of you.” Spencer nods.

“You are feeling me now, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Spencer. I’m talking about being rough. I need it hard. Please, baby, don't hold back."

“Oh.” Realization hits him at the same time you clench around him. “Fuck. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Love, I promise you, you won’t break me.”

Spencer looks still hesitant.

“Please, don’t deprive me of you. I need to be consumed by you. I need to feel you everywhere; I need to be reminded I'm yours, and you're mine. Remind me you’re the only one who can have me like this. Remind me who put this baby in me.”

The way Spencer’s cock twitches inside of you and the groan escaping his lips is enough for you to know he got the memo.

His eyes darkened even more, and you could swear you saw a smirk on his face.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, do you?” he says, thrusting up so you can feel him deeper.

“Ah! Show me! Give me what you think I deserve, please,” you beg, and for Spencer is the last straw. With both hands on your hips, he starts to bounce you up and down. Your hands rest on his stomach as you try to catch a rhythm. It starts messy and frantic, and you can’t care less. You’re riding Spencer, and that's what matters.

“So tight. I don’t know how I can fit here. Feels amazing.” Spencer's voice is strained, breathless.

As you gain more control over your movements, the grinding intensifies. Every part of your body is on fire. The bounce of your breasts makes Spencer feral.

“These tits. Are mine. All mine,” Spencer chants, hands squeezing them. “You’re mine.”

Damn right, you think. You are his. Every part of you is his, in the same way you are claiming him as yours right now.

Not fully satisfied with touching, Spencer leans forward and captures one of your nipples with his mouth, one arm around your waist to help you as you keep riding him.

“Fuck! Spencer!” You cry when he sucks harder. Tugging his hair, you speed your rhythm, feeling the coil forming, a new orgasm approaching.

At some point your legs start to falter, the exertion making them cramp, but you don’t want to stop. Spencer notices, though.

“I’ve got you,” he says, maneuvering you on your back without pulling out. Now he’s on top, and your legs over his shoulders. “That’s better, uh?”

You nod eagerly. “But don’t stop, please.”

“I won’t.”

With this new angle, Spencer thrusts deeper and harder. It's all you have wanted for weeks. The sinful sound of skin hitting skin fills the room, and you can respire the smell of sweat and sex.

“Yes! Just like that!”

“Oh, so you wanted it harder, uh? My sweet, dirty thing,” Spencer coos, head nestled in the crook of your neck. You feel his hot breath, how he’s panting while giving you precise and deliberate thrusts, in and out, in and out.

“Spence, I’m close,” you warn, and Spencer doesn't halt his movements, leaning a bit back to look at you.

“Me too, baby.”

You are a sight to behold. Your messy hair, sweat sparkling on your skin, eyes full of lust, the moans leaving your lips, tits bouncing with every thrust, and that bump, where your baby is. Spencer still can’t believe it's real.

“You’re so gorgeous. You look so good, pregnant with my baby. Everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Yours, always,” you half-sob, half-moan. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you can feel it in your bones. Spencer knows exactly how to get you there. He’s almost there too.

“That’s what you want? That I keep you nice a knocked up all the time? Do you want my cum, don’t you?”

“Yes! All the time. Please.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you nice and full.” Spencer vows, kissing your calf and sneaking down his fingers to rub your clit in tight circles.

“Oh, God.”

You’re on the verge of falling. The wet sounds your bodies are making, the panting and moans, Spencer’s words, everything is pushing you to the edge.

“Come for me, come on my cock,” Spencer demands, and it is like your body has to comply because as the words leave his mouth, your orgasm hits you like a freight train.

“Fucking shit! Yes!” You scream, feeling your body trembling with pleasure. Spencer’s pace keeps, now chasing his own end.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, losing some rhythm. “So good for me.”

You can feel him twitching inside with each thrust as you clench your walls, still riding your high.

“Spencer, please. Cum inside. Fill me up, baby. I need it so bad,” you plead, and Spencer loses it. After a deep thrust, he grunts and stills inside, spilling everything he has. You feel his warmth filling you up, a content sigh leaving your lips.

For a few seconds, you both remain still, panting and trying to catch your breath. Spencer is the first to react. Not pulling out, he lowers your legs from his shoulders, massaging them gently while he peppers your neck with kisses. You giggle, still drunk of post-orgasmic hormones.

