#CM fics

[saiilorstars]

After It All

Fandom: Criminal Minds // Pairing: Spencer Reid x OFC

| Aitana’s Masterlist |

Taglist: @ocappreciationtag​ @arrthurpendragon​​​​​​​ @maaaaarveeeeel​​​ @stareyedplanet​​​​​​​ @averyhotchner​ @foxesandmagic @kmc1989 @midmourn @caplanbuckybarnes ​​​​​​

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  After a fight I have nothing to say except I need you, I want you, I miss you and I love you.

Aitana was dead silent in the conference room while the rest of the team went over the details of the recent abduction of Spencer Reid and Penelope Garcia. Truthfully, everyone's voices were mixing together in her ears. Everything was ringing and she couldn't concentrate. They knocked her down in the worst way possible.

"…the Believers have declared war on the BAU," Emily was saying, "So this has got to be working toward their end game, one that could make either Reid or Garcia their 300th victim, perhaps their last."

Aitana looked away from everyone. If she had that rogue agent in front of her…she would be capable of bad things.

"Garcia wasn't a part of this," JJ said, "She was just racing to the elevator. So it's Spence. It's been him all along. He's a protector. It fits the victimology."

Aitana didn't want to hear anymore. She left the room without saying a word and headed straight to her office.

It was there where JJ found her about half an hour later, pacing back and forth mumbling to herself quite frantically.

"Aitana? Aitana?" JJ couldn't seem to cut into whatever moment Aitana was stuck in. She finally decided to rush forwards and grabbed Aitana by the shoulders to force her to stop. "Hey, hey, hey! Aitana, come back!"

"It's my fault, it's my fault…" Aitana anxiously bit into her index nail, "JJ, it's my fault they took Spencer and Penelope. It's my fault."

"What are you talking about, Aitana?" JJ scrunched her nose. "It is not your fault."

"It is! I should have waited for them but noo…" Aitana smiled sourly, "I wanted to make a point to stay away from Spencer. Well, I got what I wanted."

JJ walked Aitana to one of the desk chairs and sat her down then took the next chair for herself. "I know you don't see it, but it is not your fault. None of us knew what was going to happen. We had no idea that Meadows was part of the cult. It wasn't your fault!"

Aitana shook her head fervently. "He would have gone with me and Penelope if it wasn't for our fight. God, we're always fighting and I hate it!"

"It's been a hard year for you two," JJ said with a hand over Aitana's for comfort, "It's…it's understandable."

"It didn't have to be like this," Aitana said, trying to calm her breathing down. It was a one way ticket to crying and she did not want to go there. "He didn't have to-to push me away like that and he did. I hated him for it. I loved him, I wanted to be there for him…"

JJ nodded to her words, giving Aitana the comfort to vent. God knows she needed to do it with someone she wouldn't end up shouting at. Truthfully, JJ (and the others) were just as confused as Aitana was. Things shouldn't have gone this far, and they did.

If there was anyone more stubborn than the world itself, it was Spencer Reid. Once something got into his head, it never faded. Shortly after he was imprisoned, he told Aitana he didn't want her to have anything to do with him. He didn't want her to visit him, talk to him, send him anything. As devastated as she had been, fury very quickly seeped through. How dare he make that decision for both of them? How dare he not take her opinion and feelings into consideration?

The rest of their friends thought that when Spencer was finally free, things would get better for the couple. Why wouldn't it?

It didn't. It actually, somehow, got worse. They did not get back together, not even close. They fought constantly. They could barely work together without it ending in some kind of argument. It was catastrophic, to say the least, and — in many's opinion — tragic. They had been really good together. They complimented each other and most of all, they made each other happy.

"This whole year has been the worst year of my life," Aitana's voice shook, "And I've had plenty of bad ones before coming to work for the BAU. I thought…I thought after everything, we'd figure it out but we…we couldn't."

"It's not too late," JJ said with an encouraging smile, "Every couple fights and, yeah, most couples don't go through what you and Spencer have but it doesn't mean it's over."

Aitana scoffed and laughed bitterly. "He thought it should have been over a long time ago."

"He was thinking about you and it sucked but he wanted to protect you," JJ shrugged. "Spence hasn't really had a lot of things to care for except for his mother. I don't think he handled it perfectly, but he did try. And call me crazy, but I think all those arguments just stem from the fact that you still have feelings for each other."

"The amount of things we've argued about would suggest we want to drown each other instead," Aitana swallowed hard.

"Aitana…" JJ gave her a playful hard look, "Is it really all it meant? There's absolutely nothing else?"

Aitana lowered her gaze to her lap. "Course," she mumbled. "I would take it all back if it meant I could fix things."

Another smile came to JJ's face then. "Well then, let's solve this case and get you and Spence in a room to talk. I'll bet after everything, he's missing you too."

"I don't know," Aitana gulped, "The last time we saw each other we argued again…and I…" It looked like she was struggling to keep herself together. Tears were building in her eyes. "He was making me so mad and I-I wanted to hurt him so I said…"

JJ saw the first tears begin to roll down from her eyes. "Hey, you don't need to—"

"I told him…" Aitana sniffled, "I wished I had never met him. That my life would have been so much better without his presence, without his touch. That is the last thing I said to the man I supposedly love. That." She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut as more tears spilled through. "What kind of person in love says that? I'm awful. If he does get out of this, he definitely shouldn't look my way. I don't deserve him."

"No, no, no, that's not where this ends," JJ said sternly. "You were mad and you said the first thing that popped into your head. As far as stinging, that definitely worked. But you know what? Maybe that's what Spencer needed to hear to get his shit together. It's not just you, Aitana. You both have some things you need to work on but to do that, you need to sit down and talk. So c'mon, we have to go back out there and bring his ass back. I'll lock you two in thus office myself if I need to but mark my words, there will be no more arguments from you two except about, I don't know, where you're having dinner next."

Aitana managed a little chuckle through her tears. "I'd like that so much…"

"Then let's get to work," JJ declared, "We have a lot of things to do so wipe those years and get up."

Aitana nodded and cleared the tears from her face. She stood up and faced JJ. "Do you think he'll forgive me for what I said?"

JJ chuckled lightly. "Trust me, in these moments, I bet he's thinking of all the good things you guys had. Nothing can ruin that."

Aitana continued to nod, trying to convince herself that JJ was right. She had no other choice, really. She had to continue believing.

~0~

Running with the idea that Spencer was the last target for the cult, the team dug up as much as they could on each member, starting with Agent Meadows. It turned out she had hidden 299 murders belonging to the cult, making the special number '300'.

Things made another turn when Penelope appeared in the bullpen. She had escaped from the cult with Spencer's help. She had the location of the warehouse they were kept in and while the others went to scope it out, Aitana stayed behind to help Penelope out.

Penelope sat in Aitana's office trying to get herself together. Aitana was outside talking to the medic who had checked Penelope out. A few minutes later, she walked into her office.

"Medics cleared you," she announced, though she knew it would make no real difference to Penelope. She was very shaken and with good reason after everything she went through.

"They didn't hurt me," Penelope said, "I was just the bait and a hacker."

"What did they need you to hack?" Aitana asked curiously.

"I had to hack the AVI, the Automated Vehicle ID, and create clean histories for each of the trucks the cult had so they wouldn't have to stop on the road…"

"Oh boy," Aitana breathed out. "I have to tell the others quickly…" She phoned Emily to give her the news and inadvertently found out that the warehouse was cleared out.

"I'm sorry," Penelope apologized profusely. "I did a very bad, bad thing. I wanted to see Reid, so I had to…"

"You did what you had to," Aitana said, assuring Penelope nobody blamed her. She bent down in front of Penelope with the biggest smile she could muster in these times. "And we're going to figure it out…like we always do. I'm going to get you something too much on. My mother always said 'when you get scared, a good salted cracker or bread is the way to go'."

Penelope chuckled at that but was happy to partake in the tradition.

Aitana patted Penelope's hand and straightened up to leave.

"Spencer wanted me to tell you something," Penelope stopped Aitana by the door.

"What?" she looked at the blonde, confused.

"He was sorry…"

"Sorry?"

Penelope nodded. "I-I know it probably means nothing coming from me but…it has to mean something big from him, right?"

Aitana couldn't decide what exactly she felt knowing about this message. In truth two words meant pretty much nothing but if it was coming from Spencer, it did carry more meaning.

"Thank you, Penelope," she said quietly and walked out of the office. She wished she could see Spencer right now.

~0~

They ultimately managed to track the cult to a garden location in Kentucky. They flew as soon as they could and during the flight, they worked to pinpoint the exact location they would be heading to.

They gathered with SWAT around the garden. The cult had a few guards spread around while the rest were gathered in a ceremony. The head of it, Merva had brought Spencer to the middle with Meadows.

If anyone would have asked, Aitana would have fired the first shot…but apparently that would be wrong.

Merva bound Spencer with leather straps in preparation for the sacrifice while chanting some sermon crap. Meanwhile, the team and SWAT went around taking out the guards one by one. It wasn't until one of them spotted Rossi that they had to out themselves and fire first.

As soon as the first shot rang, Merva stopped the sacrifice to see what happened. Meadows had a few others follow her towards the sound and that's when everything happened at once.

Emily fired first, striking the guards right in front of the ceremony block. Those with guns from the cult fired back, prompting a fight between those sides. Aitana fired straight at Merva who'd been holding the knife in his hand, not once but twice.

Finally, those remaining from the cult backed down. While the arrests were happening, Aitana went straight to Spencer to untie him.

"The paramedics are just outside!" she exclaimed, ripping the leather straps off his wrists. "We'll get you out there and they'll—""

But Spencer cut her off with a bear hug as soon as she'd taken the last strap off him. He'd grabbed her so quickly that she gasped and froze for a moment. He buried his head in the crook of her neck and held her impossibly close to him. Little by little, the emotions got to Aitana and before she knew it, she wrapped her arms around him too. She closed her arms and relished the moment.

~ 0 ~

The BAU had many loose ends to wrap up before they could officially close the case. With Meadows' intervention in ViCap, it now fell on the BAU to look into all the cases she had ever mishandled. Emily told the team it was a big job that could be handled later, not tonight. They were exhausted and deserved to go home.

Aitana was not sure what she wanted to do that night except to get that opportunity with Spencer again. It seemed like he was on a similar page because just as she meant to leave her office in search of him, she crashed into him at the door.

"Can I come in?" he asked her before he lost his courage.

Luckily for him, she nodded and allowed him inside. "You should be heading home to rest," she said quietly and closed the door.

