beth-yeet365

[beth-yeet365]

blue ribbon | s.r.

in which you and Spencer dedicate yourselves to helping your daughter with the best baking soda volcano the science fair has ever seen

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: chemist!reader, misuse of lab equipment i don't care, their daughter is very girly, glitter word count: 1.46k a/n: ending the post margotober drought with the very first margovember request!!! i promise i'm working on masterlists but for some reason they're exhausting.

“Why do I have to walk backward?” You grumble while trying to balance the end of the plywood on your knee, pulling at your badge reel to unlock the lab door.

Spencer nods his head in the direction of the keypad, “That would be why.”

Rolling your eyes, you push the door handle down with your elbow before pushing the door open with your foot, shuffling your feet. “Honey, can you turn the lights on?”

Lifting herself up on her tiptoes, your daughter flips all of the switches on the panel, cringing at the bright fluorescent lights.

Together, you and Spencer hoist the science project onto one of the lab tables, careful not to knock anything over as the papier-mâché volcano rests in your professional lab.

You and Leah had stayed up until eleven last night finishing the last coat of paint, even entertaining a visit from her Aunt Penelope so that the finished project could have a fine dusting of glitter all over it. Your dining room was now permanently sparkly, but the look on your daughter’s face when she saw the finished project made the mess entirely worth it.

Spencer steps to grab your jugs of white vinegar from the car, propping the door open so he can bring the supplies for the baking soda volcano in.

Obviously, you weren’t going to use the full-size volcano now, but Leah had refused to travel without it and Spencer believes that saying no to her is an impossible task. “Mommy?” The little girl pipes up, playing with the stirring rod that you had just set in front of her.

“What’s up?” You ask, leaning your hip against the counter, gently reaching out and adjusting the bows adorning her pigtails that you’d put in her hair that morning.

She looks over at the wall, minding each of the posters that line your laboratory, “What is that?”

You follow her finger to see what she’s pointing at, smiling softly, “It’s the periodic table.”

Humming thoughtfully, Leah sets the stirring rod down and walks over to the poster, “It looks like the one at home.”

Nodding, you get a step stool out for her to stand on, “They’re the same poster, the one we have at home is just a lot smaller than the one I keep at work.” You explain to her, knowing she’s talking about the poster you keep in your home office. “Come on baby, let’s go get you a lab coat.”

Setting a hand on her shoulder, you guide her to the storeroom, “Woah,” she breathes. It’s not a positive reaction, her eyes flitter all around the room, a mess of lab coats and goggles.

“Okay,” you say, shoving your way through the space until you find your locker, pulling out your lab coat, as well as safety glasses for the whole family. Holding a coat up to her and having her pull it on, you put your own lab coat on before looking back to find your five-year-old drowning in polyester. Laughing slightly, you adjust the lapels of her jacket, “How does it feel?”

Leah looks down at herself, “Cool!” She exclaims beaming up at you and giving you two thumbs up. She skips out of the closet and heads back to her volcano, almost tripping over the extra fabric of the lab coat, but Spencer grabs her arm before her knees can hit the linoleum.

He smiles at her, “Are you okay?” Helping her adjust her coat, he kneels down to her.

“Daddy,” she cheers, completely ignoring his question for the sake of being five years old, “Look at my coat!”

Smoothing her hair back, Spencer’s eyes briefly meet yours before he looks back to Leah, “You look like mommy.”

In a fit of giggles, he scoops her up in his arms in an attempt to avoid a tripping hazard, but she just thinks it’s fun. He sets her down feet-first on the step stool you had gotten out for her.

“Here,” you say, handing him a lab coat for him to wear and setting the safety goggles you’d gathered on the countertop.

When your daughter came home in tears because she felt like she had been assigned the ‘most boringest’ project for the science fair, you and Spencer quickly decided that you’d try everything to make her baking soda volcano exciting. At the very least, you’d work together to make sure she has fun.

Leah puts her goggles on and looks up at you for her next instruction, watching you divide the baking soda and white vinegar into separate beakers, “So, what will happen when we add these two together?” Spencer quizzes, watching you make careful portions.

“It’s gonna fizz up!” She responds correctly, bouncing on her feet while you gently push the first two dishes in front of her.

You nod, “You can pour the white vinegar into the baking soda,” You nudge her gently, knowing that you measured just enough to reach the top of the beaker, but not enough to flow onto the counter.

She uses both hands to grip the beaker and pour the liquid out, and the immediate reaction surprises her so much that Spencer holds an arm out to keep her upright. He trains his eyes on her amazement as the foam dissipates and the water and sodium acetate are left in the glass. “Can I drink it?” She asks, frowning up at her dad.

“No,” you both answer immediately, a sort of parental reflex. If you don’t answer quickly enough, odds are she’d pick it up and try anyway.

Disappointed, her frown remains on her face while her eyes return to the countertop, timidly, she tugs on Spencer’s lab coat, prompting him to crouch down to her eye level, “What’s wrong, lovey?”

Her eyes nervously look around the lab, eyeing some of the cabinets before she takes a deep breath, “Can we make it pink?”

“The foam?” Spencer says curiously, eyes flickering up at you while you nod frantically, already thinking up options so that you could further individualize your daughter’s glitter volcano.

She rocks back and forth, “Can we?”

As soon as Spencer says yes, it’s like a hold on you has been released, unlocking some of the cabinets so you can grab more supplies from around the lab, you return to the station with an armful of things to try, and Spencer mutters something to Leah about you being a mad scientist, leading you to maturely stick your tongue out at him.

You set up four options, taking photos as you go so you can paste them onto her presentation board. The first one is just baking soda, but you added a touch of dish soap to the vinegar. The increase in bubbles seems to greatly please Leah, so you decide as a team that the final product should have dish soap in it.

The second one has manganese sulfate mixed into the baking soda, and if the pink salt altered the color of the foam at all, it doesn’t impress your perfectionist daughter.

The third one includes phenolphthalein, which you think has some real potential, based on the way Leah’s eyes widen at the sight of it combined with the vinegar. The liquid was almost a fuchsia color, and she gasps when she pours it in to find that the foam is white, “It’s gone?”

You nod, “The phenolphthalein when it’s in the vinegar is pink because it’s an acid, but as soon as you add the baking soda it becomes a basic solution, so…” Your voice trails off when Spencer starts shaking his head, and you look down to find that you have completely lost Leah’s attention. Instead of listening, she’s trying to pronounce phenolphthalein, tracing the letters on the black countertop.

“What do you have next?” Spencer asks, eyeing the tiny dropper bottle in front of you.

Picking it up, you drop some of it into the vinegar and hand it to Leah, “It’s food coloring.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Why do you have food coloring in the lab?”

You wrinkle your nose at him, the expression makes Leah giggle, “Mind your business.”

As a family, you watch the chemical reaction, the white of the foam mixing with the red food coloring to create the desired pink lava. “Oh,” your daughter says softly, “Thank you, mommy!”

Beaming down at her, you place your hands on your hips and sigh, “If you’d like, we can add glitter to the baking soda too.”

Wide eyes look up at you in amazement, brown eyes inherited from her father, “I love science,” she whispers.

Behind her back, you hold your hand out for Spencer, exchanging a silent fist bump—a quiet celebration between two scientists.

[beth-yeet365]

I’m on my knees for anything bombshell and spence 🙏🏽 maybe their first real date??? or them working a case after they are officially together

Oh, the misery. 

You and Spencer are supposed to be in a low lit restaurant right now feeding each other spoonfuls of parsnip soup between lovey-dovey eyefuls of one another, legs tangled under the table, your kitten heel scratching against the rubber sole of his converse. 

You're supposed to be dressed to the nines, your shawl fragrant with the vanilla perfume Spencer likes so much, a dress cut to the thigh that shows just a little too much when you lean forward. You're supposed to be kissing like idiots in the back seat of your car. 

“They haven't seen anything this bad since the Creek Killer, and this is two active UnSub's at once, so let's keep that in mind,” Hotch says, nodding to the door for Rossi to follow. He sends you and Spencer a look that may or may not be knowing as he adds, “And keep this professional.” 

“Aren't we professional?” you ask Spencer. 

“No!” Morgan calls, he and Emily already out the door. 

Hotch and Rossi are on crime scene duty. Morgan and Emily the victim's family. JJ will be snapping at the heels of the ravenous media in an attempt to dissuade them from following this case too closely: it's a bad one. Coverage will make it worse. 

You're on theory. There are two halves to your job —analysing past cases with similarities, and scrutinising the details of the current case. What you really want is to be analysing Spencer Reid's stupid hot face, and for his hands to be scrutinising your hips. Or your legs. Or your mouth. 

“I know what you're thinking.” 

You raise your eyebrows at Spencer. “I don't think you do.” 

He laughs, “No, I do.” His tie gets caught under his elbow as he grabs your notebook. “They always give you the worst jobs.”

“That's just not true, Mr. Reid. This is my very favourite job.”  

“Dr. Reid,” Spencer corrects, a smile already playing on his lips in anticipation of your reaction. 

You needle an elbow into his side until he huffs and pulls away. Surrendering. Typical. Displaced air fans your hand as he opens your notebook to a blank page. “We'll start with UnSub commonalities, just as soon as…” he murmurs, his pen scratching across the top line. You can't see past his shoulder. 

“Serials targeting women,” you say immediately. “Likely older, white, male, the usual. Murders are incisive, and disgusting, but the signatures are so different, they can't be– Does the pen not work?” 

Spencer shakes his head, sliding the notebook across the table to you. “Had to do this first.” 

Caveats for perfect first date, Spencer's written, a list with one lonely bullet point. Me and you together. 

You shouldn't be surprised. It's really not unlike him to be sweet, but this is alarmingly confident. I'm gonna eat him, you think, looking up with a smirk that turns soft at the sight of him. His cheeks are marbling with red flush, hair in his eyes as he stares anywhere but you. 

“Spence, are you blushing?” you ask fondly. 

“Don't be upset about tonight,” he murmurs, ignoring you with a hint of worry to his tone. “I know it's not what you wanted, but I– we can still go, when we're home–” 

You press your lips together in an unsuccessful attempt to hide your smile. “Yeah, we can still go, but you're right, Spence. You are. This is as good a place as any. 'N' I can make any date perfect.” 

Your joke rescues him from the depths of mortification. He clears his throat, says, “Exactly. But we should get back to the list.” 

He takes your hand under the table, long fingers sewn between yours.

[beth-yeet365]

How Everyone Found Out

Summary: a little blurb about how each of the team members found out about a secret BAU relationship

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (fluff)

Content Warning: mention of 7x24

Word Count: 2.4k

Masterlist Navigation

Waking up together was a rarity for the couple. Different apartments, separate hotel rooms on cases, and working late nights made it challenging to find a moment alone, let alone a night.

Of course, it was what Y/n and Spencer loved, and they were happy. The happiest either of them had been in a really long time. But waking up together was special.

So when they’d spent the night together with no phone calls waking them up, Y/n expected Spencer to be next to her. With no alarm set, he always slept in later than her. It gave him the most beautiful non-exhausted look, eyebags lessening and face relaxing. She could stare at his curls against the pillow and pronounced cheekbones for hours.

Keep reading

[beth-yeet365]

Omgosh yes please write my idea! I would love that! (Spencer fiddling with an engagement ring while waiting at the hospital then proposing) and I loved that fic too! Honestly I adore the way you write fluff and hurt/ comfort! Have a great day!

proposal — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader has been shot, mention of concussions , spencer and reader are both very emotional, reader is in surgery a/n: hi hi ! i hope you like this <3

Surgery.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid’s mind was terrifyingly, agonizingly silent. No equations, no statistics, no rapid-fire facts to distract him—just that single, suffocating word.

Surgery.

You were in surgery.

You were on the other side of those sterile white doors, unconscious, vulnerable, your body at the mercy of strangers’ hands. The thought made his stomach twist. These were skilled professionals, he knew that logically, but they didn’t know you.

They didn’t know how you hummed under your breath when you were concentrating, or how your nose scrunched when you laughed, or the way your fingers always sought his in moments of quiet. They didn’t know that you were his—his light, the only person who could unravel the chaos in his mind with a single touch.

People who didn’t know that you were his future.

Spencer sat in the waiting room. His body refused to move. His mind, for once, refused to help him escape.

The world around him was muted — washed out, like it had been drained of all its color and sound.

The team had tried, at first. JJ had murmured reassurances, her voice soft. Hotch had spoken to the doctors, gathering information Spencer couldn’t bring himself to ask for.

But eventually, they all fell silent, giving him space—or maybe they just realized there was nothing they could say.

Their voices were background noise, distant and foggy.

None of it mattered. The only thing that felt real was the small, satiny box burning a hole in his pocket.

His fingers twitched toward it instinctively, tracing the edges through the fabric of his slacks. He had carried it with him for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment. A quiet evening, maybe. A walk under the stars. Somewhere peaceful, where he could tell you—with all the words he’d practiced in his head—just how irrevocably in love with you he was.

But now the future felt like it was dangling over a cliff.

A sharp, involuntary breath tore from his lungs as the reality crashed over him again—you were hurt. You were lying on an operating table, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. His mind, usually so quick with solutions, was horrifyingly blank.

No calculations, no probabilities, just raw, paralyzing fear.

It was too much. The walls, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the sound of machines — it all felt like it was suffocating him.

So Spencer walked out.

He didn’t say a word to anyone. He just moved, his legs barely working beneath him, until he found himself outside, stumbling toward a bench just beyond the sliding emergency doors. 

He sat down heavily, the world still spinning.

And then—he pulled it out.

The ring.

The one he had agonized over for weeks, searching for something that would capture you—your brilliance, your warmth, the way your laughter felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. It was perfect. Delicate, elegant with a diamond that caught the light like the spark in your eyes when you teased him.

His throat tightened.

He had tried to shield you. God, he had tried. The bruise throbbing along his left side was proof—he’d thrown himself between you and the unsub without hesitation. But it hadn’t been enough. A split-second miscalculation, a fraction too slow, and—

The unsub’s strike had landed on you instead.

Spencer’s fingers trembled as he opened the box. The diamond glimmered faintly under the hospital’s lights, and he traced it with a feather-light touch.

Then he closed it. A tear fell.

It landed on the satin with a quiet tap, the fabric darkening where the droplet soaked in. Spencer didn’t wipe it away. He just stared blankly ahead, his vision blurring.

The doors slid open with a soft ding. Footsteps.

“Hey, Reid.”

Garcia’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued, stripped of its usual warmth. No silly nicknames, no bubbly reassurances. Just Reid. That alone told him everything.

She only ever called him that when things were bad. When she didn’t have the energy for sweetness or nicknames.

He didn’t turn. Couldn’t. But his shoulders slumped slightly, another tear escaping before he could stop it.

She sat beside him. Garcia said nothing for a moment. 

Then her breath hitched, just barely. She’d seen it.

The ring.

Garcia’s fingers dug into the edge of the bench, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep her composure. No gasp, no dramatic reaction—just a sharp inhale, her eyes flicking between the box and Spencer’s shattered expression.

Spencer finally spoke. His voice was barely a whisper, rough around the edges.

“I was going to do it soon,” he murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles along the box.

Garcia didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. Just let him speak — or try to.

“I was… uhm…” he started, but his voice cracked on the words. He took a shaky breath, his lips trembling.

“I—I just…” His sentence broke apart, lost in the ache in his throat. Another tear slipped down his cheek, falling silently into his lap.

Three minutes of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Spencer’s grip on the ring box hadn’t loosened; his knuckles were bone-white.

“She talked to me about it.” Garcia’s voice was soft, barely louder than the evening breeze, but it shattered the quiet like glass.

Spencer finally moved. Just his head, slow and mechanical, as if even that small motion took unbearable effort. His eyes—red-rimmed, glistening—locked onto hers.

“What?” The word came out breathless, like he was afraid of the answer.

Garcia’s smile was fragile, a ghost of her usual brightness.

“She was talking about a future with you,” she murmured, her own tears now shimmering under the hospital’s lights. “Said how she wanted to marry you.”

A sharp inhale. Spencer’s chest constricted, his pulse roaring in his ears.

You had talked about it. You had imagined it.

You had wanted—

“When?” The question was raw.

Garcia swiped at her cheek with her thumb, her voice steadier now, as if she knew he needed this—needed to hear it.

“Last month. After that case in Vermont, remember? When you two stayed behind to watch the sunrise.” A watery chuckle. “She said… it was the first time she let herself really picture it. The dress. The vows. You, in some mismatched suit, quoting Dostoevsky at the altar.”

A sound escaped him—half sob, half disbelieving laugh—as his grip on the box tightened. His vision blurred again, but this time, it wasn’t just from fear.

You had wanted it too.

Spencer closed his eyes. His free hand lifted, pressing against his mouth as if he could physically hold back the wave of emotion threatening to drown him.

Garcia didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to.

Because in that moment, Spencer remembered—

The way you’d curled against him on the couch last week, murmuring about someday buying a house with too many bookshelves.

The way you’d kissed his forehead after a nightmare and whispered, “You’re stuck with me, Spencer Reid.”

The way you’d already chosen him, long before he’d even bought the ring.

And now, all he could do was pray, that he’d still get the chance to hear the word yes.

Spencer’s thumb traced the satin edge of the box one more time, when the hospital doors hissed open behind them.

Morgan’s voice cut through the night air like a lifeline.

“She’s stable.”