“You did so good, my love,” he praises. Your hands cup his face so he can look at you.

“I love you, Spencer. I missed you so much,” you declare as you lean in to kiss his lips. Spencer reciprocates immediately. This kiss is sweet, not rushed, but takes your breath away as all Spencer’s kisses do.

“I love you, too,” he mumbles on your lips. “And it was torture being away from you for so many days. But I’m here right now; I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good, because tonight I’m not done with you yet.”

With the whimper that escapes Spencer’s lips and the twitch of his cock still inside of you, it’s clear he knows exactly how the night will go from here.

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[aperrywilliams]

The Chemicals Between Us (Spencer Reid x GN!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader.

Summary: Karma is a bitch, and Spencer is realizing now that he’s head over heels for you.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Sex is implicit. There is a lot of thinking, a lot of what-ifs. Spencer gets to feel what it is to be on the other side of a detached relationship.

A/N: Just something that has been floating in my mind for a while. And yes, karma is a bitch.

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The night's quiet is only interrupted by some cars passing the street and your soft breathing as you sleep. Spencer watches your naked form as your chest rises and falls with each steady breath. You look peaceful and... satisfied. He wishes he could find for himself that elusive slumber, the one that is clearly not elusive with you.

What are you dreaming about? he wonders. Are you dreaming at all?

It's a funny question, when not so long ago Spencer knew so much about you that he could tell if you were having a nightmare or a restful sleep just by looking at you. Now, you've become an enigma to him. That quiet sleep he’s seeing right now could be hiding a storm brewing in your subconscious, and he'd have no idea. When did you stop being transparent to him?

Despite his eidetic memory, he can’t pinpoint the exact moment things between you changed and became almost pure... physical, chemical.

Spencer would like to say he expected things to turn the way they did, but he didn’t. Although he understands it, it's a bad joke life has played on him.

Never one to have much experience with love, Spencer, in his early years, thought that maybe one day he would find that special person with whom he could experience all the things his mother had read him as a child in the classic novels about love. Time passed, leaving only hopeless crushes and pain in its wake. JJ and Maeve are a prime example of this. That's when Spencer realized he would never achieve the romantic love many boast about in their lives. For Spencer, it was a painful but rational conclusion. Things were as they were, period. Life went on.

But when Cat Adams managed to get Spencer unjustly imprisoned for three months, things took a bigger turn. It was no longer acceptance; it was a desire for revenge against life itself that took hold. Spencer's heart hardened, and along with it, his empathy started to sink into a dark place inside him.

Why not be selfish for once in his life? If true love was going to be elusive with him, why not indulge in other kinds of emotions, like carnal pleasures?

The logistics were less difficult than he expected. After all, Spencer has always been a handsome man, enigmatic enough to attract the attention of others. The first time he took a stranger to his bed, the adrenaline rush was so strong that when the first one left his apartment, a few days later, there was a second, and a few days after that, a third, and so on.

Spencer didn't explicitly plan on basing his relationships solely on casual sex. Still, the emotional barrier he placed on every partner who came into his life made it impossible for anyone to stay or for Spencer to want anyone to stay.

He was the one who could sleep like a baby after a strenuous night of passion, then wake up and leave that bed as if nothing of him had ever really been there.

The question once crossed his mind as to whether any of his partners saw him as anything more than a passing traveler. He never had an answer because the question never left his mouth and never gave him a chance to get questioned by others. Buried in the back of his mind, the question mattered little to the rehearsed routine that lasted for months.

For as long as Spencer allowed himself to love and be loved only within four walls, the cracks of lack of communication, of meaninglessness, began to sink in. So much so that one morning, looking in the mirror and inspecting the red marks on his skin, a gift from frantic nails scratches on his back and torso, Spencer couldn't recognize himself. Who was this man staring back at him in his reflection, empty, adrift?

The rendezvous didn’t stop completely, but they were each time more sporadical, and Spencer chose to change his focus to work. It was an old-know territory and masked pretty well the hollow in his life.

But then, you happened.

During a case, in a rare body-body encounter with an unsub, Spencer got stabbed in the abdomen. It wasn’t a bad one, but enough to land in a hospital room for a check-up, cleaning, and stitches.