"I'll have plenty of time for that later," he said, turning to face her. "I needed to see you…talk to you…"

Aitana nodded immediately. "Me too!"

"I told Penelope to tell you—"

"She told me," Aitana said, sighing, "And I've been thinking and…I'm sorry too, Spence. I should have never said the things I told you last time we saw each other. I was really angry — it's no excuse, I know — and I said what I thought would hurt most. As bad as things are between us, I would never wish that. I'd take all the bad stuff just to keep our good memories. I'd never regret meeting you. I'm sorry."

"This is all my fault," Spencer said and reiterated it when Aitana tried to take the blame. "It all started when I was locked away and I should have fixed it when I got out."

Tears began building up in Aitana's eyes; she bit the inside of her cheek in an attempt to keep them in. "Yeah, why'd you do that to me, Spence? I-I loved you…I still do…"

"Because as smart as I think I am, I'm the most brainless man out there…" Spencer reached forward to dry away some of her tears, "I'll never forgive myself for hurting you like that. I only wanted you to have a good life away from me. I didn't want your reputation to be tarnished because you and I were together."

"I don't care what anyone else has to say about us," Aitana said, "I never have."

"I know," Spencer nodded. "I shouldn't have done it, I know. And I should have spent this year trying to fix things too."

"Why didn't you?" Aitana meekly asked. "Why didn't you try? Because as soon as you got out, it felt like you were angry with me."

"I was angry at everything," Spencer clarified. "It doesn't make it better, I know, but it's the truth. I was angry and everything bothered me and then when it died down, I felt like the world would find a way to hit me again. I didn't want to take you with me."

"You were self-sabotaging yourself," Aitana sighed lightly. "If you'd just told me all of this—"

"I know, I'm sorry," Spencer lowered his head with shame and guilt, "I'm really sorry about everything. I'll never stop apologizing, I swear…"

Aitana touched his cheek and gently raised his head to meet his gaze. "Well, there has to be a moment where it ends or else we'll never be able to move on. I want to move on, Spence. I want to move onto happier things with you. So, yes, you need to stop apologizing at some point."

"You think we can move on from all this?" Spencer asked with genuine fear in his eyes.

Aitana didn't waste a second before nodding her head. "Every day for the past year, I've woken up hoping that we could fix things. I want to…do you?"

Like her, Spencer nodded his head fast. Her face softened as she stroked his cheek. She gingerly touched the cut on the side of his forehead, asking him if he was going to be okay.

Spencer was looking lovingly at her, not feeling any kind of pain in that moment. "I'll be fine now…"

Aitana blushed when she met his gaze. She pushed some of his hair out of the way, being careful with his injuries. "So tomorrow when I wake up…"

"I'll be waiting for you with some sweet coffee," Spencer said confidently, "just the way you like it."

"Mm, with condensed milk?"

Spencer chuckled. "And caramel too…" His nose scrunched at the thought of it, like he always did. He was not a lover of sweet things and even then, Aitana took it to the next level.

"That sounds perfect," Aitana hummed excitedly, "Careful not to break that promise or I may have to hunt you down."

"I won't, I swear on my life," Spencer said firmly. "Can I take you home?"

"Take me home, come in, stay over — whatever you want."

"That's tempting," Spencer leaned his forehead against hers, careful with the cut on his forehead, although with the way Aitana was looking up at him, he could take a bullet and not feel it right now.

She ultimately drew him in with an alluring smile and before he knew it, he was kissing her. After that, the choice about where he would be spending the night was very, very clear.

A/N:

I actually want to get to the later seasons in their fic because it is angsty af in the show xD.

As always, I have Fanfic/Wattpad accounts under "noblecrescent" and a tumblr account under "saiilorstars" if you'd like to follow :)

[cerisereids]

𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗔𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗛𝗶𝗺 𝗪𝗮𝘀 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗟𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗠𝗲- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- early seasons!Spencer Reid x bombshell!Reader

Summary- You’re completely and totally enamored with Spencer Reid. When you have to flirt as part of a case, he is not happy.

Contains- not proofread we die like men, fem!reader, mention of reader's boobs and ass, the most unhinged work place flirting you've ever seen, Spencer is Horny, the case isn't rly canon compliant but fuck it we ball, nasty suspect who reader has to flirt with, Spencer gets insecure, they make-up and make out on the jet

A/N: divider from @saradika-graphics !!!

The soft, golden glow of sunlight filters through the window. The glimmer coats the BAU in an extra layer of warmth from the early spring chill. You adjust your light pink blouse as you approach the desk of your favorite coworker, Spencer Reid. You prop yourself up on his desk, your floral skirt pulling taut around your hips as you settle.

You swing your legs playfully, waiting for him to turn his attention away from his case file and on to you. A small smile curves his lips, and you know you got him. A heeled foot hooks behind his shin, running along the length of it until his gaze finally finds you. His eyes shine when they meet yours, a large hand moving to grip your ankle and bring it to his knee. He keeps it there, a soothing thumb rubbing the expanse of the skin there.

Your heart flutters at the action, his own cheeks tinting pink at his temerity. This has been a recent update between the two of you, Spencer's touch, his affection. Since you started at the bureau, only a few short months after him, you've been fascinated by the genius sitting beneath you now. At first, he was shocked by your immediate friendship, not used to such affection without having to earn it. In the past few months, though, his hands will graze your waist, his hugs lingering a moment too long. This change in behavior sparks a flicker of hope in your chest. Hope that, maybe, he sees you the way you see him.

You see him now, looking up at you with sparkling brown eyes. The early morning light highlights the caramel tone seeping through the dark brown. It captivates you. Your eyes drift down the rest of his face, it's all you can do to not get completely lost in him, in those eyes.

"Whatcha looking at, handsome?" you drawl, sweet as honey as you reach for the case file on his desk.

You can't help the small smile that forms as heat rushes into his face, deepening his complexion a deep red.

"It-" his words catch in his throat, which he clears before continuing, "it's for a potential new case. From Hotch."

His tone is clipped, as if he's forcing himself to sound casual. He does that when he's nervous, you've come to find out. You wonder if the pointed toe heel resting delicately on his knee has anything to do with that. You press the ball of your foot into him playfully, reveling in the way he flushes even deeper.

"Can I see?" you ask lightly, tilting your head and pouting your lips, "I want to see if it's the one I passed along to him on Monday. I still haven't heard back from him about it."

You hop down from his desk, grabbing the chair adjacent from his desk. Maybe you pull it a little too close to his chair, but you can't seem to care too much once his bicep grazes your own. The smallest touch sends shock waves through you, a surge of electricity pumping straight to your heart.

You hear his breath pick up as you reach across his lap to grab the file. A small smile spreads across your lips as Spencer nods his head frantically, long, deft fingers passing the file to you.

"Yeah-yeah, I think it is. The white collar case on Cape Cod, right?" he asks, and you nod.

"Yeah, he wanted you to look at it?" you look towards him with bright eyes, hopeful. "I wasn't sure he'd be okay with us picking this one up. It's not really something we normally cover, but I have a feeling about it. Something's not right..." you trail off, scanning the details once more.

"I agree," he says, and it's almost laughable how relieved you feel at his approval. "I couldn't help but notice the fraud charge. They wired the money to an account in Germany. If this crosses country lines then we might be dealing with something more than just fraud."

"That's exactly what I was thinking!" your fingers latch onto his forearm in excitement. His eyes flash to your touch, his breath catching again.

Your eyes linger on his face, tracing each freckle of his smooth skin. His eyes flit up to yours, and the contact stops time. Everything around you comes to a standstill, you and Spencer are the only ones that exist in this moment.

A tap of a manila folder snaps you out of your Spencer-induced-haze, cheeks heating as you look up to find Hotch. A knowing look glimmers in his eye, and you twist your hands in your lap.

"Get ready to leave for Cape Cod," is all he says, tone definitive before he goes to brief the rest of the team.

Spencer's heart clutches in his chest as they exit the plane, right onto a coastal beach. She's dressed for the occasion, an airy, floral sundress ebbing and flowing around her gorgeous figure. He shoves his hands in his pockets, willing his gaze to focus anywhere else. He finds solace in his Converse, the way they squish against the sand deters him from the way her dress dips lower at the chest.

He shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the thought, as guilt creeps into the pit of his stomach. He's been fighting these feelings ever since she joined the bureau. The magnetic pull she has on him, the grip of want clutching his heart, his lungs, until he can barely breathe. As always, she saddles up next to him, as if she knew she's on his mind. She's always on his mind.

A mix of coconut and chemicals fill his nostrils, her sunscreen infiltrating all his senses. Her bare arm grazes against his, her proximity nearly suffocating. He'd rather die than move away from her, though.

They're assigned the same task, analyzing the letters sent to and from various money launderers. She's bent at the waist, palms flat against the white folding table set up on the beach. Hormones rage through him, he feels like a perverse teenager, but the way she pops her hip out nearly gives him a heart attack.

His arm lifts, almost involuntarily, his hand lightly grazing her elbow as he makes his presence known. He revels in the way her eyes light up as they find him, her hand finding his shoulder. He feels dizzy when she gives it a light squeeze, the prettiest smile painting her glossy lips.

"What have you found?" he ponders. She raises her brow at him.

"We've been here for not even five minutes. How do you know I've found something?" she inquires. A light chuckle escapes his lips, his eyes finding the letters she's been scanning.

"You have that crease in your brow when you know something," he mentions softly, her smile widening. "What is it?"

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, the plump flesh ever so tempting. She's so beautiful when she works, it takes his breath away.

"This. Look at this sentence, here," she points about halfway through an old, crinkled letter. It catches his eye immediately.

"'It's been handled. There's nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.' What do you make of that?" he asks, though he has some theories himself.

"A partnership. It almost seems romantic, 'pretty little head'," she repeats, "it's almost flirtatious. Like he wants to take care of the partner, man or woman."

Spencer has no idea how the perfect combination of beauty and brains found him, of all people, but God, is he thankful.

"I agree, nice work," he smiles at her, and he revels in the way she preens at his praise. The sun coats her skin, and the natural light makes her shimmer like an angel.

"Thanks, Spence," she nudges his shoulder with hers, and his cheeks heat. It's not from the sun.

An arrest is made not long after they touch down- a 25 year old manager of a local golf club. He's a broad, muscly type, the kind of guy that's always made Spencer feel smaller, less-than. He sees it. The moment he clocks her. It makes him sick.

He's handcuffed, Hotch dragging him along the beach to the interrogation space. On his way there, his eyes lock on the girl right next to him. Acidic bile rises in his throat as his eyes scan up and down, sizing her up like a lamb for slaughter.