Spencer was on his feet before he’d fully processed the words, the ring box fumbled into his pocket with none of his usual precision. His long legs carried him forward in a daze, past Morgan’s relieved sigh, past Garcia’s watery “Thank God”, past everything except the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

The fluorescent lights of the hallway stung his eyes as he burst through the doors. A nurse was speaking to Hotch near the reception desk, her clipboard clutched tight. Hotch didn’t hesitate—he took one look at Spencer’s ashen face and pointed sharply at him, his authoritative “Take him first” leaving no room for argument.

The nurse nodded, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum as she turned. “Right this way.”

The smell of antiseptic burned his nose. Machines beeped behind half-closed doors. Somewhere, a phone rang. None of it mattered.

The door creaked as Spencer pushed it open, his breath catching in his throat. And there you were—alive, breathing, real—propped up on hospital pillows.

A thick bandage wrapped around your waist peeked out from beneath the thin hospital gown. A brutal reminder of how close he'd come to losing you.

His knees actually buckled.

For a man who could calculate structural load-bearing limits in his head, who knew exactly how much force it took to collapse a human body, Spencer Reid suddenly understood physics in a whole new way.

The relief hit him like a tsunami, nearly bringing him to the ground as your eyelids fluttered open.

"Spencer." Your voice was hoarse, barely audible over the beep of the heart monitor, but it might as well have been a symphony.

He was at your side in three frantic strides, his long fingers trembling as they reached for you.

One hand cradled your face like you were made of glass, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. The other combed through your hair with desperate reverence, as if needing to map every strand to prove you were really here.

"I love you." The words tumbled out raw and unpolished. "God, I love you so much it hurts." His forehead pressed against yours.

You managed a weak smile, lifting a heavy hand to curl around his wrist. "Missed you too, genius," you murmured, your thumb stroking his pulse point where it raced against your fingertips.

His fingertips brushed your cheek, feather-light, like he was scared you’d vanish if he touched you too hard. Then your hair, his fingers slipping gently through it. He trailed them down to your jaw, over the edge of the bandage on your shoulder, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You’re really here,” Spencer whispered, almost in awe, like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “I thought—”

He stopped himself, choking on the rest of the sentence. The tears in his eyes caught the hospital light, shimmering but not falling. He took a deep breath, shaking his head slowly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “You’re okay. That’s all I care about.”

Your smile was faint, tired, but so full of love. You reached for him, weakly, your fingers brushing against his hand.

“Sit down,” you murmured.

He moved instantly, the mattress dipping under his weight as he perched on the edge of your hospital bed.

But he didn't let go.

His hands remained locked around yours, fingers lacing through yours.

Spencer's hands trembled around yours as a single tear tracked down his cheek. "I'm sorry," he choked out, the words thick with guilt.

His shoulders curled inward like he was physically bearing the weight of his failure. "I should've—I could've—" His voice fractured, unable to articulate the countless scenarios his brilliant mind had already calculated where this might have been prevented.

You interrupted him with the gentlest squeeze of his fingers.

"Spencer," you murmured, waiting until his shattered gaze lifted to meet yours. The love shining through your exhaustion stopped his breath.

"You did protect me. That tackle you made bought the team those crucial seconds." A faint smile touched your lips. "My genius hero."

His lower lip quivered violently as he absorbed your words, your forgiveness, your unwavering faith in him.

In that moment, Spencer made his decision.

"I almost lost you today," he rasped, his voice raw with the terror of that reality. His thumbs traced desperate circles over your knuckles. "And I just—" A shuddering breath. "I can't—"

The satin box materialized in his shaking hand as if by pure instinct. He knew the timing was absurd—knew Hotch would raise an eyebrow and Morgan would tease him mercilessly later about proposing in a hospital. 

But the thought of waiting one more day, one more hour, without you knowing…

The box clicked open to reveal a delicate pear-cut diamond ring.

Spencer's entire being focused on your face as he whispered the three words that had kept him breathing when your heart monitor had flatlined for those eleven eternal seconds:

"Marry me. Please."

Spencer knew how this looked—knew every logical reason why this moment was all wrong. The antiseptic smell clinging to your skin. The way your hospital gown gaped where they'd cut it away for the bullet wound. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor counting each precious second you'd almost lost.

None of it mattered.

Your gasp was the only sound that existed.

"Oh my God, Spencer—" Your voice broke, tears welling so fast they spilled over before you could blink them away.

His own vision blurred as he watched them trace paths down your cheeks. The mathematician in him noted their trajectory—how they followed the exact same lines they had when you'd cried over his concussion last winter. The man in him just wanted to kiss each one away.

"I know," he whispered, thumb brushing your knuckles where the IV disappeared into your skin. His voice was raw, stripped down to its barest truth. "This isn't... there should've been candlelight. Or—or that little bookstore you love. Not..." A shaky gesture at the blood pressure cuff still wrapped around your arm.

Your fingers tightened around his with surprising strength. "Spencer." Just his name, but it held galaxies.

He swallowed hard. "I had this whole speech memorized. Fibonacci sequences and—and the chemical composition of diamonds." A wet laugh escaped him. "But all I can think is that I almost never got to ask you at all."

The ring trembled in his grip as he lifted it between you—a question, a promise, a plea all in one.

"Say you'll still have me? Even like this?"

The moment the word "yes" left your lips, something miraculous happened—the sharp ache in your side, the throbbing where the bullet had grazed you, even the metallic hospital taste clinging to your tongue all dissolved.

"A million times yes," you choked out between tearful laughter, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth. The movement tugged at your IV line, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Not when Spencer was looking at you like this—his smile so radiant it outshone the fluorescent lights overhead.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his elegant fingers—usually so steady—trembled around the ring. The diamond caught the light as he lifted it. When you offered your left hand, your own fingers shook in tandem with his.

Your vision swam dangerously, the heart monitor beside you spiking as the ring settled at the base of your finger.

This time, the dizziness had nothing to do with blood loss and everything to do with the man currently pressing tear-stained kisses to your newly adorned hand—his lips warm and desperate against your skin, whispering "thank you" like a prayer against your knuckles.

For a dizzying moment, you wondered if the pain meds had finally tipped you into hallucination—until Spencer's tear hit your wrist, warm and startlingly real.

You stared down at the diamond.

"Good choice," you murmured without thinking, your thumb brushing over the band in awed distraction.

Spencer's laughter burst forth like sunlight through storm clouds. The tears clinging to his lashes trembled with the force of it. 

"Only you," he choked out, his long fingers cradling your hand like sacred artifact, "would critique my proposal technique while wearing a heart monitor."

Your bottom lip betrayed you again. The diamond blurred behind a fresh sheen of tears as you whispered, "I'd say yes in a warzone if it was you asking."

Spencer smiled softly, still staring at your hand in awe.

"So," you murmured. "Does this mean I get to call you fiancé now?"

The word struck him like a physical blow. You saw it in the sudden hitch of his shoulders, the way his breath left him in a rush. His lips—those beautifully expressive lips that could recite entire academic papers from memory—parted soundlessly before forming the word himself: "Fiancé."

He tasted it. Savored it.

"I think..." A slow, dazed smile bloomed across his face. His free hand rose to brush a stray tear from your cheek with impossible gentleness. "I think I like that more than any other title I've ever had."

You laughed, wincing slightly when the movement tugged at your stitches, but the pain was distant, unimportant.

Spencer’s hand immediately flew to your side, hovering protectively. “Easy,” he chided gently, but his worry melted into another grin when you rolled your eyes at him.

You caught his fluttering hand mid-air, weaving your fingers through his. The new weight on your left hand felt foreign yet thrilling.

"So...a wedding," you said, watching how the words made his breath hitch.

A slow smile spread across your face as you imagined it - Spencer at the end of some sun-dappled aisle, his long fingers nervously adjusting a tie that Garcia would undoubtedly insist was "aubergine" instead of purple. The way his voice would shake reading vows he'd secretly rewritten seventeen times.

His thumb began tracing absent circles on your knuckle.

You could practically see the calculations whirring behind those whiskey-warm eyes—percentage chances of rain in Virginia springs, optimal guest count-to-cake ratio equations—until your gentle squeeze derailed his racing thoughts. 

A blush bloomed across his cheekbones, that endearing pink flush you'd first fallen for during his rookie days when Hotch would praise his profiles.

His expression softened into something wistful.

"I always thought," he started slowly, "that it would be small. Just the team." His thumb brushed over your ring in a reverent circle. "Maybe my mom, if she's having a good day."

The way his eyes softened at the mention of Diana told you everything—how he'd already imagined her smoothing his lapels with her delicate hands, how he'd practiced explaining the ceremony to her during their weekly calls. "Somewhere quiet. Outside, maybe."

You smiled so wide your stitches protested, but the pain was secondary to the warmth spreading through your chest.

Your thumb also traced the familiar ridge of his knuckles—those ridges you'd memorized during late-night case files and early morning coffee runs.

"Under oak trees," you mused, watching his eyes light up in recognition. "The kind with leaves that turn to copper in fall. Garcia can string fairy lights through the branches..."

Spencer's nose scrunched adorably. "She'll insist on coordinating them to our birth charts."

A laugh burst from your lips, as you continued your movements on his hand.

"We could get married under that giant sycamore at Quantico," he offered suddenly, his voice gaining momentum. "The one by the cold case archives. Rossi knows a violinist who—" He cut himself off, blinking. "I've... apparently given this more thought than I realized."

You brought his hand to your lips, kissing each fingertip. "My meticulous man." The diamond caught the light as you moved.

The hospital room hummed softly around you—monitors beeping, voices murmuring in the hall—but all you could focus on was the weight of Spencer’s hand in yours.

"You’re really going to be my wife," he murmured, voice low and reverent.

You smiled, your free hand lifting to brush a loose curl from his forehead. "And you’re really going to be my husband." The word felt foreign and thrilling on your tongue.

Spencer’s breath hitched, his lashes fluttering as he leaned into your touch. "Husband," he repeated, testing the weight of it. His lips curved into a slow, wondering smile. "I like the way that sounds."

"You’d better," you teased, your thumb tracing the arch of his cheekbone. "Because you’re stuck with me now, Dr. Reid."

He laughed, soft and breathless, before his expression softened into something unbearably tender. "I’ve never been happier to be stuck with anything in my life."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. You tugged him closer, until his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "We’re really doing this," you whispered.

His fingers tightened around yours. "We really are."

[beth-yeet365]

hello! I hope you're having a nice weekend and everything is well, I was trying to make this not too similar of a theme to past requests but I understand if it is! I was wondering if you could perhaps write something with remus (or another character of course) where the reader just cannot stop crying? Just comforting reader whos having one of those moments where it seems like nothing will stop you from being upset? Something roughly along those lines perhaps? Understand if not appealing, thank you :)

Hi! I did this with Spencer, I hope that's alright sweetness. Thank you for requesting <33

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 632 words

You’ve pulled Spencer’s throw tight around your shoulders. It’s squeezing, warm and soft and safe. Spencer has got your socked foot in his hand, massaging your arch in a way that hurts beautifully. You’re watching one of the rare movies you’re both interested in. Everything about your evening makes the perfect recipe for contentment, and for some reason you feel like you’re cracking open. 

The first tear marks a slow, hot path down your cheek, and another follows before it’s dripped off your chin. There are a few more before a hitch in your breathing makes Spencer look over. His grip on your foot loosens. 

“Sorry,” you laugh wetly before he has a chance to say anything. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“I…” Another laugh chokes its way out of you, and you swipe underneath your eyes. They just keep coming. “I don’t know.” 

“Is it the movie?” 

“I don’t think so.” You shake your head. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Spencer says quietly. It makes your stifled sounds seem louder. He works a hand up to clasp loosely around your ankle, a notch forming between his brows. “Are you upset about something?” 

“No.” A tiny sob shudders out of you, and his grip tightens. “Nothing important.” 

Spencer frowns. He’s got that face like when the crossword is actually difficult for him, a slight purse to his lips and a particular keenness around his eyes. “Do you know where you are in your menstrual cycle?” 

You scoff, pulling your legs closer to you. “Seriously?” 

“If your estrogen levels are dropping, you could be experiencing a decrease in serotonin.” It’s said in what you know to be his gentlest tone, but it doesn’t make you feel any better. “You know, crying can actually be really beneficial. It’s believed to be a uniquely human behavior, but tears can release stress hormones and crying for a long time can even trigger the release of endorphins.” 

You pull the blanket tighter around you, holding your rib cage closed, and try to give him a smile. You know that rationalizing is how Spencer copes. You get that he’s trying to do the same for you. You just don’t work that way. 

His brows pull up in the middle. “This isn’t really helping, is it?’ 

You’re not sure how to reply, but then he’s leaning forward, wrapping his arms around you. Another sob muffles into his shoulder, and Spencer squeezes your upper back solidly. Predictably, he’s even better than the blanket. 

“This helps,” you squeak out. 

“Good.” Spencer sounds tentative, but his hold tightens. He shuffles sideways on the couch to get you closer. “You should—you can just cry, if you need to. It’s good for you.” 

You want to laugh again, you think you can quiet yourself and squash this down and make like it never happened, but then Spencer’s long fingers splay out between your shoulder blades and something inside you collapses.

You stop trying to breathe through it. You don’t fight the roaring in your ears, or the galloping in your chest. You cry until you can feel your heart beating in your sinuses. 

Spencer’s shoulder is wet with tears and snot, and he’s rocking you a little, quiet but there. His hand steadies your shoulders when they shake, riding out the jolting sobs like driftwood on a stormy sea. When you grow quiet, he presses his cheek to the side of your head. 

“Do you want some water?” he asks softly. 

“No, thank you,” you croak back. 

If he thinks you need it, Spencer doesn’t comment. It’ll be sitting on your nightstand when you go to bed. 

“Do you want me to keep holding you?” 

You turn your face into his neck. “Yes, please.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I can do that.” 

[beth-yeet365]

hello mae!!!

if inspiration strikes i'd love to request either a bruise in the shape of a boot print or blood seeping through clothes with spencer x bau!reader? thank you in advance, i hope your weekend was lovely! <3

Hi, thank you sweetness I hope your weekend was lovely too! <3

cw: injury? I'm not sure how to put it exactly but bau!reader gets moderately hurt while working basically. Oh also a squatter is taken into police custody for basically nothing but don't worry he's going to be questioned and released he's okay

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 579 words

You hold your breath as Spencer brushes his fingertips over the discoloration on your ribs. You hold your breath, but you don’t wince. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs anyway, eyes scanning you over. He wants to flick on his flashlight to see better, but he knows you’d run away before he could really look. Or hobble away, whatever you’re capable of right now. “I think he broke your rib.” 

You’re sitting on the curb a few meters away from your crime scene. It’s dark out, early morning, but an anonymous call brought the BAU out to check out a body that may be the latest victim in their case. 

There wasn’t supposed to be anybody around. The squatter caught you all by surprise and you him, Spencer and JJ chasing him down from the second floor. You’d been at the bottom of the stairs. Hadn’t even drawn your weapon before he kicked you down like a door to get you out of his path. 

“Just one rib?” you ask, wry. 

Spencer tilts his head, inspecting the bruising. “Maybe a few.” 

“Ah.” You lean your head back. You’re far enough into the country that you can see the stars, fading one by one as the sky lightens. “Perfect.” 

Spencer wants to reach out his hand more intimately, to touch you, to pull you closer, but he knows better than to make you look like you need taking care of. Not with your team so nearby, not with the reputation you’ve worked so hard to earn for yourself. Instead, he says in a soft voice, “Breathe.” 

You inhale. It looks like it hurts. 

Spencer’s chest aches faintly. He wonders whether it’s due to sympathy pains or something else. “This never should have happened.” 

Now you wince. “I know. I’m sorry, I should have been prepared.” 

“No.” He frowns. “You weren’t supposed to be prepared. JJ and I should have caught him before he got to you.” 

After the squatter knocked you down, Hotch caught him on the way out the door. They’re taking him in for questioning because he was found at a crime scene, but you all know he’s not your unsub. It makes you getting hurt feel even more pointless. 

“It’s not that bad,” you say.

“I can see his boot print on your chest.” 

“Can you really?” You look down. It causes you to bend slightly, the sort of minute movement you normally wouldn't notice, but now you suck in a breath. “Ow.” 

“Ow,” Spencer agrees compassionately. He covers your side with his hand, gentle but steadying. 

You shift, trying to find a comfortable position. “Could you make out a boot size?” you ask. 

“Probably. Why?” 

“Just curious.” 

“You know we already have him in custody. And he’s not our unsub.” 

“Yeah I know.” You shrug, wincing. You’re discovering all the things rib fractures make inconvenient. “It’d just be cool. Like, if I ever did get kicked by an unsub. In theory.” 

“You’d probably just catch them,” says Spencer. 

“Didn’t catch this one.” 

“Well, you were caught offguard. I’m sure it won’t happen a second time.” 

You laugh, then gasp, hand covering Spencer’s on your side. “Ow. Stop that.” 

“Sorry,” he says, genuinely contrite. “You’re going to have to go to the hospital.” 

“Yeah, I know.” It takes a moment to subdue your grimace, but you push out your bottom lip a little, meeting his eyes. “Hold my hand?” 

Spencer knows you’re likely teasing. He thinks he’ll do it anyway. 