With Morgan by his side, Spencer reassured him over and over he was fine, although a sharp-edged pain settled when he shifted in the uncomfortable gurney.

“Good afternoon. I’m Nurse (Y/N), and I’m here to check on Spencer Reid.”

There you were, standing at the threshold and checking your clipboard in hand. Spencer’s eyes flew to your form. And when your gazes met, something in Spencer shifted. He still can’t tell what it really was.

To everyone, you were any person from the medical staff, but for Spencer, you stood out above any other human being there. It was your undeniable beauty, the way you moved so naturally in your element, the kindness with which you asked Morgan to leave the room, the precise words that came out of your mouth explaining the procedure, the concentration with which you treated his wound, the niceness of your touch on his skin.

Spencer couldn't utter much of a word during that time. It was something he'd already overcome by the time he began his Casanova phase. But none of that mattered here.

Once you were done with him, you said a polite goodbye, grabbing your clipboard to leave the room. Before you could even make it out the door, Spencer's voice suddenly appeared.

“Wait!” You turned, kind of confused. You were done and explained everything. You even asked him if he had questions, and he said no.

“There is something wrong?”

“No. No. Nothing, actually. Thank you, by the way. For, you know, everything.”

“Okay. Uh - you’re welcome?” You stood there, sensing there was something else.

“I - uh. Sorry. I don’t want to waste any of your time, but is it too straightforward to ask you if you want to grab a coffee someday?”

It wasn't the first time a patient had asked you out. Some were more daring in their proposals than others. But you found Spencer adorably nervous. Sure, attractive, by the way, and although you had imposed a rule on yourself not to date patients, Spencer seemed like a good prospect to break the rule.

“I don't usually tend to accept that kind of offer,” you said as you wrote something on your clipboard. Spencer’s disappointed look was evident.

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s okay-”

“But I guess I can make an exception,” you said, cutting him off and handing him a piece of paper with your number on it.

Spencer’s grin could have illuminated the whole of Virginia.

Indeed, your first date was a coffee after one of your long shifts, a few days after you'd given Spencer your number. The conversation wasn't awkward at all, of course, covering common topics like how long you've worked at your current jobs, what that routine is like, if there's family involved in your lives, things you like to do in your free time, and more.

You both seemed very comfortable talking and seeing that you had things in common, like demanding jobs and how frustrating it could be sometimes when things didn't go well.

It wasn't until your third date, this time a dinner, that the topic of romantic relationships came up. Of course, both of you had already said you weren't in a relationship at the moment. But you guys didn't talk about details until you asked him during dinner if he believed in long-term relationships. Spencer’s eyes widened, and he almost choked with the water he was drinking.

You giggled at his reaction.

“I didn't mean to ask such a harsh question at such a random moment. But I was thinking about what you said about the subjective nature of time. I mean, in a relationship, is it possible that each partner's perception of time is different? What seems like a moment to me might seem like an eternity to you. Is that what people call part of the compatibility? The way two people can fit in the same time perception?”

“You think that could determine the success of a relationship?” Spencer asks with sincere curiosity. No one had brought up that specific topic in a conversation with him before. You shook your head.

“It’s not the only thing, sure. There must be things in common, shared habits, hobbies, plans, projections, and that stuff. And, of course, there must be a connection, something words can’t fully explain. The not rational part of it.”

“Well, scientists say the no rational part is pure chemistry,” Spencer interjected as he recalled something he read a time ago. You looked at him, just a bit confused. He noticed. “I mean, real chemistry. I’m not talking about the typical use of the term.”

You chuckled. “I know. But I would like to believe more in the typical use of the term than the scientific one. It's just me, though.”

After dinner, Spencer offered to drive you home. You gladly accepted. It was hard not to wonder if something else would happen that night. You hit it off in conversation, but there was also something nonverbal drawing you in. Of course, you flirted with him during dinner, and Spencer clearly did the same in his way.

At your front door, Spencer thanked you for the evening, and you did the same. You both kept staring at each other, wondering who would make the first move. You did it.

Grabbing his jacket lapel to pull him down, you kissed him. Spencer eagerly reciprocated. And he would have been happy to end the date with that passionate kiss. That’s why he was surprised when you, with a seductive voice, invited him in.