Hotch approaches them a few minutes later, his gaze directed at her.

"He says he'll only talk to you. He wants 'the pretty one'," Hotch informs. A shiver unzips Spencer's spine at that, the sick feeling from earlier creeping up his throat once again. He can't help but link his pinkie finger through hers, a reassuring gesture that she's more than this.

Hotch leans closer, his voice a low timbre. "Between us, this guy is a bona fide creep. You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

A wave of relief rushes through Spencer at this, though his stomach drops when she removes her pinkie from his. He sees her straighten her spine in his peripheral, and his head snaps up to look at her. He knows the second he sees her. She's going to do it.

"No," she says to Hotch, almost defiant, "I can do it. I want to help in any way I can."

Hotch studies her for a moment, his brow furrowing in a concern Spencer shares. He nods tersely, and Spencer knows fighting this is a lost cause.

"Alright, let's go," Hotch says lowly, letting her go before both of them.

Spencer follows. It's against his better judgement, he knows he'd probably be of better use elsewhere. He can't let her go in alone, though. Not even if he tried.

Your heart is thumping in your chest, your blood thrumming in your veins as you near the interrogation room. Spencer's behind you the whole time, you can tell. A tiny flame of hope flickers in your chest as he stands at the glass, a white knuckle grip on the table beneath him.

You make eye contact with him one last time before opening the door. You see the restraint in his big brown eyes, how badly he wants to tell you to not go in. You take a deep breath and open the door anyway.

A sickly feeling creeps its way into your stomach, acid bubbling in the deepest part of you. You watch as he sizes you up, his gaze lingering a little too long on your chest. You're used to this, to men treating you like a piece of meat. It never gets easier, but you find a small bit of comfort in the fact that you're helping your team. So, you plaster your sweetest smile, falling into the role that's expected of you.

"Hi! How are you doing? Uncomfortable?" you pout your glossy lips, tone sickly sweet as you perch on the edge of the table. His eyes linger on your ass, the fat of it emphasized by your weight on the table. You arch your back slightly. You know you look good, you decide to lean into it instead of focusing on the man in front of you.

"What do you think, sweetheart?" he asks, sarcasm lacing his tone as he rattles his cuffs. "You help, though."

Your stomach churns, but your smile never falters. Your experience with men like this isn't foreign to you. You know every button you need to push.

"Yeah?" you drawl, your manicured nails crawling to his forearm, resting gingerly there. "Anything I can get you? Food? Water?" you bat your lashes sweetly. The glint in his eye reeks of objectification, and you swallow the lump in your throat.

"Get me a cheeseburger and fries from Louie's. Oh- and a chocolate milkshake, cherry on top," he winks at that last line. You pity him for how proud he seems of it.

You place a hand on his forearm, leaning in so your face is parallel with his. You watch his eyes flit down to your chest, now even more exposed in your position.

"You got it," your tone is saccharine, your nails dragging lightly against his arm as you stand to leave. You make sure to sway your hips a little extra as you leave, looking over your shoulder one more time before opening the door.

You exit the interrogation room to the shocked expressions of your team members, most are impressed, others in pure shock. You catch Spencer, though, and it doesn't take a genius to see the incredulous expression on his face. His brows furrowed, a pout hanging low on his lips.

"Way to work it, honey," Morgan claps you on the back. Hotch nods his agreement.

Pride swells in your belly at their praise. You can't shake Spencer's lack of enthusiasm, though. His inability to look you in the eye sparks a flame of disappointment, blazing through the content you felt just moments before.

You weave your way through the small room, linking your fingers around Spencer's wrist and pulling him out into the precinct. He still can't look at you.

"Spencer, what's wrong?" you're not really sure where to start. You hope this gets him talking.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong," his voice is high pitched in the way that it does when he's lying. "I just- I can't watch you put yourself on display for someone that looks at you like a piece of meat! Is that just your natural state? Since it clearly comes so easily to you."

He mumbles the last part under his breath, and it shocks you into silence. Frustration flares in your chest, spreading like wildfire from head to toe.

"You don't have to watch, then, Spencer," you spit out his name, and he flinches at your tone. "I'm trying to help our team solve this case. If you can't watch, then maybe your skills would be used better somewhere else."

You stalk off, hurt piercing through every nerve in your body. You wiggle your fingers, stretching your neck side to side as you try to shake off the feeling. It finds its way back to you, no matter what you do, rising like bile up your throat.

You open the door back to the interrogation room, watching the man behind the glass eat his food without a care in the world. You stew for a moment, letting yourself sit in the hurt, the anger. You decide to let it fuel you.

You reach your hands into your dress, pushing your boobs up so they rest perkily above the neckline. You turn to Hotch, who looks like he regrets the day he was born, fire blazing in your eye.

"I can crack him," you say assuredly. Hotch nods in response, and you turn the knob to the interrogation room.

Spencer can't help but find his way back into the interrogation room. He sits in the back, behind Hotch and Morgan, back hunched, arms crossed over his chest. His brows are furrowed, the pout on his lips everlasting.

Guilt boils in his stomach as she saunters back in the room. The way his eyes light up when he sees her makes Spencer physically ill. He clears his throat uncomfortably, which causes Derek's head to cross over his shoulder, finding Spencer immediately.

Spencer shrinks into himself even more as Derek moves to join him at the back table. They sit for a moment, watching as she bends over the table at the waist, popping her hip out in a way that's sinful. Spencer bites his lip, completely giving up on hiding his feelings from Derek. He figured him out months ago.

"The way I spoke to her, Derek..." Spencer trails off shamefully. He shakes his head, unable to look at her without feeling nauseous.

"She's going to forgive you. She just needs to know you're coming from a place of concern, not judgement," Derek says, his poignancy grating Spencer's nerves even further. How dare he have such good judgement?

"How do you know she'll forgive me?" Spencer murmurs. He can't remember the last time he sounded so weak.

"Because I know," his certainty draws Spencer's gaze up to meet Morgan's. They sit in loaded silence, the only sound cutting through is her saccharine tone from the other side of the glass. It churns in Spencer's stomach like bad milk.

Derek moves back to where he was before, next to Hotch at the glass window. It's then that Spencer finally wills himself to look at her. She's got her hands on her hips, all her weight resting on one foot in a way that highlights her figure. She flips her hair, and the suspect is completely drawn to her.

"You're a smart guy, I can just tell..." she croons, moving closer towards him, "but being smart doesn't mean you can hide from me, you know?"

The suspect blushes at this, though a smug smirk paints his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about, baby. I didn't do anything."

Spencer white knuckles the table beneath him. It's all he can do to not go in there and wipe that smile right off his face.

"I know you're not used to pretty girls pushing back. Most of them just fall for that smile, huh?" her voice is lower, more intimate, as a nail traces the shape of his lip.

The suspect tenses then, turning his gaze down to his hands. Spencer sits up at this, adrenaline striking him at the suspect's discomfort.

"I...I didn't do anything. I swear," the suspect emphasizes that last part, and Spencer knows she's got him.

"You really think I'm going to let you get away with that answer, when I know the truth?" she's resting on the table now, her hip delicately perched just inches away from the suspect. "It's okay to let go, you know," a nail lightly grazes up his arm. He shivers. "You've lost control already, haven't you?"

The last question comes out as a whisper. The suspect jolts away from her, the legs of his chair scraping the floor.

"I didn't mean for it to go this far, okay?" the suspect exclaims. Spencer stands fully upright now, moving to stand in-between Hotch and Morgan.

"She's got him," Morgan mumbles, and Spencer's chest swells with pride.

"But it did go that far, didn’t it? And now you’re here. You can’t run anymore. What happened that night? I’m right here. You can tell me," she's batting her eyelashes, yet venom laces her tone.

"It was just supposed to be money laundering. They told me I'd be making seven figures if I did. That's all I wanted. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," he groans, head falling back.

Spencer, Hotch, and Morgan all exchange weary looks, brows raised in surprise. Pride blossoms in his chest like an early spring flower, his cheeks warming at the sight of his best friend. He's so, so proud of her. He was such an ass earlier. He'll spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

Her head tilts to the side, a faux pout painting her lips. She pats his shoulder definitively before standing.

"Thanks, babe," her tone is sarcastic now, and she winks before leaving the room.

She's caught off guard to see Spencer there, stopping in the doorway just briefly before closing it behind her. The pride swelling in his chest dissipates to that boiling guilt from before, bubbling deep in his stomach.

"Good work," Hotch nods at her, a prideful smile on her lips, "Morgan, have Garcia research any connections to our unsub. He said 'they', we may be looking for a team."

Hotch follows Morgan out, and he's left alone with her now. It dawns on him that he's never been speechless with her before. She's always made him feel comfortable expressing whatever's on his mind. Now, as her eyes gleam with hurt, he doesn't think he's earned that right.

"You did it," he breathes. He gets a heavy scoff in response.

"I knew I would, since it comes so naturally, I thought why not lean into it?" her venomous tone pierces through his heart as she walks past him. She pats his shoulder the same way she did with the unsub, is skin aflame at the contact, even though she's mad at him.

A wine glass is perched between your fingers as you curl up on the jet. It's a celebratory drink, insisted by Morgan for your involvement in solving the case. You look out the window to the setting sun over the coast, the sparkling water. You take a deep breath before taking a long sip.

It's not soon after you take off that night falls, your teammates falling asleep in waves. One certain member hasn't, though. You feel Spencer's eyes on you as you make your way to the back of the jet, spilling out the remaining contents of your glass in the small sink at the bar.

You relent on your way back, the blaring anger you felt earlier dulled to a hum of frustration. He looks tired, vulnerable in his current state, curled up on the couch of the jet. You crouch in front of him, a delicate hand perched on his shoulder. His eyes meet yours in record time, regret flashing through them almost immediately.

Your heart aches, as if two large hands are squeezing as hard as they can. You've missed him. It doesn't feel right to celebrate your win without him. You push back a strand of hair that's fallen in front of his eye, and they gleam at your touch. You can't help but smile at his softness.

"Spence..." you start, but he cuts you off.

"I'm so, so sorry, honey," the words burst out of him. Your heart clutches at the pet name.

"It's okay," you smile meekly, but your acceptance is sincere all the same.

"No. No, it's not," he says as he sits up, facing you properly now. "I should have never said what I did, it was-it was awful of me. I never want to make you feel like that again."

"Why did you say it, Spencer?" you inquire, the breath robbed from your lungs, "it was so unlike you. It hurt, but it caught me by surprise more than anything."