[beth-yeet365]

Any Dad!JJ? You’re just one of the best at writing him.

dad!jj for the soul !!!!! i hope you enjoy, angel! i really enjoyed writing this one! 🤍

jj's elated when he sees his six year old babygirl, avery, walking out of her classroom. it's three-thirty on the dot, a time jj looks forward to daily when he picks up your daughter and takes her to work with him while they wait for you to meet them there after work.

avery reaches him, and he crouches down to her height so he can press a kiss to her cheek. "hi, babygirl."

"hi, daddy!"

he loves how chipper his little girl gets when she's around him. she lets it be known that she adores his presence, and that's what he's always dreamed of as a parent.

"mama killed it on your hair today," he says. he yanks gently at one of the braids you'd put into her hair earlier this morning. "look at these. phew. think my babygirl's a model."

she giggles at her father's affectionate words, cheeks heating with love. her squeals grow louder when jj scoops her up and makes his way to his truck. he buckles her into her booster seat, ruffling up the top of her hair playfully before shutting the door and getting into the driver's seat.

"hey, daddy?"

"'sup, aves?" he asks, pulling out of the parking lot and starting on the journey to the auto shop.

"what colours do boys like best?"

he arches a brow. "what d'ya mean, sweet girl?"

"dunno...like what colour do you like most on mama?"

"hmmm," jj says, pondering out loud. "that's a hard one, baby. i think your mama looks good in everythin'."

an adorable huff escapes her pursed lips. "daddy. 'm serious. you have to pick one."

the truck zooms down the road, passing by avery's favourite fast food joint. jj can't help but speed up just a smidge, hoping and praying that she won't look out the window and wrangle a chicken finger combo out of him. 'cause then he'd have to get one for her. he's never said no to his princess and he doesn't plan on changing that any time soon.

"mm, i guess i'd say red. i like when she wears that matching lipstick too."

jj looks up at the rear view mirror, catching the way avery nods before a presumable heat takes over her face. the dimple she'd gotten from him peeks through as she smiles to herself.

"what're you smilin' about?"

"nothing, daddy. i just think i'm gonna wear red for the dance tomorrow."

he arches a brow, but he doesn't push her on her answer. "whatever you want, babygirl."

˖ . ݁ 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

jj hears the click-clacking of high heels against the floors of the auto-shop, and he doesn't need to wheel out from underneath the station wagon he's working on to know it's you.

"hi, mommy!" avery greets cheerfully, getting off the spinning chair jj had secured for her from the break room. she runs over to you as quickly as her smaller feet can manage, and you meet her with an equally thrilled grin. you pick her up and squeeze her into a tight hug.

"hi, baby." you smooth down some of her frizz. "how was school?"

"it was good. chrissy shared her chocolate bar with me, and kyle gave me a flower at recess."

neither of you can see it, but jj makes a face under the car.

kyle? who the fuck was kyle?

"he's a good best friend to you, baby," you tell her. "did you thank him?"

"yes. and he's not my best friend anymore, mama. he's my boyfriend."

this time, you do see jj's reaction. or, rather, hear it anyway.

"what?!"

something that sounds like a bang rings through the air, followed by a shit (to which your daughter snickers, always one to find her father hilarious). then, he rolls out from beneath the vehicle, rubbing his forehead to ease the sharp pain. his eyes find your daughter's, though, and he's as stern as you've ever seen him.

"aves— you can't have a boyfriend!"

"daddy, i'm six. i'm not a baby," avery reminds him, sounding every bit like a teenager instead of her actual age. the sass never failed to make you smile.

just like her daddy.

"yes, you are still a baby! my baby!"

"j—" you interject.

"nah. nope. no way."

"why don't you go back over there and colour, angel?" she nods, and you set her down, watching as she runs back to her chair. she takes a sip of her apple juice, bringing her attention back to her artwork.

deciding she's not at all bothered by jj's theatrics, you walk over to him and help him stand. you look up into his cerulean eyes when he towers above you. "babe, relax. she's six."

"exactly! she's a baby! she can't have a boyfriend. s'just not happenin'."

you give him a knowing smile, your arms looping around the back of his neck. "you were my boyfriend when we were six," you remind him. "don't think you found anything wrong about that back then."

he frowns, but pulls you in closer by your hips anyway. no matter what, any time he's around you without touching you, it just seems like a waste.

"that's different. i was a nice boy."

you both realize avery's been listening quietly when she chimes in. "kyle's nice too, daddy. he kisses my cheek everyday at the end of school."

she says it like it's a fact. like kyle never misses out on what infuriatingly sounds like a tradition to jj.

jj thinks he's having a stroke.

"he's puttin' his lips on you, now?!" his forehead falls to your shoulder, and he slumps against you like the six-foot baby he is. "oh god, i think i'm gonna be sick." a beat passes, and then he distances himself from you. the sulk is still prominent on his face, and now, it's probably permanent. he pulls at his collar, shifting uncomfortably as he tries to fan himself off. "'m i sweating?"

avery hops down from her chair, strutting over to her father and tugging at the leg of his coveralls, silently requesting that he crouch down to her height. of course, jj immediately falls in line.

"don't be mad, daddy."

"wait, wait, wait— is kyle the reason you're wearin' red tomorrow?!"

"don't worry, daddy." she pats his cheek like he's the one who needs reassurance. to be fair, he clearly is. "kyle's nice. just like you."

and with that, she trots off back to her chair with a cheshire cat smile, clearly feeling accomplished.

"yeah. he better be," jj mutters bitterly, standing back up.

your hands reach out to grab a hold of your husband again, and it draws his attention back to you. your hands frame his face and you give him a smile. "you're gonna be a total nightmare when she grows up and gets a boyfriend or girlfriend for real."

"damn right, i will. like i said, she's my baby."

you raise a brow. "i thought i was your baby?"

his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then his mouth forms into a smirk. "see now, she's my baby. but you're my baby." his hands migrate down to your ass and he gives you a squeeze. "you pickin' up what i'm puttin' down?"

"oh, i think i am."

concepts ; concepts (ii)

[beth-yeet365]

Endless Cuddles

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summary: Reader cuddles with JJ…..that’s it.

Warnings: Fluff because I’m obsessed with it. :)

Note: @yonlyssguts Thank you so much for requesting! And I’m doing great, I hope you are too, and you enjoy the story I wrote you!

“JJ.”

“Mm?”

A soft laugh was heard, still drowned with sleep, a small raspy hint to it, but he found it all too perfect. “Open your eyes.”

The words were giggled out, and she most definitely see the teasing smirk upon his lips that he thought wasn’t visible.

“And what if I don’t?” He tested, voice muffled by the pillow that was practically stuffed in his face.

“Then no morning cuddles, or kisses,” the girl decided.

A loud squeal was heard as he flipped her over, now looking down at her sparkling tired eyes, still kind of faded from sleep.

“Well I can’t loose those things, can I?” He teased, stroking her hair out of her forehead’s way.

She giggled as his soft lips landed gently on her face, placing kiss after a kiss as he adored her. His mouth then placed a kiss on the tip of her nose before hovering over her own lips, a small smile showing on his face.

Her hands went to his neck, fiddling with the silver necklace he had on. “Why hello.” She giggled out. He smiled wider, leaning so their lips were touching but since they were smiling, the kiss wasn’t quite a kiss.

She finally pressed their mouths together, a soft hum leaving his as he kissed her back.

His lips tasted like salt water yet something sweet she couldn’t place, but she would be lying if she said she cared to figure it out.

“I love you,” JJ murmured against her lips, grabbing her hand to place it over his heart. His skin was smooth, soft and warm and oh so welcoming. It was pounding beneath her fingertips, showing her he meant the words with his whole chest.

Her own heart fluttered, utter happiness flooding her senses.

He loved her.

He loved her.

And she couldn’t be happier.

“And I love you,” she whispered back. The smile that stretched his lips was so wide it made her smile, hiding her face into his neck and pressing small kisses there. The skin was so soft and warm it felt like home.

“Hey,” he playfully scolded, pulling her face out of his neck. “Don’t do that; I want to see your pretty face.”

A laugh bubbled in her throat, covering her face so he still couldn’t see her, feeling his fingers fighting hers.

“No, no young lady. Show me your face; your pretty eyes. Come on,” he tutted, still trying to pry her fingers off her face.

She laughed once more, the noise muffed by her hands.

She finally let him release her hands, smiling wide at the sight of her face.

“There she is,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

She blushed, hiding her face again but this time in his neck. She started lightly kissing it, small and gentle lips on his skin.

“Hey that tickles,” he laughed, and it was her favorite noise ever.

[beth-yeet365]

can you write anything with bau! reader x spencer, who are expecting a baby🥺 i love dad spencer sm🫶🏻

Yes omg dad!Spencer he's my favorite! Hope you like this 🫶❤️

Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: reader a little upset (Spence makes her feel better tho), pregnancy (duh), flufffffff, short and sweet, not proofread, wordcount: 582

You try your best to focus on the task at hand, the stack of paperwork you had been putting off all week, emails on top of emails gathering in your computer's inbox, but the kicks of the baby growing inside you keep your mind elsewhere. Her little, still growing, feet kick into your ribs harshly making any position you try to move into uncomfortable, she just can't seem to keep still today; absolutely restless.

If you were home you might whine to your husband, Spencer, maybe even cry out of frustration but being surrounded by coworkers keeps you from doing both just as much as the baby keeps you from work.

Spencer watches as you rest your left hand on top of your bump -your thumb moving gently back and forth against the fabric of your top- and he smiles at the ring adorned on your finger, but when he takes notice of the slight discomfort etched onto your face his grin quickly dissipates. Your brows are drawn together in what seems to be annoyance, your eyes are closed, and your head is tipped back as you swivel your desk chair back and forth in an attempt to calm yourself and your little one.

you can feel Spencer's eyes raking your figure -he's always been able to read you just as quickly as he can read books- and you keep your eyes shut to avoid his worried glance despite your current need for his safeguard. You don't want him to think you're dramatic, that maybe you're being annoying despite knowing he would never think something like that of you and never has.

One of your eyes cracks open to glance at him and you hope the quick movement of you swiveling in your chair will keep him from noticing your peeking, but of course, he's far too perceptive to not detect your gaze. His head cocks to the side in question, "Are you alright," he asks.

You close your eye again and bring your hands to rub at your face, the tips of your cold fingers digging into your eyes, you're starting to get a headache.

Without warning two large hands land on your shoulders, fingers poke and prod at your skin in a way that makes you sigh in relief. When you tilt your head back -eyes still closed- your husband frowns at you, "I wish you'd tell me when your not feeling good."

you almost don't respond the movement of his fingers gently gliding to your hair and scratching at your scalp makes your bottom lip quiver slightly. "I'm okay." Your voice breaks when you speak and Spencer doesn't comment on it, he doesn't want to make you actually cry by pointing it out, instead he moves only one of his also cold hands down the slope of your heated cheeks and rest it there, a gentle remind that he's here for you.

"You look pretty, do you know that," he moves his head closer to your ear to whisper to you, "beautiful."

That finally makes your eyes snap open and he's grinning at you again. Groaning at how his teasing worked to get you looking at him, you tilt your head and lay a kiss on the palm of his hand, "your child is restless," You complain to him, "she gets it from you."

"I'm sorry." His words are sickeningly genuine, they make you smile.

"Its okay baby, I still love you."

He responds to your tease, "You better."

[beth-yeet365]

pretty boy

summary - the team is out for drinks and people can’t stop hitting on your boyfriend

pairing - spencer reid x bau!gf

word count - +1k

“He’s so hot.”

“Ugh that hair!”

“He is so kissable.”

You had only been at the bar for an hour and you’d already hit your limit for the amount of women that have hit on your boyfriend.

The worst thing about it, is that Spencer is so oblivious to it that you feel silly for being even a little bit jealous.

You were currently at the bar ordering some drinks and were listening to a group of girls lust after your boyfriend, who was currently sitting with the rest of the team in a booth.

“I mean seriously… he looks like he’d know how to please a woman.” One of them said.

You gave the girls a brief look to make sure you weren’t making things up in your head and to your dismay they were all looking Spencer’s way. Curse him for sitting at the end of the booth.

You then looked back to Spencer who was listening intensely to something Rossi was saying.

He did look good. Like, really good.

He’d recently had a haircut that made him look that little bit older, whilst also keeping that youth. Hotch had told him he looked like he was part of a boy-band, which in a way he did. The hot one, if he was.

You loved his new hair. It was so fluffy and soft. Perfect to run your hands through.

It just irked you that other people were thinking the same thing. And so openly.

He was even extra handsome tonight with his work clothes on. It was hot so he had taken off his waistcoat, so it was just his shirt - which he had rolled the sleeves up on - his loose tie and his fitted trousers.

“I’m going to go talk to him.” One of them said, making you tense up.

You wished the bartender would hurry up so you could go back and sit next to Spencer already. You trust Spencer more than anything - but it was these girls you didn’t trust.

“Oh my God. Never mind. He’s coming over here. How’s my hair?”

You thanked the bartender as he placed the drinks on a circular tray in front of you.

The girls were all nervously excited next to you.

Until they weren’t.

Because you felt Spencer slide up behind you, resting one of his hands at the bottom of your spine and the other placed on the bar edge.

“You okay?” He asked, leaning down to kiss the top of your head as you swayed your body into his.

Spencer was standing perpendicular to you so it gave you the opportunity to rest the side of your head on his chest. It allowed you to just breathe him in as if it were just you and him in the room.

You nodded slowly, not really knowing how else to answer.

“Need help with these?” He asked, tapping the tray.

“Please.”

“M’kay. I’ll get these. You grab some straws.”

You were sad when his hand left your back to reach for the tray of drinks. You also really wanted to take Spencer away from these girls though.

Before you could both go back, one of the girls touched Spencer on his forearm and questioned him.

“Excuse me, are you two together?” She asked, only looking at Spencer for the answer. It was almost as if you were invisible.

“Uh, yeah. We are.” Spencer gave a polite smile.

“Oh.” She said, surprised.

Spencer didn’t respond and neither did you. He just smiled before nudging you to keep walking.

Once you were out of their earshot he asked, “That was weird right?”

“Yeah.” It was your turn to give him a small smile this time, keeping your head down as you returned to the booth.

<.><.><.>

The atmosphere had changed.

You had felt good at the start of the night - an hour ago - but now everything felt a little different.

It no doubt had everything to do with the girls that had been surprised that Spencer was dating you. Also it didn’t help that Spencer still looked great and was gaining more and more hungry eyes.

You sipped your drink even though you weren’t interested in having a good time any more. You wanted to be alert in case you needed to be for Spencer’s sake.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Spencer said.

He was still sat on the end of the booth, but he had one arm tucker over the back of the booth and down around your shoulder to keep you pressed close to him. For someone who was okay with not fully understanding social interactions, he had always done a perfect job of being with you.

The rest of the team were talking and laughing over drinks.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head.

“It’s not if it’s bothering you.” Spencer argued.

“It’s silly.”

You looked from the team to the rest of the bar where people were still looking Spencer’s way.

Damn, why did he have to be so attractive?

You weren’t sure how to approach the subject with Spencer though. He was too sweet to take his gaze off you for even a second to notice how many gazes were on him. It wasn’t even a him problem. Good for him for looking so pretty, but it was just difficult trying to be okay with the extra attention that him being pretty came with.

It sounded so stupid and it didn’t even make sense to you, so it was impossible trying to think of how to bring it up to Spencer.

“Is it the case?” Spencer asked.

You sighed, “No.”

“Did I do something? I feel like that’s quite likely.”

You shook your head, feeling yourself getting worked up about this.

Spencer’s arm pulled you further into his body and his other arm detached from his drink so he could rest his palm on your thigh.

“I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

“You’re not ruining my night. I just don’t like seeing you upset.”

“I know.”

“Well, you tell me when you want to leave and we’ll go okay?”

“Okay.”

<.><.><.>

Spencer was brushing his teeth when you blurted out those three words.

“Sorry if I was weird tonight.” You apologised, finishing off your nighttime routine in Spencer’s apartment.

He mumbled something along the lines of ‘it doesn’t matter’, but it was hard to tell when he had a mouth full of toothpaste.

Your chest heaved heavy breaths as you watched him with adoration.

He looked so soft and homely standing in his bathroom, brushing his teeth in his pyjamas with you. He was just so damn perfect and it was because of that that you had to tell him.

“It was your hair!” You blurted out before you could control yourself.

“Huh?” He questioned with a mouthful of toothpaste still. He took a brief glance to the mirror to check his hair before turning back to you.

“Your hair! I think it’s made you really hot. N-not that you weren’t hot before Spence but- oh my god, what am I saying?” You let out a shaky breath before continuing, “I was jealous okay? Really jealous because everyone at that bar was staring at you like they wanted you and I-I know you and me are— and you would never— and I — but I just…

Spencer spat out his toothpaste.

“Y/N…”

“I couldn’t stop thinking that like you’re mine and what right did they have to chat you up, let alone look at you that way? I mean—.”

“Babe…”

“I love you, okay?!” You proclaimed. You stood there in shock for a moment, not knowing where to take this now that you’d announced that.

“Y/N…”

“I do.” You nodded rapidly, “I do, I really do love you a-and I think it really hit me tonight when I saw you being loved on by all those other women.”

Spencer dropped his toothbrush and took a step towards you.

“All of that tonight was because you love me?” He questioned, trying to wrap his head around this.

“I think so, yeah.”

You pulled the sleeves of your jumper down over your hands as something to fidget with. You were growing nervous now for Spencer to say something.

“Well that makes sense.” He nodded, “I.. I think that means I love you too.”

“Really?” You asked, eyes wide as you watched him figure things out for himself.