Needless to say, words were redundant from that moment on. Like a learned dance, Spencer gave you a passionate night and what you later described as the best sex of your life. And Spencer could have been satisfied with having a new conquest under his belt. But something about that night felt different; he wasn't the detached person of the duo this time. And he understood. But when things were done, and he was getting up to pick up his clothes and leave, you looked at him curiously.

“Where are you going?” you asked, groggy voice still present in the postorgasmic afterglow.

“Home?”

“I didn’t ask you to leave, did I? I mean, I’m not forcing you to stay, either. But if you want to stay, I wouldn’t mind.”

The way you said it left Spencer in a difficult position, not knowing what you wanted and the responsibility of doing whatever he wanted. And what did he do? Stay. Spencer wanted to stay, and he did.

He shouldn’t, though.

Spencer thinks it would have been easier if he had gone home that night. If he hadn't let himself be driven by the desire to hold you in his arms and fantasize that maybe this time it would be different, just because he wanted to stay.

It would have been easier if the next day, when he woke up, you had kicked him out of your house so you could continue with your life. It would have been easier if you hadn't woken him up with little kisses and caresses that only made Spencer want more of you. For opening the idea in his head that he had finally found that special someone.

After that day, it was too late. He fell in love with you with every gesture, with every call or text he received from you. With the concern you showed for him when he felt sad or lost with every conversation about everything and nothing at the same time. Spencer curses himself for not believing you when you were the one who explicitly told him you weren't looking for a serious relationship and that you didn't want to jump into a relationship when your mind was set on achieving other things.

But how could that be true if every day you opened a little more of your life to him? How could it be true when time seemed to march at the same pace the moment you both stood in the same room? How could it be true when you were the one who said ‘I love you’ first? How could it be true if every time you made love, the words of adoration went both ways? Was that complicity something Spencer only imagined in his head?

There was a time when Spencer swore he'd won your heart, and the chemistry between you could blossom into something more enduring and tangible.

Spencer allowed himself to indulge in a relationship he'd built in his head with signals he interpreted as your consent to something more. Perhaps after four months of this dynamic, you'd realized that your life together didn't have to be incompatible with your personal goals. Spencer would never have pressured you to give up the things you were passionate about, with only the desire for you to love him the way he loves you. Was that too much to ask? Perhaps not. But the problem was, he never really wanted to talk about this with you. Deep down, he felt the fear that if he pushed too hard, you'd get overwhelmed and want to cut him out of your life. Yes, that's how pathetic it all was. Spencer began to settle for the scraps of time you could spend together between out-of-town cases and long shifts at the hospital.

Funny thing, you were none the wiser. For you, things were great. Spencer was there for you, and you for him. It was love. Sure, you loved him, but as you both talked about when you started to date, it's not enough to ensure a healthy relationship. And you thought Spencer was okay with it. He, from all people, should have understood. Not long after you started to date, he confessed his questionable behavior with his previous partners. You didn’t judge him. How could you when, to some extent, you can’t ensure a steady relationship? Spencer knew that, and his lack of complaints told you everything was okay. Both are on the same page.

The bubble burst when Spencer asked you if you'd move in with him at his apartment one night. You were both having dinner at his place, and you almost choked on the delicious carbonara you were eating.

"What?"

“I mean, we both spend little time in our respective apartments, and I know your lease is up at the end of the month, so it occurred to me that-"

Spencer can't finish the thought when he sees your shocked face.

"Did I say something wrong?" You clear your throat. "Not wrong, but do you realize it's a big step?"

"Yeah, but I think it's to be expected, given how we're doing now."

"How are we doing now, Spencer? What's changed since we started dating?" The question takes him by surprise. Haven't you noticed?

"I'd say quite a lot. You trust me. I trust you. We have a life together. We sleep together almost every night. You know about my life, and I know about yours. I think we might want the same thing for our future."

You put the fork on the table, eyebrows furrowed.

“Baby, you know I love you, right?”

Spencer knows. You have told him several times tangled in his sheets.

“Yeah, and I think that's the reason I’m not talking nonsense like you are making me feel I’m doing.”

You sighed, reaching for his hand over the table.

“It's not about nonsense, Spencer. It's about reality. Do you remember when we talked about the perception of time on one of our first dates?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the thing, I feel we’re not perceiving time in the same way. You are going too fast.”