His eyes squeeze shut at the confirmation that he'd hurt you, and you rest a delicate palm on his forearm. A sincere gesture now, compared to the hollow touches you'd doled out earlier.

"Spencer, I want you to talk to me," you whisper, and he shudders at the softness in your voice. You know he thinks he doesn't deserve your forgiveness.

"That guy, the way he looked at you, he looks nothing like me..." he trails off, and it clicks in your brain.

He wasn't mad at you for flirting, he was scared you were leading him on. That he wasn't as important as a guy who looked like that.

"Oh, Spence..." you can't help yourself, you plop right in his lap. You pull his neck into your shoulder, a deep hug as he breathes shakily.

"You're just so beautiful, any guy like that could have you. Yet you pay attention to me. Why?" he pulls back and looks up at you, eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

"Spencer, for one, that guy is being charged with fraud and murder in the first degree. Don't compare yourself to him," a teasing lilt laces your tone, and he groans playfully into your neck.

You cradle him for a moment, and can't help but notice how normal this feels, how right it is to be with him in this way. You're so in love with him. You have been ever since you first met him, and you need him to know.

"Spencer, you don't give yourself enough credit for how hot you really are," you smirk. He scoffs at that, an involuntary noise that almost wakes up the whole jet.

"Shhh!" you giggle, nails scraping the back of his scalp. You watch the way he shudders at the action, you give him another little scratch before continuing.

"You're so beautiful, Spencer," you cup his cheeks, pressing your forehead into his. "I'm sorry you don't see it."

"Do you see it?" he asks, and you know what he really means. Do you really love me? Or are you just being kind?

"Of course I do, Spencer. I see your kind eyes, your full lips, your hands..." you trail off, finding his hand splayed on your back. You grab it, putting your palm flat against his.

"My-my hands?" he laughs out in disbelief. His cheeks are tinted pink, and you don't think you've ever wanted anyone this bad in your entire life.

You nod. "Yeah, your hands, Spence. They're huge," you lace your fingers together then, and he shudders at the touch.

"But it's not only what's on the outside, though I do enjoy it so very much," he blushes even more profusely. You never want him to stop. "Your heart, Spence. It's so kind, and loving, and forgiving, I'm sorry you don't see yourself as enough. I'll spend as much time as you'll let me proving you wrong."

He looks you in the eye, then. His brows furrowed, lips pouted. The air between you thickens in the silence, your chests move up and down in time together.

"I love you," you whisper, and the shuddering breath that leaves Spencer's lips makes you want to cry.

He buries his face in your neck once more, the heat from his still-red cheeks radiating off of him.

"Oh, angel. I love you, too. I'm so sorry. I love you, I don't deserve you-"

You cut his rambling off with the sweetest kiss to his lips. He groans into it, pulling you closer into him with his hands.

"This dress, honey. I haven't been able to keep my eyes off you all day," he whispers in between kisses.

You let out the smallest whimper at that, the thought of driving him crazy just from your outfit giving you a confidence boost for the ages.

"Yeah?" you ask playfully, moving his hand to rest against a bare spot on your thigh. He looks up at you, submission gleaming in his eye as he nods.

You could just destroy him.

"If you guys start to hook up on this jet, I'm snitching," you and Spencer both jump at the voice coming from behind.

It's Morgan, sitting awake amongst the rest of the sleeping team. Your heart pounds from the shock, though a smile still splays across your face. Spencer looks the same, flushed but content, his cheeks bunching up around his eyes.

"It is about time. We've had a running pool throughout the whole office over who was gonna cave first. Looks like I'm getting a cut, thanks, pretty girl," Derek ruffles your hair as he walks past, going to make himself a coffee at the bar.

"Morgan!" Spencer whines, his head falling back against the couch.

You giggle, too in love to care that you were caught. You snake your arms around his neck, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"We'll finish what we started when we get home," you're seductive in your tone, and you can tell you're successful from the goosebumps rising on his flesh.

He shivers as you move off his lap, settling into his side as you begin to descend on Quantico. A flight home has never felt so long.

[kryptonitejelly]

draco malfoy x reader (female)

the one where Blaise notices the Malfoy signet ring on your finger.

send draco requests.

-

The air smells like a combination of Draco and yourself, but mostly Draco - notes of citrus overlaid with the scent of tea and smoky wood. His sheets are cool against the surface of your skin, a sensation which lends a sharp contrast to the warmth of his bare chest against your cheek. You can feel one of his hands tracing patterns onto the skin of your back, as he other hand fiddles absently with your fingers which you have splayed out across his chest, a lazy post-coital haze surrounding you both.

“Who knew the Draco Malfoy would be one for cuddling,” you say teasingly your fingers tugging lightly on the long slender digits which are still tangled with yours. This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, your naked form flush against Draco’s in the same bed in which he had you legs hooked over his shoulder, his name a litany on your lips just mere moments ago.

“I’m not,” he scoffs with a roll of his eyes, as he manages to squeeze your fingers in his, a subtle battle for dominance among you both.

“Alright then,” you say both suddenly and with a calculated carelessness as you push your hands, fingers still tangled in his against his chest as you make a move to sit up. The covers slip easily down your skin with no clothes to act as friction. It exposes you, your nipples hardening upon contact with the cool air. You’e barely managed to get up when you feel the arm wrapped around you shift, fingers pressing more firmly into your hip to pull you back down.

“Where do you think you’re going,” Draco questions. He keeps his tone indifferent but the arm which has tightened around your body tells a different story.

“I’m sure Theo likes to cuddle,” you express matter of factly, keeping your expression innocent and it earns you an icy gaze from the blonde, cool grey boring in you. Draco observes you for almost a full minute before speaking.

“I’m sure he does not,” is what he finally says as a retort, his tone more disgruntled this time.

You open your mouth to disagree only to feel your back pressed flat into the mattress, Draco’s body now covering yours, his movements swift. You see the glint in his eyes as he lowers his head towards yours.

“Draco,” you breathe his name out. He doesn’t respond but presses his lips to yours. His hands find yours, fingers tangling together, pinning your hands above your head. You kiss him back, teeth nipping his lip lightly which earns your a low growl from the back of his throat. You can feel Draco hardening, his length pressed against your stomach. Your almost miss it with the competing sensations overtaking your body - lips, hands, skin, but your brain manages to register the feeling of Draco slipping cool metal from the signet ring on his last finger onto your index.

-

“Well, well, well - look who decided to join us,” Blaise calls out too cheerily, taking in the sight of you and Draco walking into the small sitting room in what had come to be Draco’s side of the Malfoy manor.

“It is surprising that I’m joining you in the sitting room of the Malfoy manor,” comes Draco’s reply which earns a good natured chortle from Theo and an eye roll from Pansy.

“Well, you can’t blame us for thinking that you two would be,” Blaise pauses for dramatic effect, “…otherwise occupied.” His unsaid words clear.

As with the rest, you and Draco had been childhood friends. However, years of tension that neither of you had acted upon had only cumulated more recently, and with Pansy’s blessing, into this, whatever it was. You both hadn’t yet spoken about it, the touching, sleepovers, sex, and there had been no outward proclamations to the world at large that either of you was anything other than single, and yet - it was no secret among anyone who knew either of you that you were both very unavailable.

“You mean book club?��� You managed to keep a straight face as you question Blaise too innocently. It earns you a smirk from Draco and an amused chuckle from Pansy, your joke clear as you stop by the table facing the floor to ceiling windows which they are sitting by.

You reach across the table for a handful of blueberries from a bowl beside Theo’s elbow when you feel Blaise grab your wrist lightly, his fingers curling around, as he holds your wrist up in triumph, brandishing it around. You place your free hand flat down on the surface of the table, stabilising yourself as you lean forward into Blaise’s pull.

“I didn’t know book club members were all given the Malfoy signet ring,” he grins wildly at the discovery. The group’s gaze flickers to Draco’s hand, noticing the lack of the ring, usually a mainstay, on his the last finger of his left hand.

“If I join book club could I get one too?” Theo quips cheekily as you feel your cheeks start to heat both at your current plight as well as with recollection of what had been a subtle act of possessive on Draco’s part earlier.

“Zabini,” Draco says, tone still even as he reaches over, his hand curling around your forearm, tugging you out of Blaise’s grip, while ignoring Theo, “if she’s wearing the Malfoy signet ring don’t you think you should think twice before manhandling her?”

“Is she yours Draco,” Pansy adds to the chaos, an equally wide smirk on her face as Blaise lets your wrist slip out from his hold with ease while throwing you a wink.

“If you thought otherwise then you lot must be more dim than I thought ,” is all Draco says as he sits down. He lets you drop onto the chair beside him before reaching over to pull the piece of furniture and you closer to his side, the drag of it on the floor audible.

It earns him a whoop from Blaise, two hands thrown up in the air from Theo as he yells “finally”, and a laugh from Pansy who blows a kiss at you.

Draco slides his arm across the back of the chair, before looking at you brows lifted slightly, but his question is clear, you’ve never spoke about this and Draco wants to know - are you okay with this?

“I am,” you say as you lean forward to press your lips briefly against his. It only causes a louder ruckus at the table.

[blairenqs]

୨୧ CAUGHT IN THE ACT ✧ SPENCER REID

───── IN WHICH 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗍 !

𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖿!spencer 𝓍 𝒻! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 1.1𝖪 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 ♡ ⎯⎯ 𝖠𝖱𝖢𝖧𝒾𝖵𝖤

LUNCH BREAKS AT THE BAU were a rare occurrence, and peaceful ones were practically nonexistent.

so when spencer quietly asked you to join him in his car for a moment of privacy, you couldn’t possibly say no.

the bullpen was loud, filled with agents and cases to be discussed, and even the break room wasn’t safe from the work chatter.

now you were here, sitting in the passenger seat of spencer’s old, slightly cluttered car. his bag sat in the back, along with a few scattered books and the faint smell of coffee lingered in the air.

he sat beside you, legs awkwardly angled in the tight space, his knee brushing yours every so often as he shifted around nervously.

“this feels risky,” spencer mumbled, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his cardigan. his voice was a whisper as his eyes scanned around the parking lot, looking for any signs of movement though it was highly unlikely anybody from your team would make their way to the parking lot.