“Yeah. I mean… I was frustrated as you sounded at all those men looking at you all night. It was driving me crazy.”

“People looking at me?” You frowned.

“You were the prettiest person in the room.”

“Spence…” You pouted, feeling your eyes tear with happy emotions.

You can’t believe that he had been feeling the exact same as you all this time. All it would have taken was a conversation earlier to talk things through and you both wouldn’t have been feeling so vulnerable.

“I love you, Y/N, even though I’m telling you in the most un-romantic setting.”

“You’re wrong. This is like the most romantic it could be for me.” You smiled and looped your arms around his neck. You felt his come around your waist.

“This?”

“Yeah. You, me and a little bit of toothpaste. That’s all I need to know that I love you.”

“And my hair.”

“Huh?”

“I distinctly remember you talking about how hot my hair was before…” He chuckled and you thumped your forehead down on his chest to escape the embarrassment.

“Stop.”

“No, never. Just like I’m never getting another haircut.”

You lifted your head at that, resting your chin on his chest as you looked up at him with heart eyes.

“I could live with that.” You smiled.

Spencer stayed looking at you for a few moments.

You could tell he was taking a minute to process everything as well as continue to study every little feature on your face. You prompted him to say something when he stared a little too long though.

“Just like seeing you smile. That’s all.” He said.

It was as simple as that.

You both loved each other. You both loved seeing each other smile. To keep that a forever kind of thing you would have to promise communication and accept there’ll be moments of jealousy. Those moments will be made better though when you remind each other that it’s each other you’re going home to.

[beth-yeet365]

Slightly Stolen

JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

Being John B's twin sister means navigating life alongside the island's most charming troublemaker: JJ Maybank. With every wild plan leading to chaos—and often near jail time—he's the most wholesome distraction you never asked for. But when a reckless escape from a crime scene ends with him stealing your first kiss, everything changes.

Notes: fluff and angsty, no mention of (Y/N). they're like 15 (before Season 1), stolen kiss and everything :D

Words: 1k

It was one of those summer days that seemed endless, the air humid and heavy with salt, the sun dipping low in the sky. You, JJ, and John B had been out all day, doing what you all did best—getting into trouble. This time, you were investigating some shady dealings down by the old, abandoned docks, hoping to find clues about an old smuggling operation. It was JJ’s idea, obviously.

You crouched low behind a stack of crates, your heart racing. You were with JJ, while your twin brother John B was somewhere further ahead, scouting the area. The docks were quiet, except for the distant sound of waves lapping against the wooden beams and the occasional cry of a seagull.

“Okay, this feels like a bad idea,” you whispered in JJ’s ear, your voice barely above the sound of waves lapping against the rotting wood. JJ flashed you that trademark grin, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Relax, we’ve done worse.”

Despite his easy smile, there was tension in his voice. You two were risking getting caught, and you both knew it. But for JJ, the thrill was part of the fun. You, on the other hand, were always the more cautious one. You weren’t afraid—never were—but that little voice in your head had a knack for keeping you one step ahead of disaster. This time, though, it felt like that voice was warning you to run.

Just as you both were about to move from their hiding spot, you heard footsteps.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you shot JJ a panicked look. His face immediately grew serious as he motioned for you to stay low.

“Anyone down here?”

You could hear the police officer tried to call someone out—you and JJ, theoretically. The footsteps grew louder, the police officer coming closer.

“What do we do? We’re screwed if they catch us here!” you whispered frantically, a bead of sweat trickling down your back as panic surged through you.

JJ’s eyes darted around, thinking fast. You two were too far from where your brother was hiding, and there was no time to run. Then, suddenly, he did something that caught you completely off guard.

“Close your eyes.”

Without a word, JJ grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you out of the shadows, pressing you against the side of the crate. Before you could even process what was happening, his lips were on yours.

Your mind went blank.

You stiffened for a split second, heart racing for an entirely different reason now. But as the officer’s footsteps got even closer, you understood—he was trying to make it look like you were just a couple sneaking around, nothing suspicious. Playing along—or maybe just feeling yourself—you melted into the kiss, hands instinctively gripping the front of his t-shirt.

From behind them, they could hear the officer’s voice.

“Damn kids...” he grumbled in a low and rough voice, clearly annoyed. The footsteps receded, the officer seemed disinterested in breaking up what he assumed was a stolen moment between two teenagers.

As soon as the coast was clear, JJ pulled back, breathless but grinning.

“Worked, didn’t it?”

You didn’t answer at first, your heart still hammering in you chest. You stared at him, wide-eyed, the lingering warmth of the kiss still buzzing on your lips. It was all an act—you knew that—but something about the way JJ had kissed you felt... real. And that thought sent a shiver through you that you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

You were still trying to catch your breath, clearly dazed when replying, “Yeah… totally.”

JJ didn’t seem to notice your dazed expression, still riding the adrenaline high of nearly getting caught.

“You should thank me,” JJ teased you. “Pretty sure that was the smoothest getaway we’ve ever had.”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to play it cool.

“Oh yeah, real smooth, JJ.”

But deep down, you were anything but smooth. In fact, you were pretty sure your cheeks were still flushed, and your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. You could barely look at him without feeling the heat rise to your face again.

As they started to head back toward John B, who was waiting for them near the edge of the dock, you blurted out the confession before you could stop yourself.

“That was... my first kiss,” you murmured.

JJ turned to you, his brow furrowing in surprise.

“Wait, seriously?” his eyes widened innocently, genuinely surprised. His lips parted a little, jaw creaking open.

You nodded, biting your lip, feeling the embarrassment flood through you. You cursed yourself for even saying anything. Why had you told him? He didn’t need to know that! You’d definitely would be haunted by this memory.

But instead of making a big deal out of it, JJ just smiled, that soft, easy grin that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay.

“Well, then you handled it like a pro.”

He ruffled your hair playfully, completely unaware of how flustered you were inside. Maybe to him, it was just another moment, another close call, another escape.

But for you? It was the moment your harmless childhood crush on JJ started to become something more. You had always liked him—who didn’t like JJ?—but now, you felt it creeping in, that warm feeling in your chest every time he smiled at you or teased you.

You blushed, looking away so he wouldn’t see.

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” you grumbled, clearly trying to hide the blush that started to blossom. “Not happening again.”

JJ just laughed, oblivious, and threw his arm around your shoulders as you two caught up to John B. But you knew you wouldn’t forget it. Even though it had been nothing more than a diversion, that kiss had changed something inside you.

As the three of you headed back toward The Chateau, you walked beside JJ, heart still fluttering, wondering if he’d ever see you as more than just John B’s twin.

[beth-yeet365]

Forever Starts Here

series masterlist

warnings: extreme fluff, happy tears, soft moments

︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Hickory, North Carolina – Early August

The bridal suite smelled like roses and fresh linen, with soft morning sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains and dancing across the hardwood floor. Somewhere in the background, a playlist hummed quietly—an acoustic cover of something familiar and sweet.

Y/N sat at the vanity, still in her robe, as her mom fussed over a curling iron and Brooke pinned the last of the delicate pearl hairpins into her half-up, half-down style. Her reflection looked calm—elegant, even—but inside, butterflies stirred beneath her ribs, flitting from heart to stomach and back again.

“Hold still,” Brooke said gently, placing her hands on Y/N’s shoulders as she adjusted a strand of hair. “If this piece doesn’t cooperate, I swear—”

Y/N laughed, nerves mingling with joy. “I don’t even care how it looks. I just want to get out there and see him.”

Her mom looked up from the steamer, pressing out a final wrinkle in the dress that hung nearby. “You’ll have all day to look at him. Let us enjoy this part.”

Brooke smirked. “Translation: Let your mother cry over you for ten more minutes before she has to hand you off.”

“I’m not crying yet,” her mom said, eyes already glistening.

Y/N turned in her chair, catching both of their gazes. “I love you guys. Thank you for doing all of this—for keeping me sane.”

Brooke leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re my person. Of course I’m here.”

There was a quiet knock at the door.

Jodi peeked her head in, smiling so warmly that Y/N felt her throat close up a little. “Can I steal her for a second?”

Her mom nodded. “Of course. We’ll step out so you two can have a moment.”

When they left, Jodi stepped inside with a small cream envelope in her hands, tied with a single piece of twine.

“It’s from him,” she said softly, handing it over. “He said to make sure you read it before you get dressed.”

Y/N took it carefully, like it might shatter in her hands. She sat back down, pressing her thumb beneath the twine and sliding it off slowly.

The handwriting was unmistakably his.

⸻

Y/N,

I don’t know how to put this into words, which is a little ironic, because that’s all I’ve been trying to do since the moment I knew I wanted to marry you.

But here goes.

You are the calm in my chaos, the steady in my storm. You make the world make sense. I’ve never felt more myself than I do when I’m with you. You’ve taught me what it means to show up, to stay, to love without walls.

Today isn’t the start of us. That started a long time ago.

But it is the start of forever. And I can’t wait to call you my wife.

I’ll be waiting, heart in hand. (You already have it, but you know.)

Love,

Drew

⸻

By the time she finished reading, her eyes were glossy and her breath was slow and shaky. She folded the letter carefully and held it to her chest for a long beat before reaching for a pen and the envelope waiting on the vanity—the one she’d saved for him.

She began to write.

⸻

Drew,

You say I make the world make sense, but the truth is—you are my world. And you’re my favorite part of every day. My place. My best choice.

Marrying you isn’t a leap. It’s the most natural thing in the world. You’ve been home since the start.

So I’ll meet you at the altar with my heart wide open. Because it’s already yours.

See you soon,

Y/N

⸻

She sealed it, wrote For Drew on the front, and handed it to Jodi, who smiled through misty eyes.

“I’ll make sure it gets to him,” she promised.

When she left, Brooke and Y/N’s mom came back in, dress in hand, eyes already lighting up.

“Ready?” her mom asked softly.

Y/N stood, wiping beneath her eyes and smiling. “More than ready.”

Brooke helped her step into the dress, smoothing the fabric over her waist as her mom zipped up the back. The room was quiet, reverent, filled with the kind of silence that means everything.

Y/N turned to the mirror.

And there she was.

Not just the bride.

But his bride.

⸻

The sun filtered softly through the tall oaks that framed the intimate backyard in Hickory, North Carolina. It was warm but not oppressive, with a gentle breeze brushing through the colorful floral arrangements that lined the aisle and surrounded the archway. Blue delphiniums, coral roses, blush peonies—they looked like something out of a dream, just like the rest of the day.

Y/N stood near the side of the house, heart pounding in her chest, her hands lightly gripping her bouquet. She wore a sleek white dress that hugged her perfectly, the fabric flowing behind her like water. The soft sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drifted over from the cocktail area, where about fifty close friends and family gathered, all waiting for the ceremony to begin.

But not yet.

Because before the music, before the vows, before the kiss—there was the first look.

“Okay,” Brooke whispered, adjusting a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear. “Are you ready to see him?”

Y/N nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. “I think I might cry.”

Brooke smiled, her own eyes a little misty. “Then cry. It’s your day.”

Drew stood with his back turned near the edge of the garden, fidgeting slightly as he waited. He wore a light beige suit, one that complemented the natural tones of the setting perfectly. Logan stood nearby, grinning like he knew what was about to hit his little brother.

“All right,” Brooke said as she walked Y/N toward him. “Go knock his breath out.”

The sound of Y/N’s shoes crunching softly over the grass made Drew straighten, shoulders rising.

“Okay, you can turn around now,” she said softly.

He did.

And immediately, his breath hitched. “Jesus…” he murmured, eyes wide, full of wonder and something deep and raw. “You look… absolutely unreal.”

Y/N’s lips trembled into a smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, pretty boy.”

He stepped forward, pulling her gently into his arms. For a moment, the rest of the world fell away.

“I didn’t think I’d be this emotional,” Drew admitted, resting his forehead against hers. “But damn. You’ve got me.”

“You’ve had me,” Y/N whispered. “Since the start.”

They stayed like that for a while—quiet, holding each other, letting the weight of the moment settle in.

Then it was time.

⸻

The ceremony space was stunning: lush green lawn, cream chairs lined with flower beds that looked like they’d grown there naturally. The floral arch burst with color at the altar, the perfect backdrop for something so pure.

Brooke made her way down the aisle first, radiant and teary-eyed as she took her place at the front. Logan followed after, standing proudly beside his brother.

Guests rose. The music shifted.

Y/N stepped onto the path, bouquet in hand, eyes locked on Drew at the end.

From the crowd, Rudy elbowed JD, whispering, “Dude’s gonna lose it.”

“He already is,” JD whispered back with a grin.

Chase, Austin, Madelyn, and Madison all turned with wide smiles, some snapping discreet photos, others just taking it all in.

When Y/N reached the altar, Drew reached for her hand immediately, grounding himself.

The officiant welcomed everyone, spoke a few words on love and time and choosing each other over and over again. Then, it was time for the vows.

Drew cleared his throat, pulling a small, slightly crumpled piece of paper from his jacket.

“I had this whole thing written out,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “But now that I’m standing here, looking at you, I don’t want to read anything. I just want to tell you.”

Y/N blinked quickly, trying to hold the tears back.

“You make everything better,” Drew said. “Even the worst days. You’re my peace, my home, my best friend. And I promise that from this day forward, I will love you the way you deserve to be loved—fully, honestly, without hesitation. Even when we’re old and cranky.”

A soft ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

“My turn?” Y/N asked, smiling through tears. She pulled a folded note from her bouquet.

“Drew—” she began, voice trembling slightly. “You are the most unexpected, yet most certain thing that’s ever happened to me. Loving you is easy. It’s safe. It’s the best decision I’ve ever made. I vow to show up every day for you, to cheer you on, to laugh with you, and to never take this love for granted.”

She paused, glancing at him. “Also, I vow to let you pick the movie at least half the time—even when I know it’ll be a Marvel rewatch.”

More laughter. More tears.

The officiant smiled. “By the power vested in me… I now pronounce you husband and wife. Drew, you may kiss your bride.”

And he did—arms around her waist, lips soft but sure. The crowd erupted in cheers. Brooke was sobbing. Logan clapped Drew on the back as they walked back down the aisle.

⸻

Later, under the open-air tent strung with hundreds of twinkling fairy lights, the reception came alive like something out of a movie. The scent of fresh garden roses and lavender floated on the breeze, mingling with the soft hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of applause. Long tables were set with flickering candles and arrangements of peonies, delphiniums, and coral ranunculus, the colors popping like wildflowers in the golden wash of evening.

Plates were scraped clean. Glasses never stayed empty for long. Stories were traded over charcuterie boards and slices of lemon cake, and somewhere in the middle of it all, the love in the air became palpable—warm and heady, like a summer night you never wanted to end.

Madison stood up first when it was time for toasts, champagne flute in hand and eyes shining under the lights.

“To Drew and Y/N,” she said, her voice soft but confident, “who make it look easy to love out loud. May your life together be as beautiful as this day—and may you never stop making each other laugh, even on the hard days.”

Everyone raised their glasses as a round of cheers followed. Drew kissed Y/N’s hand under the table.

Then Chase stood, loosening his tie and flashing that easy grin. “I just wanna say—Logan and Brooke? Best siblings-slash-hype team in the entire wedding game. MVPs of the year.” He lifted his glass toward them dramatically. “You two deserve a trophy.”

Brooke laughed as Logan gave a mock bow, toasting with his beer and grinning like he’d just won an Oscar.

“Also,” Chase added, glancing at Drew and Y/N with a fond smile, “I’ve never seen two people look more at home in each other. Seriously. You two were made to do life together.”

And then came the chaos—in the best way.

The DJ cranked up the music, and Rudy and JD, naturally, decided it was the perfect time for an impromptu dance battle. A circle formed fast, with hoots and hollers erupting as JD attempted a backspin and Rudy moonwalked with alarming confidence.

“Someone stop them,” Y/N said through a fit of laughter, clinging to Drew’s arm.

“No way,” he replied, deadpan. “This is history in the making.”

Austin, not to be outdone, marched over to the DJ and talked him into a full throwback set—90s and early 2000s hits that had everyone on their feet. Brooke grabbed Logan’s hand and dragged him onto the floor, while Madelyn kicked off her shoes and spun Y/N into the grass outside the tent.

They danced barefoot under the stars, skirts twirling, hands raised to the night sky like they were sixteen again. “You married a good one,” Madelyn said between breaths.

“I really did,” Y/N beamed, cheeks flushed, the kind of joy that spilled over and lit her up from the inside.

From across the yard, Drew watched her laugh with her friends, the moonlight catching the shimmer in her hair, the sound of her joy rising over the music.

“She’s in her element,” Logan said beside him, nodding toward the scene.

“She is my element,” Drew said, not looking away.

When Y/N finally made her way back to him, barefoot and glowing, he reached out like it was instinct and pulled her into his arms. Their bodies swayed to a slow song—something low and dreamy, the kind of song that made everything else fall away.

“You okay, pretty boy?” she asked, tucking her head beneath his chin.

“I’ve never been more okay in my life,” Drew said, his voice low, his fingers tracing the small of her back. “I’ve got you.”

They moved together as the world spun gently around them—like two stars caught in orbit, quiet and steady, wrapped up in something bigger than themselves.

Guests started to trickle toward the edge of the dance floor, watching the two of them with fondness as the night began to settle into its final chapter.

As the song faded, Drew pressed a kiss to her temple. “Let’s do forever just like this.”

Y/N tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her eyes full of stars. “Forever sounds perfect.”