“Too fast? It's been months!” Spencer complains.

“So? You want something I can’t give you right now. And I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise. You never told me you weren’t okay with this.”

He never did. He thought it wasn’t necessary.

“I - I didn’t because I thought we were getting there.”

You retract your hand from his.

“I’m sorry. I never intended to give you the wrong impression.”

“So, what is this, then? I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I’m quite confused here.” Spencer's arms folded over his chest.

“It is what it is. We’re together now. And maybe there is a future ahead, who knows?”

“We should know!”

“No. We shouldn’t. And I’m sorry. It's my fault for giving you the wrong signs. Spencer, I’m like this. I don’t tend to hide much of myself, and you confused that with what people do in a long-term relationship.”

“So, you love me, but you don’t want to stay with me?”

“I didn't say that. But if you’re uncomfortable with how things are going, it's better if we call it off.”

You were right, but losing you? Spencer couldn't ever think of that. He didn't want you out of his life. And if the only thing he would get is this, he can’t complain.

“Spencer?”

“No. It's okay. I get it.”

No, it's not okay. I’m not good with this.

“I don’t want to hurt you. We can end things here.”

“No. I’m okay with this. I just needed to know where we stand.”

You already hurt me, but losing you will destroy me.

“Are you sure? Spencer, I don’t-”

“Yes. Baby, it's okay,” Spencer grabbed your hand and squeezed gently.

It has to be okay.

Spoiler alert: It didn't.

Not for lack of trying. Spencer has told him over and over that maybe things will change eventually. But he tried so hard not to be a nuisance to you, not to appear too clingy, that he pushed you away. He hid in the fantasy everything was fine when it didn’t.

He didn't say anything. He forced himself to be satisfied with having a part of you. The part he knew anyone couldn't have now: you under his sheets—the intimacy of a shared bed. If the chemical were the only thing he would get from you, he would take it.

Two months later, Spencer is looking at you in your sleep, wondering if it is worth hoping things will change eventually.

He doesn't know now. You look so peaceful, so comfortable, and he feels like he’s drowning.

Life has its ways. What he didn't question at the time was coming back to him. Did he deserve it? Maybe. Was he prepared to let you go? Definitely no. It's a game he’s destined to lose. It was just a matter of time before he decided enough was enough.

For now, he’s content seeing you sleep and seeing you by his side, even if your mind is miles away. Maybe someday he would be brave enough to really accept you never were entirely his. And maybe strong enough to let you go.

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[aperrywilliams]

A snippet from the fic based on my last request (SR fic)

MDNI - 18+

With a tight grip on your hand, Spencer walks with you to say goodbye to everybody. Then, no later than that, you hop on the Uber, already waiting outside Rossi's.

All the ride home, Spencer's hand rests firmly on your tigh. His eyes can't peel off of you. All of you. It's like he hasn't seen you in months and wants to memorize each feature. You look back at him with a mix of amusement and self-consciousness. The lust is all written on his gaze, but there is something more, too. Love, longing, reverence. It's like there isn't anything else in the world but you.

The thought only fuels how much you love him and, of course, how horny you feel. Is it hot in this car, or is that just your idea? Why is the ride taking longer than you would like? You're about to huff in protest when the vehicle stops at your destination. Thanks God!

Spencer never falters his grip on you all the time. You can feel him everywhere: on your hand as you take the stairs, on your lower back walking down the hall, on your shoulder when you fish the key in your purse.

As the door shuts behind you, Spencer's lips are on yours in an instant. Kissing you hard. Like he's a drowning man, and you are the air he needs.

"God, you don't know how hard it was to control myself," Spencer mumbles, now peppering wet kisses down your neck to your collarbone.

"Hard, uh? Well, I guess I have an idea," you flirt, palming him over his slacks, making him hiss.

"Don't tease me, please," Spencer growls between kisses as he walks you both through the apartment to your bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in your path.

"I'm not, baby. I promise I'm not. I'm as desperate as you are." You're not lying. Your body has been on fire the whole night. You want him as much as he wants you right now.

When your legs hit the bed, you're both only in your underwear.

Spencer breaks the kiss to look at you. The bedroom is only lit by the hallway lights. He reaches for the nightstand to switch the lamp on, but before he does, you stop him.

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