“you think everything’s risky, spence.” you teased, leaning a little closer to him. the corners of your mouth quirked up as you added, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not enjoying it.” —READ MORE!

his lips parted to respond, but instead of words, a soft laugh escaped his mouth. “i am,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing that same endearing pink. “it’s just.. you know how the others are already suspecting of our relationship— especially morgan! if he even suspects anything, he’ll—”

“—never let it go,” you finished for him, grinning. “i know. but we’re fine, spence. no one’s looking for us.”

he hesitated, his hand moving near yours on the console. you took the initiative, gently wrapping your fingers around his.

his hand was warm, a little clammy from nerves, but it fit perfectly in yours. that small touch seemed to ground him, and his shoulders relaxed slightly as he turned to look at you.

the way he looked at you. soft, hesitant, like he was still in awe that this was real—made your heart warm.

slowly, you leaned closer, your hand brushing against his cheek to bring him forward. he didn’t resist, tilting his head just enough to meet you halfway.

when your lips finally met, it was as sweet and careful as ever, his kiss unhurried and slow, as if he were savoring every second.

his hand rested lightly on your thigh, the touch barely there, yet it sent a sharp shiver down your spine nonetheless—as spencers touch always did.

spencer kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world, and in moments like this, it felt like you were—no cases, no crime scenes, just you and him.

the kiss deepened naturally, getting more heated by the second—his lips getting needier and searching against yours.

you could still feel the nervous energy of making out in such an exposed area in the way his fingers tightened slightly around yours, but you also felt the trust in the way he leaned into you, his body relaxing more with each passing second.

until you heard it.

a sharp knock on the driver’s side window.

you and spencer both flinched so hard that you bumped into each other, breaking the kiss with an awkward clash of foreheads.

spencer let out a startled, high pitched “ow!” while you turned toward the window, your heart pounding in your chest.

there he was, grinning like a dog who just found a tiny new toy, stood derek morgan. he leaned down slightly, his hands around his eyes to see better through the glass. “am i interrupting something?” he asked, his voice muffled but unmistakably smug and teasing.

spencer’s face went red, and you and him froze like a deer in headlights. for a few seconds, neither of you moved, the tension thick in the cramped car.

finally, with great reluctance, spencer reached over and pressed the button to roll the window down.

the glass slid down with an agonizing slowness, revealing morgan’s face in full, his grin practically glowing.

“well, well, well,” he said, folding his arms on the window ledge. “what do we have here? dr. reid and…” he turned his gaze to you, raising an eyebrow. “i should’ve known. you’ve been sneaking off an awful lot lately.”

spencer’s mouth opened and closed a few times, no words managing to escape. his cheeks were so red you thought he might combust on the spot. “morgan, i—this isn’t—we weren’t—”

morgan held up a hand, cutting him off. “save it, pretty boy. i don’t need the explanation. i saw what i saw.” he glanced between the two of you, his grin somehow growing wider. “and might i just say—wow. didn’t think you had it in you, kid.”

you couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. it was nervous laughter—sure, but it broke the tension, and you leaned back in your seat, shaking your head.

“come on morgan, don’t you have something better to do than stalk the parking lot?”

“oh, this is better,” morgan shot back, his tone teasing. he straightened up, giving spencer a pointed look.

“you’re lucky it was me and not hotch who caught you two sneaking around. or worse—garcia. you know how she loves gossip.”

spencer groaned, burying his face in his hands. “please don’t tell garcia,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by his hands.

morgan laughed, resting his hand on the car door. “relax, kid. your secret’s safe with me. for now.” he paused, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “but if you owe me a favor down the line, don’t be surprised if i cash it in, oh—make sure you kids don’t get too lost in the smooching, hotch was looking for you both earlier.”

with that, he turned and walked away, still chuckling to himself as he headed back toward the building.

you turned to spencer, who was still hiding behind his hands. “hey,” you said softly, nudging his knee with yours. “it’s okay. he’s just messing with us.”

spencer peeked at you through his fingers, his face still flushed. “this is exactly why i didn’t want anyone to find out,” he muttered.

you smiled, reaching over to gently pull his hands away from his face. “morgan isn’t going to tell anyone. and even if he does, who cares? they’re our friends. they’ll be happy for us.”

he looked at you for a long moment, his expression softening at your smile. “you’re too calm about this,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief as he leaned his head into your shoulder.

“that’s because i know something you don’t,” you teased, leaning in closer.

“what’s that?”

“that no one could possibly tease you more than morgan just did,” you said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

despite his anxiousness of the situation, spencer laughed, his shoulders finally relaxing. and even though the lunch break didn’t go as expected, at least the two of you wouldn’t have to hide away something so beautiful anymore—and that made it all the sweeter.

𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

© blairenqs 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

✧ 𝑓. FIRST FIC COMPLETED !! please feel free to leave any requests 🫶🫶 i love spencer so much shushdjdj

[hoe4hotchner]

I have an idea for a Hotch story. What about its Hotch x wife!reader where jack is about 6 months old but she’s still constantly checking his breathing at naps and bedtime and waking up all the time she check him and is super conscious. Hotch thought at first it’s just a new mom thing but now you’re losing sleep and worried all the time so he brings it up one night and she just breaks down and says “I never know if you’re coming home to me so I need to make sure jack is ok so I always have a piece of you with me”

Safe and Sound | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x wife!Reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Could probably be qualified as post partum, anxiety, lack of sleep.

A/N: I tried my hardest to write this with Jack as the baby, but ultimately I had to make it into a new baby unrelated to Jack, cause my brain couldn't wrap around reader having given birth to Jack. Otherwise it follows the prompt…. Hope it's okay <3

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the nursery in a warm amber hue as you hovered over the crib. The rhythmic sound of the baby monitor buzzed faintly in the background, but it wasn’t enough to ease your mind. Your hand rested lightly on your son’s tiny chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall from his breathing. Six months in, and every nap, every bedtime, still filled you with a quiet kind of dread.

What if the monitor failed? What if something happened while you weren’t watching? The what-ifs buzzed louder than the monitor, it was a relentless echo that kept you tethered to the edge of fear no matter how safe or serene he looked in his sleep.

The creak of the nursery door broke your focus, pulling your gaze away from your son’s chest. Aaron’s silhouette filled the doorway, his broad shoulders casting a shadow into the softly lit room. He was only wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxers, the casualness of his attire contrasting with his usual suit and tie. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, and his dark eyes softened as they took you in, concern etching faint lines across his face. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, not in irritation but in worry.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, careful not to wake the baby. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, brushing your fingertips over your son’s soft, silky hair. You lingered, reluctant to leave. “I just needed to check.”

Aaron stepped into the room, his feet silent against the carpet. “You’ve checked three times in the past hour,” he said gently, his hand finding the small of your back. “Come back to bed.”

You sighed, looking down at your baby boy one last time before letting Aaron guide you out of the nursery. The two of you walked in silence to your bedroom, his hand never leaving you as if to anchor you to him so you wouldn't run back to the nursery. When you climbed into bed, Aaron slid in beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you.

“This isn’t just a new mom thing, is it?” he asked, his voice low and careful, treading lightly as he spoke. “You’ve barely been sleeping. You’re running yourself into the ground.”

You froze, staring at the ceiling as tears burned behind your eyes. He was right — he always was. But admitting it felt like opening a floodgate you weren’t sure you could close.

“I just…” Your voice cracked, and Aaron shifted closer. “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“He is okay,” Aaron said, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “He’s perfect. And you’re an amazing mom.”

The dam broke. The tears spilled over as a sob escaped your lips. “I never know if you’re coming home to me,” you choked out, your hands gripping his t-shirt as though he might disappear. “So I need to make sure the baby is okay. I need to know I’ll always have a piece of you with me.”

Aaron’s breath hitched, his face falling as your words sank in. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as he kissed the top of your head. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m so sorry you feel like that.”

You clung to him, his steady heartbeat soothing some of the ache in your chest. “I can’t lose you, Aaron. Or him. I wouldn’t survive it.”

“You won’t lose us,” he promised, his lips brushing your temple. “I’ll do everything I can to come home to you, every time. And I’ll make sure you’re never carrying this alone.”

For a long time, he just held you. As your sobs quieted, he eased you back down onto the pillows, still holding your hand.

“Tomorrow, we’ll figure this out,” Aaron said softly. “We’ll talk to someone and find ways to help you rest. But tonight, let me watch over him so you can sleep. Okay?”

You nodded, your exhaustion finally catching up to you as his words and touch began to pull you under. “Okay,” you whispered.

And as you drifted off in Aaron’s arms, for the first time in months, you felt the weight begin to lift — getting help was not such a bad idea after all.

[alana-reid-2005]

they really told us to trust the process

[petrichoravery]

So professional. | s.r.

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summery: when the team finally has a break through in a case that seemed endless and you and Spencer are assigned to search an abandoned laboratory together, old feeling come to the surface.

word count: 7,3k (it got away from me, sorryyy)

what to expect: ex!spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, kinda like lovers to "enemies" to ??, a lot!! of banter, morgan calls r 'doll', 'princess' and 'sugar', criminal minds typical violence; torture, shooting, gunshot wound, parental/domestic abuse (abusive father/husband), hyporeflexia (the absence of reflexes), medical inaccuracies? I’m sure, English is not my first language.

a/n: aaaa this is so far out of my comfort zone!! I hope you’ll enjoy this while I’ll go into hiding🙈🙈

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This case was endless until it wasn't. Until everything happened so quickly, all at once.

All of the victims had been burned to the point that the ME couldn't figure out the cause of death, until Eleven year old Amilie Porter was found on the side of the road by a passerby.

She had been cold and traumatised and wouldn't speak to anyone, so they brought her to the hospital, who alerted the police that then called you. The BAU.

Now, Spencer and JJ were crouching next to her hospital bed to seem less intimidating. Everything was going great, she wasn't speaking, but engaged in the conversation by nodding or shaking her head to their questions.

Until Amilie accidentally grabbed the mug of hot tea JJ handed her by the burning hot part, but instead of flinching she just held it there, as if it wasn't burning her fingers.

"Woah, hey hey hey!" Spencer took the cup from her before any more damage could be done. "Careful, that's still hot."

But his squeaked comment only made Amilie retreated into herself.

"Sorry, I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Did—" he frowned, he wasn't been sure how to ask her what he wanted to ask, given that she was eleven and still in shock.

"Did you not feel how hot that was?" He asked gently.

Amilie only nodded.

"Yes, you didn't feel how hot it was?"

She shook her head.

"So…you felt it, but didn't pull back?" He was trying his best not to come across as too impatient, keeping his voice low and soft.

He went on as she agreed to the question, "Let me ask you this, Amilie. Did—did the bad man do this?"

When Amilie nodded her head in answer to his question, Spencer glanced up at JJ, nodding as well. He could tell Amilie was exhausted and needed rest, his questions were probably not helping much.

He didn't blame her for being unresponsive, what happened to her must have been enough to traumatise a person with a fully developed brain. He could only calculate what damage it had done and will do to her life.