And under the hush of warm lights and the Carolina night sky, they didn’t need confetti or fireworks—just each other.

And that was more than enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

an: y’all not gonna lie i’ve never been to a wedding so this is based what i’ve seen on movies and how i want my wedding to be

[beth-yeet365]

Is Drew Starkey Married?

warnings: soft launch energy, cryptic answers with feeling, behind the scenes teasing, cast chaos, drew being lowkey whipped

an: someone mentioned in the comments i should do this and i fell in love with the idea. i tried finding an actual interview from season 2 to base it on but i couldn’t find anything that worked so i wrote my own interview

︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

“Rolling in three… two…”

A red light blinked on above the camera lens. The WIRED crew gave a thumbs up from behind the monitor. Seven chairs lined up in two messy rows, bright white set all around them, the Outer Banks cast looking like a group of overgrown high schoolers on picture day.

Chase was half-slouched in his seat. JD kept bouncing his knee. Carlicia wore sunglasses indoors just because she could. Madison fluffed her hair for the fourth time while Rudy mimed finger guns at the camera, and Drew—well, Drew sat quietly near the middle, fingers laced loosely in his lap, lips twitching at the corners every time someone cracked a joke.

“I already know this is gonna go off the rails,” Rudy mumbled.

“Oh, 100%,” Madelyn grinned. “Let’s go.”

On Screen Text: WIRED Autocomplete Interview: OBX Cast Edition

Madison reached for the first question board and dramatically peeled off a strip.

“Is Outer Banks based on a true story?”

“Nope,” Chase said easily, leaning toward the mic. “But if there’s buried treasure off the coast of North Carolina, I’m listening.”

“There is a JD-shaped hole in my wall from when he thought he found gold one time,” Rudy added.

“That was a banana,” JD said, deadpan.

The board peeled down again.

“Can Carlicia Grant actually do her own stunts?”

“Hell yeah, I can,” she said, sitting up straighter.

“Define ‘stunt,’” Madelyn teased. “Because getting wine drunk and jumping into the pool in full glam doesn’t count.”

“Says you,” Carlicia shot back. “That was art.”

More laughter. Someone behind the camera snorted.

They rolled through a dozen more—everything from “Does Chase Stokes surf in real life?” to “How tall is Rudy Pankow?” (answer: “Tall enough to block everyone’s light,” Madison claimed) until Drew’s name finally came up on the next card.

“Is Drew Starkey married?”

JD let out a long whistle. Carlicia’s sunglasses dropped just slightly down her nose.

“Oh, damn,” Chase muttered with a grin.

Drew glanced sideways, slow and exaggerated, like he was trying to calculate how many seconds he had before this blew up in his face. He scratched the back of his neck. His smile was crooked and deliberate.

“Well…” he began, dragging it out like a man walking a tightrope. “I mean…”

He trailed off. Smiled down at the board like maybe it’d answer for him. Then he looked up, voice low but steady.

“I mean… I’m very happy. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

Madison clasped her hands dramatically. “A cryptic king.”

“Moving on!” Drew announced, leaning forward and yanking the next strip off the board with mock urgency.

“Who is the girl in the paparazzi pictures with Drew Starkey?”

Silence.

Then: “Oh, that’s the one,” JD whispered, leaning toward Chase like he was in church and trying not to laugh.

Drew blinked. “You guys seriously submitted this?”

“No, the internet did,” Rudy corrected. “This is what happens when you look hot and mysterious in dim lighting, bro.”

Carlicia perked up. “I saw those pics. Streetlamp lighting. Big truck. Big kiss.”

Madelyn gasped. “The kiss pic! You’re the ‘mystery couple’ on Twitter.”

“I hate all of you,” Drew muttered, hiding behind the question board like it could shield him from the blush rising at the back of his neck.

“So?” Madison prompted, eyes sparkling. “Are you gonna spill?”

Drew sat back, a little quieter now, his voice lower and softer. “Look… that moment—wasn’t meant for anyone but us. So, no names. But yeah… she’s real. She’s important. And she makes me happy.”

There was a beat of quiet, something unspoken settling in the space between them.

Then Carlicia ruined it with a loud sniffle. “Why am I tearing up? Damn you, Starkey.”

“Get him outta here,” JD said, waving a hand. “Too wholesome.”

Cut to Behind the Scenes – 30 Minutes Later

The cameras were off. Lights dimmed. Someone from the crew offered them Red Bulls and mini muffins like it was a post-game locker room.

Drew tugged off his mic and leaned back in his chair, rolling his neck until it popped. “Jesus.”

Carlicia dropped into the chair beside him, sunglasses now perched on top of her head. “You realize you are gonna send the internet into a tailspin, right?”

Drew groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “I said nothing.”

“You said everything,” Madison corrected, flopping down across from him with a dramatic sigh. “You said, I’m happy, and you might as well have dropped a wedding registry.”

“Y’all are the worst,” Drew muttered, reaching for a water bottle.

“No no no,” Rudy said, leaning against the table. “Let’s talk about the kiss pic, actually. Because I remember that night. You and Y/N were all, ‘We’re heading out, see you guys later!’ And then boom. Streetlamp lighting. Quick kiss. Camera click. Internet meltdown.”

Drew paused mid-sip of his water.

“…You were actually just going home?” Chase asked, eyebrows raised.

Drew lowered the bottle slowly. “Yes. That’s exactly what we were doing.”

“Sure,” JD said with a grin, clearly not buying it. “And the photographer just happened to be parked on the same block at the exact right time.”

Drew shrugged. “Guess we’re lucky like that.”

Madison snorted. “Lucky is one word for it.”

Behind them, Madelyn was already digging into her phone. “I’m making a prediction right now: that moment in the interview goes viral. The ‘She makes me happy’ part? That’s about to be a whole fan edit.”

“She’s gonna see it,” Madison grinned.

“She watches all of these,” Drew admitted, a little softer now, like the thought settled on him mid-sentence. “Even the press junkets. She’ll text me something dumb like, ‘You blinked weird when JD said banana.’”

They all laughed, but it stuck with him a second longer. That familiar warmth creeping in, quiet and deep. Because she would watch it when it dropped. Curled up in bed probably, or sitting on their back porch, wearing one of his shirts with her legs pulled up to her chest, watching the way he smiled at things and remembering how he looked the night those pictures were taken.

Madelyn snapped a quick photo of him staring off. “That’s going on the group chat. Caption: ‘When you realize your wife is absolutely gonna call you out for soft-launching her again.’”

He smiled, thumb brushing the edge of his wedding ring, hidden just beneath his sleeve.

“She’s not gonna call me out,” he said eventually.

“She’s not?” Carlicia asked.

Drew shrugged. “Nah. She’ll just send a heart.”

Madison fake-swooned. “I hate you. I hate how soft that was.”

“Get a room,” JD said.

The teasing faded into chatter about lunch plans and hotel checkouts, but Drew sat there a second longer, already imagining her text when the video went live. Not a question. Not a comment.

Just a single heart.

And that would be enough.

Mystery girl, his ass.

She was his home.

And the rest of the world could keep guessing.

[beth-yeet365]

hey hii how are u ??

I was hoping u could write something where reader has a tough relation with economy bills etc, cause in her child and teen years she heard her parents always fighting and struggling with it, so when spencer gives her gifts or they are doing the shopping it brings her memories etc.

if u are not comfortable, skip this hehe u can add more things to the fic if u want, but that's the basic idea, u have an incredible imagination!!!

The Price of Love

Spencer Reid x reader

w/c: 3.4k

a/n: I hope I did this prompt correctly 😰

You never quite learned how to enjoy the sound of a cash register.

The chime of it at the self-checkout aisle, the low mechanical clunk of coins dropping into a machine, even the smooth slide of a credit card being swiped—it all used to send a little wave of nausea to your stomach. Still did, sometimes. It wasn’t rational, you knew that. But feelings weren’t always logical, and your brain had spent too many years listening to dollar signs scream louder than lullabies.

“Are you okay?”

Spencer’s voice pulled you back, warm and soft like a cotton sweater on a cold morning. He stood beside you in the checkout line, a box of your favorite tea in one hand and a small pack of strawberries in the other. He was smiling, gentle and curious. His scarf—a soft gray one you’d picked out for him—was half slipping off his shoulder.

You blinked. “Yeah, yeah, just thinking.”

“You get quiet when you’re thinking.” He nudged your side playfully. “Statistically, people spend more money when they’re stressed during shopping. Maybe your brain’s protecting your wallet.”

You tried to laugh, even though your chest was tight. “Maybe.”

The total on the screen blinked up at you: $67.42.

You wanted to flinch.

Spencer moved like it was nothing, pulling out his wallet and sliding his card in without a second thought. The screen flashed “Approved.” Your stomach flipped.

“I could’ve—” you started, but the words felt like gravel.

“I wanted to,” he said softly, handing you the strawberries like a peace offering. “I always want to take care of you. That’s not a burden to me.”

You nodded, but something deep in your ribs twisted anyway. You knew he meant well. He always did. But the ghosts of your childhood had long fingers, and they tugged at your mind with every gift, every swipe, every whispered “don’t worry about it.”

Because you did. You always did.

The apartment was quiet that night, save for the rustle of pages and the occasional clink of Spencer’s teacup against its saucer. He was curled on the couch with a book in his lap—The Little Prince, this time, because he said it reminded him of the way you see the world when you’re tired but still hopeful.

You sat beside him, knees tucked under your body, chewing your thumbnail like it owed you something.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” he murmured, not looking up from the page.

“I know.”

A beat. Then, softly, “You’ve been quiet since the store.”

You sighed, rubbing your hands over your knees. “It’s dumb.”

“I like dumb things,” he said, setting the book aside. His tone was gentle but unwavering, the way it always was when he was trying to make space for you. “Especially when they live in your heart.”

You glanced over at him. His hair was slightly messy from where he’d been running his hands through it, and his eyes—those warm, stormy eyes—were completely focused on you.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “When I was a kid, my parents used to fight about money all the time. I mean, all the time. Screaming matches over electric bills. Silent nights because someone overspent on groceries. I’d pretend to be asleep, but I always listened. Every argument felt like a countdown.”

Spencer didn’t interrupt. He just let you talk.

“I think I started to associate spending money with guilt. Like, even if I’m not the one arguing, even if no one’s mad, it still feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m doing something wrong when things cost too much. Especially if it’s not even my money.”

You swallowed hard and looked down at your hands.

Spencer was quiet for a moment, and then he reached out, threading his fingers gently through yours.

“I know what it’s like to grow up around fear,” he said, voice low. “Mine looked different. Hospitals. Needles. People whispering outside my door about whether I’d be ‘normal.’ But the way it settles in your bones? That’s the same.”

Your eyes met his.

He gave your hand a squeeze. “So… when I buy you strawberries, or tea, or that candle you liked last week, it’s not because I think you need them. It’s because I want you to feel loved in small, quiet ways. Even if it takes a while for your brain to let that in.”

Tears blurred your vision, but they didn’t fall.

“You’re not a burden,” he added. “You’re a gift.”

——

You fell asleep with Spencer’s arm wrapped gently around your waist, his breath steady against the back of your neck, your fingers still interlaced like they’d promised not to let go even in dreams.

It wasn’t the easiest sleep. Your body wanted to relax, but your mind kept whispering things like you don’t deserve this and what if it’s too much. But his warmth made a soft cocoon around you, and eventually, exhaustion won.

When you woke, the sun was just beginning to brush gold against the edges of the curtains. The air smelled like cinnamon and something softly sweet.

Spencer wasn’t beside you.

You sat up slowly, heart fluttering with uncertainty, until your eyes landed on the small, folded note on the nightstand. His handwriting was instantly recognizable—neat, slanted slightly to the right, like he was always just a little too eager to say the next word.

Went to grab us breakfast. The cinnamon rolls you like. Also got the kind of juice you pretend not to like but always drink half of anyway.

P.S. No, you’re not allowed to Venmo me.

P.P.S. I love you.

You smiled before you could stop yourself, blinking hard to chase away the sting in your eyes.

In the kitchen, he’d already set out your favorite mug, a soft pink one with little stars on it, and beside it—a post-it that said Refill me with love, and also coffee. His thoughtfulness wrapped around you like a blanket warmer than any money ever could buy.

By the time he returned, paper bag in one hand and a sleepy smile on his face, you were waiting for him barefoot in his oversized sweater.

He froze in the doorway, eyes softening. “Hi.”

You crossed the room slowly, heart in your throat, and wrapped your arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

He hugged you back, one hand resting lightly on the back of your head. “For what?”

“For not making me feel like I owe you anything,” you whispered into his chest.

He kissed the top of your head. “You don’t. I give because I love you. That’s the only price, and you’ve already paid it.”

——

It started with a list.

Not a grocery list. Not a bill-tracking spreadsheet or a carefully budgeted monthly planner like you’d grown used to making. This one was written on a piece of plain notebook paper, torn from the spiral at the edge. You started it on a quiet Sunday, Spencer dozing beside you with his face buried in your shoulder, arms lazily looped around your waist.

At the top, you scribbled in tiny letters:

Things I Can Give Back

It wasn’t that you felt like you had to give him something. He never made you feel like your worth was measured in things. But you needed to prove to yourself that you could still give in your own way. That love didn’t have to be purchased. That you could fill a space with softness too, even if your credit card stayed in your wallet.

#1. Bake him the pumpkin muffins he likes.

You remembered him telling you once, in passing, that his mom used to make them in the fall before her illness took more of her time than she could spare. He hadn’t eaten them in years. So you looked up three recipes, practiced twice, and filled the kitchen with warm, cinnamon-sweet air before he got home from work one day.

He smiled when he saw them on the counter, one eyebrow raised.

“Are these for…?” he started.

You shrugged, trying not to grin. “Unless you’ve got another brilliant profiler hiding in your apartment, yeah. They’re for you.”

The way he looked at you—like no one had ever made him feel more seen—was more rewarding than any bouquet of roses or wrapped-up gift box.

He ate four that night. One right out of the oven, too hot to chew, and still grinning like a little boy.

#2. Plan something for just the two of us. No distractions.

The BAU had been brutal that week. A case in Montana that Spencer wouldn’t even talk about, his eyes going distant when he mentioned the victim’s name. He came back quieter, less inclined to read, more inclined to hold you for hours without speaking. That’s when you decided to make your own kind of healing space.

You borrowed an old projector from a friend and turned the living room into a blanket fort of warm fairy lights and too many pillows. You made popcorn from scratch, melted a little chocolate on top the way he secretly liked, and stacked his favorite books beside a handwritten sign that said:

“Welcome to the no-trauma zone. Stay as long as you want. No bad dreams allowed.”

When he walked in that Friday night, wearing a worn-out cardigan and the weight of the world in his eyes, he froze in the doorway.

“Did you do all this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, suddenly shy.

He turned to look at you, that same look in his eyes as when he saw those muffins. Like you’d somehow reached into the part of him no one else dared to touch and said, you deserve softness too.

Spencer stepped forward slowly, pulling you into his arms, burying his nose in your hair. “You make the world feel… quieter,” he whispered.

#3. Write him something.

This one was hard. Not because you didn’t have the words, but because you had too many. So you started small.

One morning, you left a note in the book he’d been reading—folded into page 198, because he once told you that was his favorite number (for reasons too nerdy and statistical to explain).

It said:

You’re my favorite place to be quiet and my favorite person to be loud with. Thank you for being home when I never thought I’d have one.

He didn’t say anything when he found it. Just walked into the room that evening, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and whispered, “Page 198.”

You smiled into his sweater. “I hoped you’d find it.”

“I’ll keep it forever.”

One afternoon, as you both lay tangled on the couch with soft music playing from an old record player, you finally told him what all of it meant. What the muffins, and the projector, and the little notes were really about.

“I think I was always scared,” you said quietly, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist where his pulse fluttered. “That I’d never be able to match what you give me. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m just… complicated. Too used to surviving to know how to just be with someone.”

He looked at you for a long time, brows pulled slightly together, expression unreadable. Then he sat up slowly, pulling you with him, cupping your face in both hands like he was trying to memorize every line of it.

“Do you want to know something true?” he asked.

You nodded.

“I grew up surrounded by chaos. Hospitals. Institutions. People who thought loving meant fixing. And for a long time, I didn’t think anyone would ever see me without seeing all the parts of me that broke first. But then I met you.”

His thumbs brushed your cheeks, soft and reverent.

“You don’t try to fix me. You see me. And you let me see you too. Even the scared parts. Especially the scared parts. That’s not weakness. That’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Your heart was beating so loud, you were surprised he couldn’t hear it.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth—slow, lingering, like he had nowhere else to be. Then another. And another. Until his lips met yours in full, and the world quieted to just the two of you and the warmth blooming between your ribs.

When he pulled back, he whispered, “Let me keep loving you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Tears slid down your cheeks, and he kissed them too.

That night, you lay curled together under a woven quilt, facing one another, noses almost touching. His hand rested against your back, fingertips drawing slow, absentminded circles that made you melt into the mattress.

“Do you know,” he whispered, “how many languages have words for love that also mean ‘gift’?”

You blinked sleepily. “No, but I feel like you’re about to tell me.”

“Finnish. Sanskrit. Ancient Greek. Even some Indigenous languages from the Americas,” he said, voice soft and low like it was lulling you. “They knew something we forgot. That real love isn’t currency. It’s presence. Safety. The way someone makes you feel when they just exist beside you.”

You smiled against the pillow. “And you make me feel… safe. Like I don’t have to be on edge every time someone pulls out a wallet.”

He kissed your forehead. “Then I’m doing something right.”

Silence stretched between you again, but it was the kind you liked. The kind that meant everything had been said.

A few weeks later, while cleaning out an old drawer, Spencer found your list.

You’d meant to hide it, but you’d forgotten, and there it was—creased, stained with a drop of muffin batter, and filled with the most beautiful, imperfect handwriting he’d ever seen.

He sat with it for a long time, hand resting over his heart.

Then, with your favorite pen, he added one more line at the bottom:

#4. Let him love me, without guilt. Every day. Every hour. Always.

And beneath it, he wrote:

Already happening.

[beth-yeet365]

What about a cold!reader where Spencer gets jealous this time?

Like they meet another police team and they also have a "Spencer" who's dorky and they don't really listen to his rambling so she's kind to him (in her own cold!reader way) Spencer is like "???? The fuck is this exactly?"

SILENT TREATMENT. /spencer reid/

spencer’s not sure if you made the right decision by choosing him. you know that you did.

s10!cold!reader 3.1k flangst series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | i fear i missed the ‘police team’ part of the first request and made spencer 2.0 a pathologist instead, oops-

The air in the precinct is heavy with stale coffee and tension. You stand at the whiteboard, arms crossed, eyes scanning the photographs pinned to it—victims, maps, timelines.

The others are seated around the table, all mid-discussion, but you’re quiet. Not checked out. Just… precise. Listening without indulging the noise.

You speak when necessary.

“Victim three deviates from the geographical pattern. If it was opportunistic, the UnSub’s comfort zone is widening. If it wasn’t—he’s accelerating.”

Rossi nods, pen tapping against the table. “Could be staging, too. Make it look random.”

“Could be.” You don’t elaborate. You don’t fill silences. You let them speak if they have something worth adding.

No one pushes for more. They know how you operate. They know you don’t soften things. Not for comfort, not for camaraderie. You’re professional, respected—and emotionally distant, even now, even years into working with them.

The only exception to that is sitting three feet away from you, pretending to read a file he’s already memorised twice.

Spencer is quiet. Quieter than usual. His gaze flicks to you every so often, like he’s trying to time something—his words, maybe. Your reactions. Your temperature. Whatever it is, he’s trying to gauge where you’re at without having to ask.

“Spencer,” you say without looking at him, “page twelve. The blood spatter analysis.”

He’s already on it, of course. He lifts his eyes quickly. “Right—uh, yeah. The cast-off patterns indicate repeated strikes from a blunt object, likely with some torque. There's arterial spray on the west wall, so the blow that killed her came from the left side.”

You give a small nod. “Thanks.”

That’s it. No warmth. No smile. But Spencer straightens a little like it meant something. Like he’s grateful for being asked.

Emily side-eyes the two of you, not subtle in the least. “Is it just me, or has Boy Wonder been extra clingy lately?”

Morgan grins over his coffee. “You noticed that too, huh? He’s been on her like a puppy. Following her around the crime scenes, sitting next to her at lunch, hanging on her every word…”

JJ chimes in, amused. “It’s kind of cute. He’s like one of those Victorian ghosts—you know, all sad eyes and emotional repression,”

“Hey,” Spencer protests, not quite looking at any of them. “I don’t—cling,”

You don’t react. You never do when they tease him. And Spencer doesn’t look to you for help either, but you can feel the tension in his shoulders beside you.

Still, they’re not wrong.

He’s been… off lately. Not in a way most people would notice, but you’re not most people. He’s always been close to you, but recently, he’s orbiting you in smaller, tighter circles. Sitting closer. Waiting longer when you speak, like he's hoping you'll say something more.

The team has picked up on it. Of course they have. But they don’t know. Not really. They just think he’s crushing harder than usual. No one suspects what’s actually going on—because you’ve made sure of that.

You and Spencer aren’t the kind of couple who touch hands under the table or exchange soft smiles across briefing rooms. You’re not a couple that does anything in front of people, really. You’re together, but that truth stays tucked away between you and him, guarded in the quiet moments that happen off the clock.

Moments no one else sees.

“You doing okay?” you ask him quietly as the others begin packing up for the next site visit.

Spencer looks startled. “Me?”

You don’t repeat yourself.

He nods, quickly. “Yeah. Just… yeah,”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. A flicker of something passes between you. Reassurance, maybe. Or a silent understanding.

Morgan watches the exchange from the other side of the room, eyebrows lifting. “Okay, seriously, what is that?”

You ignore him. You grab your coat.

Hotch glances at his watch, then at you. “You and Reid head to the ME’s office. JJ, Emily, and Morgan—head to the victim’s apartment.”

Spencer immediately moves to follow, a bit too fast, a bit too eager.

Emily catches your arm on the way out, voice low. “You’d tell me, right?”

You pause. “Tell you what?”

She gives you a long look. “Never mind,”

—

The mortuary is colder than usual, the sterile, humming kind of cold that seeps through your coat and settles deep in your bones. You don’t shiver. You just pull on a pair of latex gloves and nod at the technician who leads you and Spencer toward the back.

The morgue table is already prepped, and the body is covered with a clean white sheet. It’s clinical. Organised. Efficient.

Spencer walks beside you in silence, his hands folded in front of him, shoulders set in that way that means he’s wound a little too tight. You don’t ask why. You already know. He’s been tense since yesterday—since you listened to the young tech at the crime scene rattle off chemical compositions and possible causes of decomp with the kind of enthusiasm Spencer usually reserves for classical literature and obscure physics.

Now, you’re both here again, about to meet another new person excited to talk about death.

The doors swing open, and in walks a man who can’t be older than twenty-eight. Blonde hair slightly ruffled, round glasses sliding down his nose, blue gloves snapped on too tight. He’s grinning before he even says hello.

“You must be the agents! I’m Tyler, the newest forensic pathologist on-site.” He says it like he’s giving a TED Talk. “Technically I’m still finishing my fellowship, but I’ve done two post-grads already, and I’ve been shadowing Dr. Karlsen for the last three months—”

Behind him, a woman in her sixties, presumably Dr. Karlsen, sighs audibly. “Tyler,”

“Right, right,” Tyler says, waving her off. “Back on track. Let’s begin,”

He peels back the sheet with a reverent kind of gentleness, like he’s revealing a masterpiece, not a victim of a homicide. You don’t react, not outwardly. You observe the bruising around the throat, the defensive wounds along the forearms, the way one wrist seems just slightly dislocated from the rest of the body’s alignment.

Spencer shifts beside you, already piecing things together.

Tyler claps once, low but excited. “So, cause of death was asphyxiation due to manual strangulation, but what’s really interesting is the laryngeal cartilage—you see here?” He gestures with tweezers, careful not to touch. “This fracture on the right side of the thyroid cartilage? It’s called a hyoid crush. Super rare, but it suggests a significant amount of pressure, possibly done from behind. Also—if you look just under here—”

Spencer speaks up, voice dry. “That damage could also occur post-mortem if the body was handled roughly during movement. Depending on the timeline, it’s not definitive,”

Tyler blinks. “Yes—true! Great point. But in this case, time of death aligns pretty tightly with the estimated bruising pattern, which I can show you in just a moment. And did you know—” He turns toward you now, eyes bright behind his glasses. “—that the thyroid cartilage, especially in females, doesn’t always ossify the way it does in males? That’s why injuries here can be harder to spot unless you’re really looking,”

You nod once. “Interesting.”

He beams, clearly encouraged. “Oh! And even cooler—well, not for the victim, obviously—but cool from a physiological standpoint—is that the arterial pressure around the carotid sinus can trigger something called a vagal response. It can actually kill a person instantly. That’s why sometimes you see victims with minimal signs of struggle. Their heart just… stops,”

You don’t interrupt. You just let him go on, standing still, arms crossed loosely over your chest. Your face is unreadable, but you’re listening. Not because you’re overly impressed—his information is nothing Spencer couldn’t rattle off half-asleep—but because it’s rare to see someone talk about this stuff with that kind of earnest joy. It’s not affection, not interest. It’s more like watching a dog with a brand-new toy. Mildly amusing. Harmless.

Spencer doesn’t see it that way.

He’s standing rigid beside you now, arms crossed, jaw set tight. You can practically feel the radiating jealousy off him like static. Tyler’s voice is all you can hear in the room, but Spencer’s silence is louder.

Dr. Karlsen cuts in after a minute, clearing her throat.

“Tyler. You’re wandering,”

“Right, right, sorry,” he mutters sheepishly. “Okay. So, other injuries: mild contusions to the upper back, inconsistent with the ligature pattern on the neck—suggests those came before the primary attack. Or from an external for e,”

Spencer murmurs, almost too low to be heard, “Or the UnSub simply pressed her down with a knee to control movement,”

You glance at him. His eyes aren’t on you—they’re locked on the mortician, unblinking.

Tyler continues without noticing. “I’ll upload full reports to the BAU’s system. But if you’d like to stay, I’ve got the next autopsy scheduled in twenty minutes. It’s unrelated, but the skull fracture’s really unusual—he fell into an industrial lathe, if you can believe that—”

“Thank you,” you interrupt, voice calm. “But we’ve got another scene to process.”

Tyler deflates a little but still smiles. “Of course. Good luck with the case,”

Spencer doesn’t say goodbye.

—

Back at the precinct, the team regroups. Photos scatter across the table, evidence logs updated, and reports uploaded. It’s a flurry of movement, conversation, caffeine.

Spencer stays quiet.

Even when Garcia calls in with a list of potential suspect matches, even when JJ reads off new victimology data—he’s present, but distant. Contributing, but subdued.

The turning point comes when you’re scanning Tyler’s preliminary report again, eyes catching on something he’d mentioned in passing—about the bruising pattern not matching the ligature marks.

You frown. “This doesn’t make sense.”

Hotch looks up. “What is it?”

You pull a photo closer. “The bruising on the victim’s upper back was dismissed as unrelated, but if the UnSub had control of her neck from behind, these could be from bracing his knee. Except the angles are wrong, which means she was restrained by someone else beforehand. Or there were multiple offenders.”

A beat.

Morgan leans in. “Multiple Unsubs? Are you sure?”

Reid is already flipping through crime scene notes, pulling up maps, rearranging the timeline.

But you know the shift started with something Tyler said. A stray, almost off-hand detail—one Spencer had dismissed. And now, it’s cracked the case wide open.

You glance over at him again.

His expression is neutral, but you know him. Know the set of his jaw, the small twitch of his fingers against the folder, the way he suddenly won’t meet your eyes.

He’s not okay.

And the silence keeps going.

And going.

Spencer doesn’t sit next to you at the precinct. He doesn’t offer up extra information unless someone asks directly. He doesn’t bring you your usual coffee without saying anything, doesn’t lean over your shoulder to glance at your notes, doesn’t linger when you leave the room.

At first, you don’t even notice. Not really. You’re used to space. You need space. Silence doesn’t alarm you—it comforts you. If he wants room, you’ll give it. That’s part of being with someone, right? Letting them breathe.

But then it starts to feel like something else.

Something heavier.

His eyes avoid yours. His steps fall behind the team, not beside you. His voice, when he speaks, sounds smaller. Not quieter. Smaller.

And the team—well, they notice.

They notice fast.

“What do you think happened?” JJ whispers, leaning toward Morgan at the conference table.

Morgan lifts a brow. “Between Doctor Genius and Miss Ice Bath?”

JJ nods. “They haven’t said more than five words to each other in two days,”

“Maybe they had a fight,”

“About what? Reid would agree the sky was red if she suggested it,”

“Exactly,” Morgan mutters, “maybe that’s the problem,”

JJ laughs under her breath. “Or maybe Spence is just tired,”

Morgan chuckles. “Either way, something is weird,”

—

You keep your head down. You do your work. And when Spencer doesn't sit beside you, you let him be.

Because you figure if he needed you, he'd say something.

He doesn’t.

Not until four nights into the case, in a borrowed office space at the local PD. It's late. The rest of the team has gone back to the hotel to get some sleep, but you stayed behind to finish typing up victimology reports. Spencer stayed too—though he hasn’t said more than three words to you all day.

You assumed he was just buried in research.

He isn’t.

He’s pacing now, just behind you, his arms crossed tight like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You finally look up.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He stops pacing, stares at the wall for a moment, then turns to you, blurting out in a rush:

“Do you want to be with me, or would you rather be with someone else who’s… easier to deal with?”

You blink, slow. “Excuse me?”

He exhales, harsh and shaky. “I—I’ve just been thinking about it, okay? Since the morgue. Since that guy.”

You’re still. Watching him carefully.

He keeps going, words unraveling fast.

“He was like me. He talks like me. He got excited about the same things I do, and you—you listened to him. You didn’t tune him out, you didn’t tell him to focus, or cut him off, or roll your eyes. You actually looked like you didn’t mind. Like you liked hearing him talk.”

“Okay—”

“And that’s fine, that’s—I get it, he’s younger, he’s less complicated, and I’m not trying to make this into something dramatic, I just—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “You could have someone like him. Someone who doesn’t have… all of the— baggage, that I come with,”

He gestures at himself. Like he is the problem. Like all the things that make him him are some burden you’ve quietly been carrying.

You stare at him for a long moment.

Then you speak, slowly.

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

Spencer looks confused. “What?”

“I’m going to assume you’re talking about the ME, and tell you that you’re being ridiculous,” You stand, stepping closer to him. “I was focused on the case. On the victim. Not on whether the guy liked explaining arteries.”

“But you let him—”

“Because I let you talk like that,” you say. “So why would I shut someone else down for doing the same?”

He doesn’t say anything.

Your voice softens a fraction—not warm, but honest. Quiet. Careful.

“You’re who I’m with.”

His brows draw together. “That’s it?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He’s still not sure how to process that. “But I’m—difficult.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

You sigh, stepping just close enough that your knees brush his. “Yes*.*”

You pause.

Then, carefully, you lift your hand and rest it on his knee. Not possessive. Not performative.

Just steady.

It’s one of the few times you initiate touch. He notices. His eyes flicker down, then back up again, and something in his posture shifts—like the weight on his shoulders finally loses a fraction of its heaviness.

He’s still spiralling a little, you can tell, but you add, gently, “You spiral. You overthink. You get jealous. You shut down.”

A pause.

“And I don’t care.”

His throat bobs.

You reach up, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of his hairline, tucking it back behind his ear. He leans into it instinctively, even though he’s still blinking like he can’t believe what just happened.

You look at him flatly.

“If I didn’t want to be with you,” you say. “then I wouldn’t be here,”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a week.

Then, finally, he nods.

And for the first time in days, his fingers curl around yours.

—

The next morning, everything is back to normal.

Or, at least, it seems like it.

Spencer sits beside you again at the precinct. He hands you your coffee, shoulder brushing yours. He leans over your notepad to make a quiet joke about the new crime scene tech who mislabeled three evidence bags, and you give a low, dry chuckle that makes Morgan do a double-take.

Emily stares. JJ narrows her eyes.

Something’s changed.

But it’s subtle. Maddeningly subtle.

There’s no hand-holding. No long, longing stares. Just… a shift in air pressure.

“You feel that?” JJ murmurs to Morgan as you and Spencer walk out of the room together, shoulders aligned.

Morgan sips his coffee. “Pretty boy’s silent treatment didn’t last long,”

“No,” JJ says slowly, “apparently not,”

They both fall silent, watching you disappear down the hall with Spencer beside you.

“You think they’re—?” Morgan starts.

JJ shakes her head. “No idea.”

But they’ll keep guessing.

They always do.

And you?

You’ll keep things exactly the way you like them.

Quiet. Private.

Yours.

[beth-yeet365]

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠.

your parents always come crawling back to you when they can’t fix their own messes. or daniel’s.

s10!cold!reader ❅ 7.8k ❅ series masterlist. ❅ main masterlist.

CW | reader has a bit of a dysfunctional connection with her family (she’s a bit of a glass child), she’s really dismissive of her parent’s worries (see: boy who cried wolf), mentions of drug usage and violence, injury descriptions, kidnapping, you have a brother now congrats

The morning starts off on a rare high note.

You woke up warm, tangled in Spencer’s sheets, the scent of coffee already drifting from the kitchen. He’d left a note on the bedside table—Didn’t want to wake you. There’s coffee. See you at work :)—his handwriting the same precise scrawl you’ve seen a thousand times in his case notes.

For once, nothing feels out of place. No lingering exhaustion from back-to-back cases, no unease gnawing at your ribs. Just the quiet satisfaction of a night spent somewhere that isn’t your own apartment, in the company of someone who—despite all logic and probability—seems to genuinely care.

It’s enough to keep you in a good mood through the first half of the workday. You don’t even mind when Morgan teases you for being suspiciously cheerful during the morning briefing.

That feeling lasts right up until you step out of the conference room and see your parents standing in the middle of the bullpen.

Your stomach drops.

They’re out of place here. Your mother, still graceful but slightly frazzled, twisting her hands together in that nervous habit she’s had since you were a child. Your father, all stiff posture and quiet authority, his expression unreadable.

You freeze for a fraction of a second before forcing yourself forward. They haven’t noticed you yet, scanning the faces around them, their unease evident.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, keeping your voice level.

Your mother turns first, relief flashing across her face. “Sweetheart—”

Your father cuts in, getting straight to the point. “Daniel’s missing.”

There it is.

Any lingering hope that this visit was something else—anything else—vanishes. Of course they only come to you when he’s in trouble. Not for a visit, not to check in, not even a damn phone call unless it’s about him.