JJ's voice brought him back into the glaringly white hospital room. "Thank you, Amilie, you helped us very much. We're going to call the nice nurse back in, okay?"

She took Amilie's turning away from them as a yes and they made their way to the reception desk. After they were sure that the nurse was on her way, they walked back to the car.

"What did you see?" She asked him as they walked out of the hospital, onto the parking lot. Sirens were coming from every direction, so they had to speak a little louder.

"Wait—can you drive? I'll call the team." Spencer said, already pulling out his phone and dialling the first contact.

Which, unfortunately, was you.

"Reid? What did she say?" Your voice was usually distant, as if you were scared that letting any emotion into you voice would break the dam.

He pressed a hand over his ear to hear you better.

You see, when you and Spencer got together, you had to promise Hotch that you would stay professional when you would break up. A great prophecy for the rest of your relationship, right? Having to talk about your hypothetical breakup on the first official day of your relationship.

Both of you really tried to stay professional, but working with an ex was hard enough, working with an ex you haven't really talked it out with was harder.

"I think he might be torturing the victims until they loose their reflexes." He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder as he unlocked the car door, holding it open for JJ, handing her the keys and getting into the passenger seat after she was securely in the car.

"Hyporeflexia? Do you—wait let me put you on speaker." There was shuffling on the other side of the phone. "You have Hotch and I. Do you know how he does it?"

"No. I have theories, but nothing concrete. There are a few ways to accomplish the absence of reflexes, drugs like K779 or Leuprorelin, for example. But I doubt he is using a drug, it would have shown up on the toxicology report and the chances of these drugs causing Hyporeflexia are too slim."

"What's your guess?" Hotch piped up.

"Well I think he might be damaging their nervous system. You see, motor neutrons send messages between the spinal cord and brain. Collectively they send messages to the rest of your body to control muscle movements. It's possible that the UnSub is damaging the sensory nerves, spinal cord or motor nerves to cause hyporeflexia." He rambled off the facts and you could practically see the wild gesturing of his hands.

"How is the girl?" You asked.

"She's quiet, but in good hands," he reassured you. "She'll be okay in no time."

"Are you on your way back?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms.

"Yes. We're driving to you now."

"Drive safely." You said, purely for performance purposes.

"I'm not driving." He replied dryly.

"That's why it was meant for JJ."

"She always drives safely." You tried not to roll your eyes as Spencer just hung up.

Being professional when the person you used to plan your future with was now your worst enemy was hard. And while you might spite him a lot, you were sad about it more than you were angry.

But anger always came easier to you than admitting to yourself and him that the break up really hurt you, that you want nothing more than to be friends if you couldn't have him as a partner. You wanted to hold him in your arms again, to fall asleep to his heartbeat every night.

You couldn't tell anyone that, of course, your pride would be in shambles.

So you took a deep breath and turned back to Hotch.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

When Spencer and JJ got back to Quantico the team reassembled for the briefing. Everyone shared their thoughts and theories and Spencer explained what had happened at the hospital.

"Um…I know that there is a poison called curare, it's won from various plants and causes paralysis by binding to the acetylcholine receptor of the junction where two nerve cells dock together and therefore prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal muscles. Could it be something like that?" You asked into the room.

Spencer was quiet for a moment and you're unsure whether he was impressed by your knowledge or just thinking really hard about the possibilities. "Well, we obviously can't tell because the bodies are burnt. But it's unlikely that he is using curare, given that Amilie wasn't paralysed, but developed Hyporeflexia."

Never mind, he was just thinking of a polite way to say, you're so far from the point, stupid.

"Right. So what do you think?" You almost added oh almighty! but were able to stop yourself. Because you're professional.

"As I already said," he gave you a look, "he is probably damaging the nervous system."

"Right, sorry. I meant, how is he doing that?" You had been able to sound so unfazed until this moment.

"I don't know," he frowned at you, as if his answer was obvious (you would like to state that it was not), "or I would have shared it already."

The team was nice enough not to comment on your little dispute, but it's clear that it was getting on their nerves. Especially Hotch, who was looking more stoic than usual, Morgan was finding it more amusing than anything.

"I'll get Garcia to search for similar occurrences in the area." You said quickly, already hurrying out of the room and away from the pending lecture.

Spencer watched you scurry off with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He didn't know why he bitt like a wounded dog every time the two of you spoke. He would like to think that it was because he just genuinely didn't like you anymore, but he knew that wasn't true. Hating you would be easier than this.

On the other side of the office, you ripped open door of Penelope Garcia's office and slammed it closed behind you, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh.

Penelope startled upright, turning her swivel chair to look at you with wide eyes. "Well, hello. Are you alright?"

"No," you whined dramatically. "All of this is so incredibly fucking fucked."

"Oh, love," she patted the place next to her. "He, who shall not be named again?"

You nodded, slumping into the chair. "He's just so—I just feel so…ugh. All we do is spite each other. When will this get easier?"

She looks at you with so much pity, you can't stand it. "I'm not going to tell you that it will pass with time, because, well���" She gave you a look that said nothing less than because you're quite dramatic, over the rim of her glasses.

While you huffed in response, you couldn't quite find a good argument that spoke against her unspoken statement, so your mouth stayed closed. But you didn't refrain from sending her a glare.

"What?" She asked innocently, if anything about Penelope Garcia can ever be called innocent.

You gave her a look. "Constructive criticism? Didn't we just talk about that?"

"I didn't even say anything! It's not my fault that you interpreted something into my very lovely face."

You decided that this was totally fruitless, your fault for thinking that you had a friend in her. "Can you look into past histories of people with hyporeflexia? Anything you can find. People who have been diagnosed with it in the past…let's say fifteen years, suspicious reports of it, someone being especially interested in it, maybe a lot of it happening in one area. You know the drill."

"Yep, totally, ma chère. One sec." She turned her chair towards the computer screen and began working her magic.

After what feels like three seconds—thank God for Penelope's speed on the keyboard and swift fingers—she piped up, "Hyporeflexia is quite a rare official diagnosis, so I cross referenced it with torture or unnatural causes and I found," a few more mouse clicks. "…a Theodore Wilson, who has been in and out of the hospital for severe burns and bruises a lot when he was young."

Frowning, you lean over Penelope's shoulder to look at the screen. "And that's relevant because…?"

"That, my gorgeous girl," she booped your nose with her fluffy pen and you scrunched your nose. "Is because they look suspiciously similar to our victims and…" She paused for dramatic effect. "Theodore's father was a biochemist best known for his research on Hyporeflexia."

You frown deepened. "Is his father still alive?"

A few clicks later, Penelope replied, "Nope." She popped the p. "He died last month, but Theo's mother still lives in Virginia."

"If we consider Theodore a suspect, his father's passing could have been the stressor. Thank you, Pen. Could you—"

"The address is sent to your phone." She smiled up at you as you got up and walked towards the door. "But don't think our talk about you-know-who is over!" She sing-songs just before you could leave.

You rolled your eyes. The nicknames were getting excessive.

"I can't hear you!" You called back just before closing the door behind you.

You froze when you turned and saw the team gathered in the bullpen area. "Um," you glanced at Spencer for just a millisecond to see how much he has heard, but his face seemed impassive. Looking back at your unit chief, you continued, "Penelope found a lead."

Hotch nodded for you to continue and you made your way closer to the group. Recognition flickered across Spencer's face at the name Don Wilson, but he said nothing as you continued to explain what Penelope found.

"Penelope send the address of his mother to me already." You said as you finished.

"Do you think he might be the first victim or the UnSub?" Hotch asked.

"Possibly both. That's what I'd like to find out by talking to the mother." You replied, taking the last steps towards the team.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you accompany her."

Great, just what you needed. Relentless teasing from Derek Morgan, fun!

The devil grinned. "Let's do this, doll."

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You ignored Morgan the whole drive.

No, seriously, you didn't say a word to him besides giving him the directions. Of course that only stroked the fire.

When you finally did arrive at the house of Theodore's mother, you felt like you had just taught a class of first graders.

Morgan was in the middle of something like, "—come on, we're all waiting to hear what happened between you and pretty boy—" when you got out of the car and slammed the door shut. You couldn't stand to listen to even one more second of it.

But of course he just continued after exiting the car, too. "That bad, huh?"

If you didn't know any better, you might have thought there was some pity in that comment. "It's fine. And also really none of your business."

"You and Reid are kind of making it everyones business, princess."

Rolling your eyes at his statement, you sped up your steps along the gravel path. The faster you got to the door, the faster Morgan had to get into work mode and could finally stop behaving like an assho—

The door opened unexpectedly.

"Oh," an elderly woman—she must have been in her late sixties—startled back at the sight of the both of you. She had shoulder length red-brown hair that was frizzy and clearly not washed for at least two weeks. Her hands were fiddling with a button of her worn down brown cardigan.

Undoubtedly the woman you saw on the picture on Penelope's computer.

You quickly pulled out your badge, animating Morgan to do so as well. "Mrs. Wilson? We're with the FBI. My apologies if we startled you."

"The FBI?" She frowned, clutching her cardigan tightly around herself like an armour. "Why would the FBI come to my house?"

"Ma'am, we have reason to believe that your son might be involved in the case we are investigating right now." You said carefully, not knowing how much she could handle before having a heart attack.

"What? No, that—that's ridiculous! He—he…" she seemed to have forgotten what she was saying, now studying the ground for dirt.

Morgan and you glanced at each other. This was going to be difficult.

"Ma'am?" Morgan tried again. "Could we come in?"

She frowned up at him. "Yes, yes, of course. How rude of me." She made a sound that could have been a laugh as much as it could have been a sob.

"Make yourselves at home, dears. Oh, my apologies it's a little messy." She hurried across the room, gathering scraps of fabric and dirty dishes.

"Uh," you weren't sure how to say this politely, but you were in a rush and sour mood.

Luckily, Morgan saved you from having to come up with something polite. "Mrs. Wilson, we'd like to ask you some questions about your son, Theodore, if that is alright with you?"

"Oh, Theo," he fingertips touched her lips and her eyes welled up a little. It was a nostalgia only a mother could feel. "We—we don't talk a lot anymore, now that he is at university."

You frowned. There had been no evidence of Theodore being at university. "What is he studying?"

The woman seemed frozen in her thoughts. "Physics. No, that's not right…Chemistry, yes. He is studying chemistry at Princeton. He told me that."

You gave Morgan a signal to fact check that with Penelope and he left the room, leaving you to talk to Mrs. Wilson alone.

"Did he always like chemistry?"