Your fingers curl into your palms. You should’ve seen this coming.

You school your expression into something neutral. “And?”

Your mother’s eyes widen slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that reaction. “And we need your help,”

“He’ll turn up,” you say flatly.

Your father exhales sharply, already frustrated. “You haven’t even heard what happened,”

“I don’t need to.”

You don’t want to. Because you already know how this goes. Daniel disappears, your parents panic, and—like always—they expect you to be the one to fix it.

Your mother steps closer, lowering her voice like she’s trying to calm you down. “Please. He’s been struggling again, and this time—”

“—this time it’s different?” you interrupt, the bitterness slipping out before you can stop it. “Right. Just like last time. And the time before that.”

A muscle in your father’s jaw tightens. “You don’t even care, do you?”

You cross your arms. “No, I don’t care. Because he’s an adult, and if he’s run off again, that’s his problem.”

“He’s your brother.”

The weight behind those words is suffocating. Like you owe him something. Like years of being the afterthought should mean nothing because he shares your blood.

Before you can say anything else, someone steps up beside you.

Spencer.

You glance at him, caught off guard. He was probably looking for you—right, the statistics meeting. The reminder is in his hand, a folder tucked under his arm, but his focus shifts from you to your parents, taking in the tension.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice careful.

Your mother seizes on his presence immediately. “Are you an agent?”

Spencer hesitates. “Uh, yes—”

“Then maybe you can help,” she interrupts, desperate now. “Our son is missing, and—”

“No.” you say sharply.

Both your parents and Spencer turn to look at you.

Your mother’s expression is open, pleading. “You don’t understand, he—”

“I do understand,” you snap, the patience you were barely holding onto slipping. “I understand that every single time he screws up, you come running to me to fix it. I understand that I only exist to you when it’s about him.”

Your father’s eyes darken. “That is not fair.”

You let out a sharp breath. “No? Because it sure as hell feels like it.”

Spencer shifts beside you, the full weight of the situation settling in for him. These are your parents. He’s never met them before—probably imagined something different. But now he’s watching them in real-time, watching you talk to them like they’re strangers instead of family.

And you know he’s thinking that this isn’t just you being you. It’s something deeper.

Your mother tries again, her voice softer now. “Please. We wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t serious.”

You drag a hand over your face, exhaling slowly. You want to tell her to go home, to let Daniel fix his own mess. But the part of you that still cares—deep, buried under layers of resentment—keeps you from walking away.

“Fine,” you mutter, already regretting it. “I’ll look into it.”

Relief floods your mother’s face. Your father doesn’t look as convinced, but he says nothing.

You turn on your heel and stalk toward the conference room, barely giving them time to follow.

The team is still mid-discussion when you throw open the door. They all glance up, surprised.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “How nice of you to show up, was starting to think you’d forgotten about us,”

You cross your arms, keeping your tone clipped. “My parents are here. Apparently, my brother is missing.”

A beat of silence.

Then, from Morgan again, “Wait. You have a brother?”

You grit your teeth. “Yes. And before you ask—no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Your mother catches up behind you, visibly shaken but pulling herself together. “His name is Daniel. He’s… he’s been struggling for a while,”

Emily glances between you and your mother before leaning forward. “Tell us everything you know,”

You listen, but only half-heartedly, arms crossed and leaning back in your chair, pretending to focus. This is just another one of Daniel’s stunts. He’s done this before. Disappears for a while, doesn’t answer his phone, only to resurface weeks later, looking for more handouts.

“He’s been missing for three days,” your mother says, her voice trembling just slightly. “I went to his apartment to check on him. I was supposed to do his laundry and help with his rent. But when I got there, he wasn’t home. His phone kept going to voicemail,” She pauses, her face clouding over. “The apartment... it was a mess, but worse than usual. Like something had happened. The place was so... dirty. And there were signs of trouble, real trouble,”

You don’t need to hear any more. You can already picture it—the apartment in its usual state of chaos, the remnants of his latest bad decisions littering the floor, and Daniel nowhere to be found. He’s an adult, for God’s sake. This is just another one of his disappearances. He always finds a way to make it someone else’s problem, and you’re done picking up the pieces.

You can feel the familiar resentment bubble up, but you bite it back. You’re tired. Tired of being the responsible one, the one who always has her life together. Tired of being the fallback for Daniel, even though, to everyone else, he’s just a “problem child,” someone who needs help.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” you mutter, hoping the words will settle into your bones and make it true.

“He’s not going to turn up if we don’t do something about it,” your mother counters, her voice rising just a touch. “He needs us. He’s lost.”

You feel a muscle in your jaw tighten. “Mom, he’s not lost. He’s just avoiding you like he always does. He’s fine.”

“No, he’s not fine,” your mother snaps, her voice sharp now, just short of pleading. “He hasn’t been fine for a long time, and you’re the only one who’s in a position to do something about it.”

“I am not the one who raised him. Maybe if you and Dad hadn’t been so busy enabling every shitty decision he’s made, he wouldn’t be this way.” You can’t help the words from slipping out, the accusation heavy on your tongue, but it’s the truth.

Every single one of these situations has always fallen into your lap. You were the one they trusted to handle it all because you were the smart one, the responsible one. You’ve always been the one who had it together—except when it comes to them, when it comes to your brother.

Your mother flinches at the sharpness of your words, but before she can respond, your father steps in, his tone steady but firm. “He’s your brother, and you should care. This isn’t about what’s fair—this is about family.”

You feel the heat of his words like a punch to the gut. Of course, it’s about family. It always comes back to that. But you’re so fucking tired of being the good one, the one who always gets the lectures, always does the right thing, always shoulders the weight.

You want to scream at them, tell them you don’t owe him anything, that he can handle his own damn life. Instead, you swallow down the bitterness. “I don’t think this is something the FBI needs to get involved in. He’s just off on another one of his little binges. He’ll show up when he’s good and ready. That’s how it always goes.”

Your father’s face hardens. “So you’re just going to pretend like you don’t care?”

You stare back at him, defiant. “I’m not pretending. I just... I’m not going to be the one to clean up his mess anymore. He’s an adult. He has to start facing the consequences of his own actions.”

The room goes silent, and you feel the weight of their eyes on you, the disappointment simmering beneath their concern. You’re used to it. It’s been there since you were a kid—the sense that they thought you were better, that you should have it all together. But it’s never been that simple, and it’s certainly not simple now.

It’s Spencer who breaks the tension. He’s been standing off to the side, watching the conversation unfold like a silent observer, his brow furrowed. “I think we need to take a step back,” he says gently, his voice calm but firm. “There’s a lot of emotion here. It might be better to take a break for a minute,”

You don’t want to admit it, but Spencer’s right. Your chest feels tight, your head full of noise, and you’re struggling to keep your anger in check. The argument has gone on long enough.

“Fine,” you mutter, standing up abruptly. You don’t make eye contact with your parents, just turn and walk out of the room.

—

The tension hangs thick on the jet as the team prepares for the flight to California. the team are seated around you, all quiet for a moment as the plane hums steadily beneath you. But you know they’re all aware of the undercurrent of unease between you and your parents.

It’s not hard to see.

“You’ll need to book a commercial flight.” You’d said, as Hotch readied everyone for the plane. “The Jet’s Agents only.”

Emily’s eyes flick to you once, but she doesn’t ask any questions. Not yet, anyway. Morgan is a little more direct, leaning forward with a grin that’s clearly an attempt to lighten the mood. “So, what’s the deal? You’ve got a brother, huh?”

You stare out the window, not answering immediately. You really don’t want to talk about this right now, but you know it’s inevitable. They’ll all want to know.

“He’s a mess,” you finally mutter, voice low. “Always has been. Getting into trouble. Running away. Drugs. Fights. You name it. And every time, my parents come to me. It’s exhausting.”

You feel a pang of guilt as soon as you say it. You didn’t mean to sound like that. You don’t want to be the bitter, resentful one, but sometimes it feels like there’s no other option.

“So, you don’t think he’s really missing?” Morgan asks, his voice curious but not pushing.

“No. I don’t.” you reply, tapping your fingers against your knee. “Have you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? Practically his fucking biography.”

Emily doesn’t press, but she exchanges a look with Hotch, who gives a single, knowing nod. You can feel their sympathy, but you don’t want it. You just want to get this over with.

The jet hums on as you remain silent, your mind swirling with frustration. This is a waste of time. Daniel is fine, as he always is. He’ll come back when he’s ready. It’s always the same pattern. He disappears, and then he reappears when it’s convenient for him.

But as much as you tell yourself that, a tiny voice in the back of your head whispers that you should care more. That this time, maybe it is different. But you push it away.

You look up when you realise the conversation has gone quiet again. Everyone’s waiting for you to say something more. You can feel their eyes on you, patient but probing.

“Look,” you say, finally meeting Spencer’s gaze, “I don’t need a therapy session right now. I’ll go through the motions. I’ll help you guys figure this out. But Daniel will show up. He always does.”

No one says anything for a moment. You’re grateful for the silence, for the way they all let you have this. You’ve said it enough times, and maybe you need to believe it too.

But the knot in your stomach tells you otherwise. And deep down, you know that something might be different this time.

But you won’t let yourself admit it. That means your parents are right.

—

When the team arrives at Daniel’s apartment, it doesn’t take long for the scent to hit you—an overpowering stench of stale beer, unwashed clothes, and something else, something darker. The hallway outside the door smells like a combination of mold and rot. You push the door open with a reluctance that sits heavy in your chest, and the scene inside immediately confirms all your worst fears.

The place is a disaster. More so than usual. Piles of dirty laundry are scattered across the floor, the walls are smudged with dark stains, and the couch is more of a heap of old blankets and discarded clothing than an actual place to sit.

The kitchen counter is covered in empty beer bottles, takeout containers, and half-eaten food that looks like it’s been left to rot for days. The stench is overwhelming, and for a moment, you almost gag. But you swallow it down, stepping further inside.

“Jesus,” Morgan mutters under his breath, surveying the wreckage. He takes a long, slow breath, trying to ignore the smell. “This is... bad.”

You already knew it would be, but something about seeing it in person hits harder. You can almost feel your blood pressure rise as your gaze sweeps the apartment. This was Daniel’s life. A mess. His own mess. You shouldn’t care, but you do, even if it’s only because of the weight of your parents’ concern.

“He’s never let it get this bad,” your mother says, her voice almost desperate as she steps into the apartment behind you, clutching her purse like it’s a lifeline. “This is... this is worse than it’s ever been.”

You roll your eyes, already feeling the familiar swell of frustration. Of course, it’s “worse” now. But it’s not like this is new. The clutter, the mess, the irresponsibility—it’s all been part of Daniel’s act for years. You almost want to yell at your mother for coddling him like this, for not seeing the pattern.

“Yeah, sure it’s worse now. Just like it was last time, and the time before that.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intend. You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you, but you refuse to meet his gaze. You’re not in the mood to talk through your issues with him right now.

But your mother doesn’t seem to hear your sarcasm, or if she does, she doesn’t let it deter her. “No, honey. You don’t understand. I know him. Something’s wrong. He would never leave things like this. He’s always been messy, but not like this.” Her voice cracks a little as she speaks, and your stomach tightens at the sound of it.

She’s right, though. You know that. The apartment looks like a warzone. But it doesn’t change the fact that Daniel’s life has always been this chaotic. He’s always been this irresponsible. Still, part of you can’t help but wonder—maybe this time is different. But you shut that voice down. He’s fine. He always comes back.

Spencer, who’s been standing quietly off to the side, speaks up, his voice calm but insistent. “Let’s do a proper search. See if we can find anything that might help us understand what’s really going on.”

You nod sharply, forcing the uncomfortable feeling in your chest back where it came from. Spencer always knows how to handle things, even if you’re still not ready to admit how much you depend on him.

You begin to methodically check through the rooms, opening drawers and cabinets, inspecting the bathroom. It’s more of the same—filthy towels, a cluttered sink, old razors. The bathroom garbage is full, overflowing with used syringes. The sight of them makes you flinch, and you can’t help the wave of disgust that floods over you. You’ve known about his drug use, but seeing it so starkly laid out like this? It makes it real in a way it never has before.

You turn away from the bathroom, your face unreadable, as you hear Morgan and Hotch talking in the living room. “We need to look for signs of a struggle,” Hotch says, his tone authoritative, commanding. You don’t need to be told twice. The urgency in his voice tells you everything you need to know.

And then you find it.

Near the entrance, just by the door, you notice something strange. Fresh scuff marks on the floor, like something—or someone—was dragged across the room. The marks don’t make sense. Daniel’s never had visitors who would do that to the place. Or visitors at all. There’s also a faint bloodstain on the carpet, still slightly wet. It’s small, but it’s there.

Your heart skips in your chest.

“Hotch,” you call out, your voice suddenly thick with tension. “There’s something here.”

He’s at your side in a second, kneeling to examine the marks and the stain. His expression tightens. “This wasn’t just a runaway situation.”

You don’t need him to say it for you to know what it means. Daniel’s missing. And now, it looks like someone took him.

The team immediately goes into investigative mode. Your mother, however, seems in denial, still clinging to the idea that Daniel could just be lost. “No, no, this isn’t right. Something can’t have happened to him. We have to find him. Please, we need to find him.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Spencer gets there first. He’s clearly playing mediator, trying to keep the peace while the investigation escalates. “We’re doing everything we can, ma’am. But we need to focus. We’ll figure this out.”

You’re thankful for Spencer’s calm demeanor, though part of you still wants to snap at your mother. But you keep your cool. For now.

When the team finally regroups, they decide it’s time to interview your parents properly. The room is tense, charged with the urgency of the situation. You can’t help but notice how much your mother is still trying to hold on to the illusion that Daniel is just lost, just going through a rough time. She’s clinging to the hope that he’ll walk through the door any minute. But you know, and they know, that’s not happening. Not now.

You’re sitting in the background as the team starts to ask your parents questions, but you’re too impatient for this. You can already see where the conversation is going, and it’s not helping. Your mother starts talking about how Daniel was always different from the other kids, how he needed more help, how she was always worried about him. And that’s when you can’t take it anymore.

“Mom,” you interrupt sharply, “we don’t have time for the backstory. We need to focus on what’s happening now.” You look at Spencer for a moment, then back to your parents, who look a little stunned at your outburst. “He’s gone. Something happened. You have to tell us what you know.”

Your mother opens her mouth, but you cut her off again. “Forget the excuses. What happened before he disappeared?”

Your father shifts uneasily, but he knows better than to intervene.

That’s when your mother finally mentions the car. “I remember seeing a car outside his apartment a few days ago,” she says slowly, the words heavy in her mouth. “It was a nice car. I thought it was strange. But I didn’t think much of it at the time.”

“Do you remember what kind of car?” Spencer asks, his voice low and deliberate.

“A black SUV,” she replies, biting her lip. “It had tinted windows, and it looked new. I can’t remember the make, but it didn’t fit in with the other cars.”

“Do you remember the license plate?” Hotch asks, his voice businesslike.

She shakes her head. “Just part of it. It had a ‘G’ in it. And the number 17. That’s all I remember,”

Garcia works her magic from her station back at headquarters, narrowing down the registration with the partial plate. Within moments, she’s sending over the details.

“A guy named David Wesson,” Garcia’s voice crackles through the speaker. “White, mid-thirties. Criminal record. Multiple charges for drug trafficking, assault... pretty violent history.”

“Sounds like someone who might have had business with Daniel. Wesson might’ve been his dealer,” Spencer exchanges a glance with Hotch.

“You said he was behind on rent before, It could be a violent repayment issue,” Spencer adds, his brow furrowed as he puts the pieces together. “Wesson might’ve taken him.”

Your heart races, and your thoughts turn frantic. The timeline is getting tighter now. Every minute they waste, Daniel could be in more danger.

“Let’s move,” Hotch says. “Time’s running out.”

And just like that, everything shifts. The investigation goes from a missing person’s case to a race against time to find Daniel before it’s too late.

—

The team moves quickly, urgency in every step. Garcia has done her magic again, and the address attached to the vehicle registration leads them to a run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of town. The area is as desolate as they come, the kind of place you’d never want to be caught alone after dark. It’s clear that whoever David Wesson is, he’s not someone who cares much for cleanliness or safety. You push through the growing anxiety in your chest as you prepare for what’s next.

Hotch leads the way as always, eyes sharp, voice steady. You, Emily, and Morgan follow closely behind, each of you silent but alert. Every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seems to amplify in the stillness of the building. The tension is thick, suffocating, as you approach the door where you know something is wrong, even before you hear the muffled voices on the other side.

“Do you hear that?” Morgan whispers, pausing for a split second. He tilts his head toward the door, his face hardening with recognition.

You nod, your pulse quickening. You recognize the voice too.

“Daniel,” you mutter under your breath, barely believing the words as they leave your mouth.

The voices are arguing, one unknown male, one unmistakably Daniel’s. You can’t make out everything they’re saying, but you can hear the desperation in Daniel’s voice, the way it cracks with fear. It takes all of your willpower not to rush forward, but Hotch is in charge, and his focus is unwavering.

Hotch looks at each of you, eyes locking with yours. “On my signal. We move fast. No one gets hurt.”

You feel the familiar tension in your shoulders, the urge to act, but you keep your hands steady. There’s no room for mistakes now. The only thing that matters is getting Daniel out of this alive.

A nod from Hotch signals the start of the operation. Without another word, Morgan kicks down the door, and the room is suddenly flooded with the harsh light of tactical flashlights. It’s chaos for a moment, as the team pushes forward, guns raised, ready for whatever might come next.

“FBI! Hand in the air!”

The man who was with Daniel—Wesson, you assume—shouts in surprise, but it’s too late. Within seconds, Morgan and Emily have the man restrained, while Hotch swiftly moves toward the back room, where Daniel’s voice had been coming from. You follow close behind, your heartbeat in your throat.

The room is small, sparse, and dim. Daniel is huddled in the corner, bloodied, bruised, and covered in dirt. He doesn’t look like himself—his face swollen, eyes half-lidded with pain. But he’s alive. That’s all that matters.

You rush forward, ignoring the tightness in your chest as you kneel beside him. He looks up at you, eyes wide with confusion, his breath coming in shallow gasps. For a moment, the world seems to pause.

“Daniel,” you say, your voice rougher than you intended. “You're alive.”

His gaze flickers to you, recognition registering slowly. “Mom called you…” His voice is weak, shaky, like he hasn’t spoken in days. But the relief that flickers in his eyes is enough to break you.

Morgan and Hotch quickly move to secure the rest of the apartment, making sure there are no other threats. Emily is already on her phone, radioing in the necessary medical support.

As they check Wesson, you can’t tear your eyes away from Daniel. The cuts and bruises on his face, the way his body trembles, make it all feel too real. This wasn’t just a stunt. This wasn’t another one of his usual disappearances. He’d been in real danger. And you barely spent a single second actually worrying about him at all.

The paramedics arrive within minutes, and the scene turns into controlled chaos. They quickly get Daniel on a stretcher and begin working to stabilise him, but he’s still conscious, still able to acknowledge you. There’s something about that—his ability to stay aware even through all the pain—that makes the whole situation feel even more surreal.

As they load him into the ambulance, you exchange a quick glance with Hotch. He knows. He’s always known. That unspoken connection between you both doesn’t need words to be understood. But even in the midst of all this, you feel the weight of everything settle over you.

—

Hours later, you find yourself in a sterile hospital room, standing just outside the door, watching as Daniel is hooked up to machines. Your parents are already there, hovering over him like he’s some fragile thing. They’re doting on him, feeding him reassurance and attention, as if he’s the only person in the world who matters right now.

This is their son—the one they’ve been worrying about for years—but it feels like they’ve never been more obsessed with him. More so than ever before.

Your mother is sitting by his side, her hands gently patting his arm. “Oh, Daniel, baby, you’re going to be okay. You’re safe now. We’re here,” Her voice cracks with emotion, and her face is tear-streaked. It’s a scene that’s as familiar as it is uncomfortable. She’s always been like this with him, protective to a fault, and it stirs something in you, something you don’t know how to deal with.

You cross your arms, standing in the hallway, keeping your distance. This is a part of your life you’ve never been able to fully reconcile—the way they fawn over Daniel, the way they still treat him like a child when he’s a grown man. You’ve never really understood it.

Your father stands behind your mother, his large frame towering over her. He’s trying to keep his composure, but there’s something different in his eyes now. He’s relieved, but there’s a trace of guilt there too, something you can’t quite put your finger on. His eyes flicker over to you for a moment, but you don’t meet his gaze.

The door opens and Spencer steps into the room, his expression gentle, but he’s clearly as affected as everyone else. He looks at you first, and then at Daniel’s parents, before finally walking to your side.

“He’ll pull through,” Spencer says quietly, almost to himself. His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours, but you both know what he’s referring to. You don’t have to say the words aloud, but you both know the truth. The strain on your family, the tension that’s always been there—it hasn’t gone anywhere.

You nod, your jaw tight, the weight of everything pressing in on you.

“I know.” you finally say, your voice barely human-adjacent.

Spencer doesn’t respond immediately. He just stands beside you, his presence both comforting and uncomfortable all at once. You’re grateful for him, for his steadiness, but there’s a part of you that feels like you’re about to collapse under the weight of it all.

You look through the small window in the door at Daniel, who’s lying in the hospital bed, surrounded by his parents. They’re speaking to him in soft tones, reassuring him, as if he’s their precious child once again. It makes something inside you stir—resentment, maybe.

Or maybe it’s just frustration, years of holding back everything that’s ever bothered you about your relationship with them, about Daniel, about all the things you never had a chance to say.

But now, as the reality of the situation settles in, you can’t help but feel something else too. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s the smallest hint of something softer than anger. But it's fleeting, easily swallowed by the sharp, familiar frustration you've always carried with you. The stress of the day, the tension with your parents, and the unspoken resentment you've been holding on to for years, weigh on you like a heavy coat you can’t shed.

Spencer’s quiet voice breaks through your thoughts, as he steps closer, his hand settling gently on your shoulder. “You should talk to him,” he says, his voice calm, but his words deliberate, as if he’s trying to gauge your reaction.

You bristle instinctively, pulling away from him slightly. “Why? So I can lecture him on his poor life choices? What’s the point?”

Spencer doesn’t back down, though. He knows how to push you, how to get you to do what you don’t want to do without making you feel cornered. He lowers his voice even further, his tone just soft enough that it isn’t a demand. “He’s your brother. He’s alive. He needs you. Whether you want to admit it or not,”

You stare at him for a long beat, the words pulling at you in a way you wish they wouldn’t. You know he’s right. You’ve never been able to deny that when it comes to Daniel, deep down, you’ve always been torn.

Part of you wants to hold him accountable for his choices—wants him to face the consequences of his actions. Another part of you just wants him to finally be okay, to break free from the suffocating grip of their expectations.

But you’re not ready for that, not yet. So you shake your head, though your voice cracks slightly as you speak. “I’m not the one he needs. He doesn’t need me.”

Spencer gives you an unreadable look, his gaze soft but unwavering. He doesn’t push you any further, but the weight of his unspoken encouragement hangs in the air.

A few moments of silence stretch between you, until finally, you sigh in frustration and turn toward the hospital room door. “Fine. Fine,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll talk to him. Stop looking at me like that.”

You take a deep breath as you step inside the room, but the moment you see Daniel lying there—so fragile, so small under the hospital sheets—it makes your chest tighten. His eyes flicker toward you as you enter, but there’s no immediate recognition in his gaze. He’s still groggy, still recovering, but the faintest glimmer of relief crosses his features when he sees you.

“Hey,” you say, your voice a little harsher than you intended. He doesn’t react to your tone, his eyes focusing on you slowly as if trying to make sense of your presence.

His parents hover nearby, their expressions a mix of concern and adoration. His mother looks up at you, her face full of warmth, but it’s not the time for warmth—not for you, at least.

“Can you give us a minute?” you ask quietly, though it comes out a bit sharper than you meant. Your eyes flicker to your mother, then your father, unwilling to acknowledge the tension in the room as you ask them to leave.

Your mother looks like she might protest, but your father quickly places a hand on her arm. His voice is low but firm, as he speaks to her. “Let her talk to him.”

You watch them leave, the door clicking shut behind them. Once you’re alone with Daniel, the air feels heavier, more suffocating, but you force yourself to stay standing, your back straight.

“You know, I don’t really know where to start,” you begin, though the words feel like lead on your tongue. “I guess you could say I’m... disappointed in you, Daniel.”

His lips curl up into a half-smile, but it’s laced with bitterness. “Yeah? Figures. That’s what you always say.”

“Because it’s true,” you snap, the words coming out more harshly than you intended. But you can’t stop it, the years of pent-up frustration bubbling over. “You’ve been a mess for as long as I can remember. I always had to pick up the pieces when things went wrong. You’ve never done anything for yourself. I’m sick of it.”

Daniel's eyes flash, and for a moment, you think you’ve broken through. But then he scoffs, his weak laugh more like a hiss of frustration. “You really think you’re the perfect one, don’t you? The one with all the answers. The PhD, the fancy job... You’ve got it all figured out, and I’m just the screw-up.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a second, you freeze. You hadn’t expected him to lash out like this, to throw the resentment back in your face. You’d always tried to be the good one, the one who did everything right, but maybe he was right this time.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, your voice low, too tired to fight anymore. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry for everything? For not fucking up my life?”

Daniel turns his face away, but you can hear the bitterness in his voice. “You don’t get it, do you? You think I like being the screw-up? But it’s like I’ve never had a chance. Mom and Dad have never let me out of there sight. They’ve never trusted me to take care of myself. And every time I mess up, you’re there with your judgment, your ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude. It’s suffocating.”

You feel something shift inside of you, something you hadn’t been willing to admit before. It’s not just anger anymore.

You swallow hard, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I was always worried about you, Daniel.”

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the way his body stiffens at the admission. The words hang between you, a fragile truce forming in the air.

“I was,” you repeat, quieter this time. “But I didn’t know how to help you. I didn’t know how to fix you. I tried. I went to Stanford, I researched every psychological phenomenon I could think of,” You furrow your eyebrows in a show of your defeat. “I can’t, do anything.”

Daniel’s eyes flicker back to you, and there’s something softer in his gaze now. The anger, the resentment—they’re still there, but they’re no longer all-consuming. The tension between you starts to ease, bit by bit, as you continue.

“You’re not a lost cause, Daniel,” you continue, your voice thick with emotion. “But you have to stop letting Mom and Dad fix everything for you. You have to stop hiding behind their expectations and start taking responsibility for your own choices.”

His eyes narrow, but this time, he doesn’t argue. Instead, he just sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know... I know, okay? I just... I needed control over something for once.”

You lean forward, your voice low but steady. “Then make them see that. You don’t need to keep running to them for help every time you mess up. You need to get help... real help. Not just running away or hiding from it.”

Daniel looks at you for a long moment, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes. It’s faint, but it’s there.

“I promise,” he says quietly, his voice raw, “I’ll try.”

You don’t know if he’s just saying it because he knows it’s what you want to hear, or if it’s because he actually believes he can change. But you’re willing to take him at his word—for now. And that’s all you can do.

“I’m serious, Daniel. Get help. Do it for yourself.”

He nods, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I will. I’ll... I’ll try.”

The silence that follows is different now, more comfortable. You don’t have all the answers, and neither does he. But for the first time, you both seem to understand each other, if only a little.

He doesn’t feel like so much of a stranger anymore.

—

Outside the hospital room, Spencer waits, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He’s patient—he always is—but there’s a quiet tension in his stance, his fingers fidgeting slightly as he watches the door.

You’ve been in there a while. Longer than he expected.

The weight of the day sits heavy on him, but it’s different from the exhaustion of a case. This is something else entirely. It’s personal in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

The sound of footsteps pulls his attention, and he glances to the side just as your father steps up beside him. The older man doesn’t say anything at first, just looks through the small hospital window, watching as you and Daniel talk.

Spencer follows his gaze.

Inside, you’re still standing by Daniel’s bed, arms crossed, but there’s something different about your stance now—less rigid, less closed off. Daniel looks up at you, exhaustion in his eyes, but there’s no hostility in his expression. Just something... almost like understanding.

Spencer shifts, feeling the weight of the moment settle between him and your father.

Your father exhales, shaking his head slightly. “First time they’ve had a real conversation in eight years,” he mutters, his voice carrying the disbelief of someone who never thought he’d see the day.

Spencer doesn’t respond right away, just absorbs the words, the meaning behind them. He doesn’t know everything—he doesn’t know the full weight of what those eight years meant, or how many unspoken words had passed between you and your family.

But he knows enough.

And he knows you.

Your father exhales again, slower this time, and turns to look at him. “Thank you.”

Spencer blinks, startled by the sudden sincerity. He shifts on his feet, glancing at your father with clear confusion. “For what?”

Your father exhales slowly, rubbing a tired hand over his face before letting it drop back to his side. He doesn’t meet Spencer’s eyes, just keeps staring at the closed door as if watching you through it.

“My wife and I…” He hesitates, jaw tightening like he’s bracing for something. “We should’ve shown her how much we loved her more often. How proud we are.”

Spencer watches him carefully, the way his fingers twitch slightly, the way his shoulders sink under the weight of a realisation that’s come too late.

Your father shakes his head slightly, as if frustrated with himself. “We were always so focused on Daniel. He needed us more, or at least, we thought he did. And she—” He huffs a quiet, bitter laugh. “She never asked for anything. Never needed us like he did. So we let ourselves believe that meant she was okay. That she knew we loved her, even if we didn’t say it enough,”

Spencer doesn’t respond immediately. He just lets the words settle, lets them sink into the space between them.

Then, your father finally looks at him—really looks at him—and there’s something raw in his expression. Something vulnerable.

“I’m glad she has someone to do that now,” he says simply.

Spencer’s throat goes dry.

There’s a sharp pang in his chest, something warm and aching all at once, because he knows exactly what your father is saying—what he’s admitting.

It’s not just about gratitude. It’s recognition.

Your father sees the way Spencer looks at you. The way he cares for you. The way he stands beside you even when you push people away.

Spencer swallows, shifting slightly where he stands. He doesn’t know how to respond to that—not without fumbling over his words, not without letting too much of his own feelings spill out into the open.

So instead, he settles for something lighter. Something that doesn’t make his heart hammer quite so loudly in his chest.

“Is it really that obvious?” he murmurs.

Your father lets out a breath, something almost amused crossing his expression, though it’s tinged with exhaustion.

“She’s my little girl,” He nods slightly, eyes flickering back to the hospital door. “I notice the details,”

Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

The door creaks open, and both men straighten slightly as you step out. Your eyes flicker between them, brow furrowing slightly as if you can sense the conversation that just took place.

Spencer meets your gaze, offering you a soft, reassuring smile. And for the first time today, you let yourself return it—just a little.

“Where’s everyone else?” you ask, your voice quieter than usual as you step closer to where Spencer and your father are standing.

“They already left for the hotel,” Spencer says, tilting his head slightly, studying you like he’s trying to gauge how you’re feeling.

You nod, exhaling slowly. Of course they did. No point in all of them crowding around when there’s nothing else to be done here.

Spencer moves before you can—his hand reaching out for yours, fingers just barely brushing against the back of your hand in a silent question.

For a split second, you consider pulling away.

Not because you don’t want to take his hand, but because it feels like crossing some invisible line. You’ve spent so long keeping your personal life separate from everything else. But right now? After everything?

You don’t care.

So instead of avoiding his touch, you let your fingers slip between his, lacing them together. His palm is warm against yours, grounding.

You hear the quietest inhale from your father, but when you turn to look at him, there’s no surprise. No disapproval. Just something soft in his expression, something fond.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not directly. Instead, he nods slightly, eyes meeting yours.

“I’m proud of you,” he says simply.

The words hit harder than you expect them to.

You aren’t sure what to say, so you just nod, gripping Spencer’s hand a little tighter. “Thanks. Dad.”

Spencer squeezes back.

“Come on,” he murmurs, tugging you gently toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here,”

You don’t look back as you leave the hospital behind, walking side by side with him into the night.

[beth-yeet365]

doctor and doctor | S.R.

in which you add a degree to your repertoire

who? spencer reid x fem!reader

category: fluff

content warning: i tried my best and the process described is pretty accurate to my graduate school but there might be some discrepancies. mentions of marriage and anxiety.

word count: 470

a/n: my brain has been rotting this finals week so i just needed some good academic validation fluff to write. i also got in a car accident this morning (I'm fine lol someone hit my car) so fluff was mandatory. hoping to get a lot of writing done over the school break.

There was an old joke that only five people would ever read your dissertation, you, your supervisor, your two examiners, and your unlucky partner or spouse who has to act as an unpaid proofreader for you. It was something you had heard for the past four years.

Of course, in your case, your boyfriend had three PhDs of his own and was more than happy to read through your dissertation, even though it was pushing five hundred pages.

The BAU’s jet had just landed after a three-day case in Georgia, and you had just hung up after talking with Spencer. You complained about feeling like a sitting duck, waiting to hear from your doctoral advisor to see if your thesis was accepted, and he told you he imagined it wouldn’t be long now.

You had been offered a teaching position starting in the new semester, but it was contingent on your dissertation being approved.

That all led to the email sitting in your inbox, you left your laptop open on the kitchen counter, leaving the email unopened, which is how Spencer found you when he got home.

“Angel?” He said, slightly alarmed, you stood still in the kitchen, watching your laptop like it was going to combust.

Pointing at the device, you took a deep breath, “I got the email.”

Hastily, he set his bag on the couch of your shared apartment before joining you in the kitchen. “Did you look at it?” He asked, leaning over and looking at the screen that displayed your still unopened email. You shook your head, “Were you going to?”

“What if they didn’t accept it?” You whispered, not moving your eyes from the screen.

He waited a moment, “Do you want me to open it?”

You shook your head again, “No, I’ll do it.” You told him, in a sudden surge of bravery, you leaned forward and clicked on the email. Automatically, the email popped up with a burst of confetti – an effect from your email browser recognizing the word ‘congratulations.’ You gasped and Spencer wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.

It all faded away. The nerves from the past four years, because you had done it.

“I’m so proud of you,” Spencer murmured. “So, so proud.”

You twisted in his arms to look at the screen and read the email in its entirety. “My degree will be officially conferred on the next date designated by the university. Oh, my goodness,” you said, overwhelmed. “I really got my PhD!” You said excitedly, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“So, when we get married, we’ll both be Dr. Reid,” Spencer said, glancing over at the email before looking down at you fondly.

Your smile spanned from ear to ear, “Yeah!” You said excitedly, the smile dropping from your face, “Wait, what?”