"Yes, yes. When he was young, he always used to…no, I think that was biology." She laughed almost hysterically. "Can't keep up with that boy. So many talents."

Bingo. Biochemistry. His father's influence, no doubt. And it fit the theory of Theodore taking on his father's murderous tendencies. Just a little more and you had him.

"Was there any particular niche he was particularly interested in?"

"Yes, but…but I don't remember. You see, Don, my husband—Theo's father, he would know. He—he was the one who always went to the laboratory with Theo."

Laboratory? You froze at the mention of a possible secondary location. Double bingo, a place to hide the victims and possibly burn them. A place where his father could have taught him his ways, pass the torture down like some families might pass down jewellery.

"This lab," you asked cautiously, not wanting to come across too pushy or desperate (which you very much were). "You don't happen to know where it is?"

"Oh, it's abandoned now, run down, I'm certain. They stopped going there after Don got sick…" she couldn't finish the sentence, her eyes fogging up with grief.

You doubted that he just stopped going, but she didn't need to know that. "Is it possible that you find out where it is located?"

She nodded, mumbling something about a postcard before disappearing into another room.

Morgan came back from the hallway.

"There is no record of him at Princeton. No pay checks, nothing." He whispered to you.

That was to be expected. You just nodded.

All of this left you with a horrible, nauseating feeling in the pit of your stomach. This woman had lost everything—her husband, her son, her sanity—but the hope she clung to was that her son was in university, building a life of his own, making a name for himself.

Now you were working on destroying that hope. It might ruin her entirely. Irrevocably.

She came back a second later, a postcard in her hands. "That's the address, I think." She held it out to you.

But as you went to grab it, fingers closing around it, she didn't let go, keeping a tight grip on it. Like a lifeline. Like a part of her knew, that if she let you have it, there was no going back to the normal she once knew.

"Mrs. Wilson…?" You tested carefully.

She startled. "Oh! I'm sorry." She let the paper go. "Here you go. I hope it helps with your…"

Her face creased up, thinking hard of a reason why two FBI agents could be in her house, asking for her perfect son who was studying chemistry in Princeton.

Morgan, ever the escape artist, waved politely, "You have been very helpful, Ma'am. We best be going then, have a nice day."

"Yes, yes, of course. You must be busy kids." But just as you stepped through the door, feet just hitting the gravel, she called after you. "Agents?"

Both of you turned. "Yes?" You asked politely.

"My son, when you visit him at Princeton, could—could you tell him I was sorry?"

"Of course, Ma'am." You let your voice trail off, hoping she would clarify what she was apologising for.

Mrs. Wilson leaned against the door with one hand, as if stabilising herself. "We had a fight, you see. The night before he left for Princeton. I never got to apologise to him."

You were tempted to ask what the fight was about, but you held back. It might be important for the case, but not enough to dig up the rotten bones. "Of course. We will tell him, Mrs."

"Thank you—thank you. Tell him I love him, too, would you be so kind?"

You nodded. "Of course."

Morgan and you walked away, then. Leaving the woman behind.

You didn't recall reaching the car, didn't recall Morgan unlocking it and even holding open the door for you to climb in. Too deep in the past, too caught up in the future.

The conversation with the mother affected you more than you'd like to admit. A fight could ruin so many relationships, it could make you go crazy, make you say things that caused you to drift further and further apart. Until you didn't know each other at all anymore, but you still clung to the past yous that you once were.

You only came to yourself when you felt the seat under you, when the engine started to hum.

"We had a fight." You mumbled as Morgan reversed out of the parking space.

"What?" He looked over at you shortly, confused. He couldn't recall having fought with you.

"Spencer and I. We fought. That's why we broke up."

Morgan felt a little like laughing. "You broke up because of a fight? Must have been one hell of a fight, then. The both of you were always so inseparable."

When you didn't laugh or react, Morgan glanced over at you again. You looked sad, in thought. With a big pout-slash-frown on your face, fingers fiddling with the sleeves if your button up.

"Hello? Earth to earthling?" He waved a hand in front of your face.

"Sorry." You glanced up at him. "I don't know why I brought it up, I don't like talking about it."

Bless him, Morgan's face softened a little. He wasn't heartless enough to keep teasing you when you clearly had a hard time. Well, okay, he had his moments.

"You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's okay. We—We fought a lot, leading up to the break up. Silly things like the dishes, different opinions on different things.…The real issue was this job, though." You swallowed around the urge to bolt.

"The job?"

You nodded. "We brought it home with us, made it the centre piece of our relationship."

Morgan winced. It was the mistake every agent was afraid to make when entering a relationship.

"Yeah," you breathed out. "I know. But you know us, we work, that's just who we are."

"Workaholics." Morgan coughed to lighten the mood.

In any other situation you would have dug your elbow into his side, scowled at him. But not in this one.

"It got too much in the end. The fear, the paranoia. We just…snapped. We talked it out, funnily enough that conversation was quite calm. Though we were naive enough to think we could stay friends." You sniffed.

It surprised him, to find out you were struggling so much in the past months leading up to your break up. "You always seemed so happy at work. Everyone agreed when I said you two were meant for each other."

"Yeah, well, things that are meant for each other aren't always the right thing."

"Do you really believe that? Or are you scared that it won't work out if you tried again and you opened yourself up for nothing?" He lifted one hand from the wheel to put air quotes around the word nothing.

You glared at his side profile. "Okay, Mr. Therapist."

"What?" He looked at you again, before focusing back on the road. "I'm just saying. Reid is so far gone for you, opening up to him would never be for nothing. If you want it to work you have to work for it."

"Since when are you an expert on relationships, Derek 'has a new girl every week' Morgan." You rolled your eyes. But you couldn't deny that his words stirred something inside you.

"Okay, you're just being mean now, sugar. I'm incredibly wise." He pretended to push glasses up his nose.

That got a laugh out of you. A real, stomach ache inducing laugh. Maybe you were hysterical now, too.

Morgan smiled at that. He was glad to hear that sound again, after months filled with frown lines and sharp tones.

After you calmed down, you got back into work mode, calling the team and telling them what you had discovered. You told Penelope to check the address and she confirmed that it was an abandoned laboratory.

Now everything happened quickly. Hotch ordered you to drive to the lab and wait for the team, to be on alert for anyone entering or leaving the building, but not to—under any circumstances—enter or separate from each other.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

Not even twenty minutes later, you and Morgan arrived at the laboratory and prepared by putting on your vests and checking your guns.

The other black SUVs lined up in front of the main entrance shortly after.

You caught Spencer's eyes as he got out of the car. He scanned you from head to toe for injuries. When he found none, the concern on his face melted away quickly enough for you to consider you had imagined it.

"No one has entered or left the front door in the time we were here." You said when the team reassembled.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you and Prentiss go in from behind and search the lower level. JJ, Rossi and I search the second floor."

"But that means—" Spencer started to protest but Hotch has already pointed at you.

"You and Reid, go to the upper level."

Because you were so focused on the case (totally not because you want to show Hotch you could be more professional than Spencer), you just nodded.

"Good. Let us not waste time we don't have." Hotch frowns and everyone goes their separate ways.

Spencer glanced at you and you glanced at him. This was the first time you had been alone together since the break up and you were both unsure what to do with each other.

"Is your vest secure?" Spencer asked after a short awkward pause. He took a step closer and you try your best not to flinch back. Professional, you remind yourself like a mantra.

"Yes." You retort steadily enough, but he was already reaching out to tug on the straps.

You frowned at the display of worry, but decided on letting him have his moment. Purely to save energy, of course.

"Fine, let's go up." He said as he was satisfied with your vest. Together you made your way up the stairwell onto the upper level.

As you sneaked through the eerily quiet lab, the only sound heard was the clacking of your heeled boots on the resin floor.

Spencer glared at you. "Couldn't have worn a worse shoe for this, could you?" He whispered.

"I could've hardly worn my crocks." You snapped back. "Focus."

Both of your guns were trained around the corners as you carefully assed the situation. So far there was nothing that seemed too out of the ordinary for an abandoned laboratory. Broken glass, dusty workstations, pipes…Nothing to accompany you and Spencer but silence.

Until a shot rang out. And you wince.

The bullet just barely grazed your upper arm but it was enough to make a crimson blotch bloom on your white button up.

Spencer pulled you behind a corner before you could get hurt even worse and presses his hand over your wound.

He wrapped a hand around your wrist to hold your arm still and assessed your arm. "Does it hurt badly?"

"It's fine. Focus on the UnSub." You scowled, pushing against his shoulders with your free hand. Spencer didn't budge. "Reid, I'm so serious—"

"No, I'm serious," he said your name sternly. "Answer my ques—"

Another shot rang out before he could finish repeating himself, but it thankfully didn't hit anyone.

You gave him a look that says see? I fucking told you so. and pushed him away to glance around the corner to fire some shots at the guy.

"The suspect is in the upper level." You said into the microphone. "He's wearing a black bomber. Brown hair. I can't tell much. He's armed and shooting." You listed off.

"Copy that." Answered JJ's voice back to you.

"Get," Spencer grumbled, "behind the wall."

"You almost sound worried." You grinned and taunted him by doing the direct opposite of his command, leaning further around the corner.

"That's because I am. It doesn't look great on my report if I just let you die." He bitt out, pulling you back by your wrist that he still hasn't let go of.

Unfortunately, he ended up slamming your back against the wall in the process.

You made a noise that could only be described as a grunt. "Oh, and manhandling does?"

Both of you were now pressed against the wall, with Spencer's arms caging you in so you couldn't make a run for it and do something even more reckless.

"I'll just put it down as keeping you from sabotaging the mission." He was panting, and for a moment the thought of just how attractive he was crossed your mind. Until you shook it off.

Just as you opened your mouth to taunt him some more, you ear piece crackles and Hotch's voice was heard saying yours and Spencer's names, "—what is your position?"

"We're still—fuck!" Another shot rang out before you could finish the sentence, hitting a pipe on the opposing wall and causing you to flinch. Steam hissed from the hole. Spencer shushed you and you were tempted to snap at him, but you lowered your voice instead. Staying quiet was in your best interest, to make the shooter believe you were hit and the danger passed.

"Still on the third floor. He's got us cornered." You continued quietly.

And because Spencer just couldn't leave it at that, he added into the mic, "She's hurt, we will need an ambulance when we're out of here."

Glaring, you retorted, "I'm fine, a bullet just grazed my arm."

"It's still important to get it checked out!" Spencer replied in a harsh whisper. He was really pushing your buttons now.

"We're on our way up. Try to get him into the stairwell." Is the only response you get from Hotch.

You breathe out. "Okay, let's try to get to the stairwell."

Spencer nods, gesturing for you to take the lead and finally stepped back to free you from the cage of his arms. (And the suffocating urge to kiss him.)

With your gun stretched out in front of of you, you carefully take step after step along the eerily quiet hallway.

"You go right," Spencer murmured, "I'll take the left."

"What? No—" But it was an impossible task, stopping Spencer Reid once he was set on doing something. He had already disappeared into another hallway.

"Does he learn nothing from his mistakes?" You mumbled to yourself, but do as he demanded nonetheless.

You placed one foot in front of the other with caution, rounding the corners not before listening into the silence.

Suddenly there was a noise. You didn't know if it was Spencer, your imagination or the UnSub, but all of your body was braced for battle.

Taking a deep breath, you rounded the corner. The hallway ended with a wall adorned with two doors. One lead to the stairwell, spiralling down into the second floor.

The other door was open. It looked like a lab to you, but you didn't have a good enough angle to see what was inside. The walls specked with dust and grime, mold forming in the crevices.

You caught movement in the room and walked slowly towards it. You had a half formed though to signal to Spencer through the mic, but before you could execute it, you had already entered the room.

A man stood with his back to you at one of the work stations. You took another step towards him, but your boot crushed a shard of glass under its heel. You froze.

Theodore spun around in panic, picking his gun up from the counter. "You—You should be—I shot you."

You breathed in deep to steady your voice. Theo's choice of words struck a match of hope in you. Maybe he didn't know that Spencer and the rest of the team were in the building, too. Maybe he just saw you.

"The bullet graced my arm." You confirmed, taking a step closer to him.

"Get back. Get back!" He screamed, forcing you to walk deeper into the room with his gun, so his back was to the door. "If you shoot, I'll go down pressing the trigger and you will go down, too."

His hand was shaking around the gun, he looked like he might drop it every moment. The room was dark, just a little sliver of light coming through the small window.

You watched it flicker and tried to come up with something to say, but your brain blanked on the profile.

Being a profiler had taught you a lot, but in this moment all you could focus on was that Spencer was somewhere in this building and you had no idea if he was safe.

"Theo, I know what your father did to you, how he would train you to take every hit without flinching, the burning." You said carefully.

"Don't—don't talk about my father like you know anything! Because you don't—you don't know anything!Lower you gun!" He spit out.

Just as you were trying to find a way to tell him that there was no way you would lower your gun, you saw Spencer through the doorframe behind Theo, gun pointed at him, too. You tried not to look at him as you continued.

"I won't shoot if you don't give me a reason to, Theo. I—I talked to your mother." You tried in a last desperate attempt to deescalate the situation.

That seemed to get his attention, he lowered his gun a little, before taking a step closer to you pointing it at you again. "Leave my mother out of this." He growled.

You continued anyway. "She told me that she was sorry, about your fight before you left. She is so, so proud of you, Theo. Told me to tell you that she loves you. Nothing could make her stay mad at you forever, she just wants you in her life again." You tried not to look at Spencer as you spoke the words to Theo that were really meant for him.

Tears formed in Theo's eyes. A sight that you had seen just forty minutes earlier, in his mother's. "Stop! It doesn't matter if she's proud. I lied to her! I lied."

"Of course it matters, if you put the weapon down and come back with us to the station, you could see her again. You could be her son again."

His laugh is hollow as he said, "Do you think I'm stupid? You're trying to get me to surrender. What do you called it? A talk down? Making false promises just to get me locked up. You never end up keeping them." His grip on the trigger tightened.

Another thing you learned as a profiler was not to get attached to victims or UnSubs. And while most of the team had failed at that, you had always considered yourself lucky—or heartless, for that matter.

But as you watched the pain on Theo's face, you understood. Maybe not everything he did, but you understood the cause. Understood that all of his life was set up for him to end here, in this lab, two guns pointed at him.

Behind him, Spencer nodded towards the stairs and you tried to signal to him that you didn't understand without exposing his location. He just gestured towards them again, frowning at you to just do as he said.

He took a few steps deeper into the room to clear the doorway, somehow managing not to get caught by Theo. It was a gamble he gladly took if it meant you were safe. "Theo, you don't have to do this."

Spencer's voice startled Theo and for a second you were terrified that he was going to shoot. But instead, he just turned around quickly, panicked pointing the gun at Spencer.

Your moment to run. Just to get help and come back to him. You sprinted out of the room, past Theo and Spencer. Theo shouted "No!" but it was too late, you were already half down the stairs.

You silently begged Spencer to hold on for a little longer. But just as you practically jumped of the last step in a hurry, you heard a gunshot.

Freezing on the bottom of the steps for the fraction of a second, you tried not to panic, but just as you turned to sprint back up the stairs, an arm wrapped around your middle, the other covering your mouth.

"Shh," came Rossi's voice from behind you. You struggled as he dragged you out of the building.

Fresh air hit your face as you were forced to exit, but all you could think about was the fact that Spencer's dead body might be lying on the third level of an abandoned laboratory.

You tried to pull back from him but he wouldn't let you. "No—Spencer. Spence is still—Spencer!" You struggled against his grip.

"You can't go back in there—" Rossi said your name. "The kid is smart, you know that. He—"

Before he could finish, there was another gunshot, this one closer. You almost sank to your knees as everyone around you prepared to take down the UnSub.

And were rebuild when Spencer emerged from the building a few seconds later, hands raised, "Don't shoot, he is injured, but breathing." He gestured behind him somewhere.

Rossi finally let you go when Spencer was far enough away from danger.

Not wasting a minute, you ran towards Spencer, almost crashing into him in the process.

Emily, JJ and an EMT passed you in a blur as they went into the laboratory to secure Theo. You barely registered them.

"What happened?" You didn't know whether to push him or to kiss him. You opted for the first, pushing against his shoulders. "Why would you tell me to leave? I—We had it handled. Together. I—I—You fucking scared me."

Spencer just pulled you to him by your good arm and wrapped you in a tight embrace. He didn't say anything for a while, just letting you process your feelings.

The fear of loosing Spencer for good, the pain of the break up, the conflicting feelings of having to work with your ex (that you're still very much in love with). You clung to him as your emotions overtake you. And, fuck, your arm hurt!

"Shh, it's okay. I'm okay. Here—" he pulled back with some difficulty, given that you had quite a firm grip on him, and took your hand in his, placing it on the side of his neck. "Can you feel that? I'm okay."

You nodded. "You're okay." You breathed out, looking from your hand on his pulse point, to his eyes. "Why would you do that?" Tears pricked at your eyes.

"I didn't think rationally. All I could think about was that there was a gun pointed at you and all my brain would come up with was stupid ideas to make him point it at me. Please forgive me."

He looked at you with his big, sad, brown puppy eyes, while his thumb brushed softly against the skin under your eye to catch your tears before they could fall.

You would have said something flirty like, you might have to make it up to me some more, if you weren't so terribly mad at him. "Maybe. I can't promise anything."

He smiled softly despite your answer. Maybe even because of it. It was a silly thought, you not forgiving him. "I can work with maybe."

An EMT whisked you away shortly after, but Spencer's hand stayed in yours until they slipped apart and his arm fell to his side.

He wasn't sure if he could just follow, he stayed away and watched you get checked out by the EMTs.

All of it—the story of you and him—reminded him of Cassandra witnessing the fall of Troy. It was stupid to compare two people who were so insignificant to history to two of histories most known tragedies, but it fit like he still did into the palm of your hand.

He had known that he would never be able to get over you. No one had believed him, telling him that time heals all wounds and that he couldn’t see the bigger picture yet, because he was still in it.

But he had known, and it still rang true. You were it for him and he would never find anyone that made him feel more like himself. It was foolish to think he could survive the break up, foolish to think he would get over it.

Hell, he had taken being on the receiving end of your spite over being your friend because it meant you'd look at him and feel something.

Taking all of his courage together, Spencer decided to approach you after the EMT finished patching you up.

"Hey," he said gently. This was the first time you talked without snarling at each other outside of work since the break up and it felt like finally breathing fresh air again after living purely off of carbon dioxide. "Doing good? How is your arm?"

You looked up at him from the steps on the back of the ambulance. You looked rough, exhausted. The sleeves of your shirt were rolled up to allow the EMT to bandage your wound.

It felt different now, talking to you. The moment of adrenaline had passed and he had no idea how to talk to you. The times of snarling seemed to be over, but the ones of kissing and I love you's were long gone, too.

"I'm okay. All patched up. I don't think I will ever take my reflexes for granted ever again." You tried to smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "How are you?"

He wanted to deflect, to twist it back to you, but he humoured you. "Exhausted, but I'm good. I'm just glad you're safe."

What he actually wanted to say was: I love you, I'm glad you're speaking to me again. Let's never split up again. Please. And: I miss you, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like everyone is running laps around me for the first time in my life.

Of course, he said none of it, this wasn't the time to dig that hole. Instead he just looked at you.

The blue of the sirens flickered on your face and even though you looked exhausted, he could't help but think you were the most beautiful thing Mother Earth has sculpted. The Grand Canyon was nothing in comparison to the frown lines on your face, the stars nothing compared to your freckles and birthmarks.

You looked back at him then, but thankfully didn't question the look on his face that without a doubt read, I love you.

Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder in a silent, I love you, too.

There was so much to talk about, so much to tell him, but when he insisted on taking you home, because he wouldn't let you drive home alone after the events of today, all you cared about was that he was there again. Fully. Without snapping, without pretend hate. Just the old you and the old him again.

You fell into your bed that night, the glaring blue light of your digital clock telling you that it was 3am. Earlier than a lot of other late nights at the BAU.

Spencer didn't hesitate to take off your work clothes, didn't ask where your pyjamas were, didn't stop to think what this all meant for you now. He didn't need to, all of this was an Obvious.

You didn't tell him to lay down next to you, to climb under the covers and flip the light off, to let you rest your head on his chest. He just did all of it. Because it was a routine, the known in all the unknown that was your relationship now. A Constant.

In the morning, you would talk about it. While he was changing your bandage with careful fingers. But right now, the sound of Spencer's heart beating your name lulled you to sleep.

In the end, fear and worry had been the best matchmakers.

──────────── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

thank you so much for reading! please remember reblogging, commenting and liking if you enjoyed the fic. feedback is appreciated!! 𝜗𝜚

second a/n: I'm debating whether or not I should write a second part, but I'm not sure if there is any interest in that, so feel free to let me know:)

[sincerelybubbles]

Spencer holds your hand while you argue.

"Physical connection with a partner, especially during tense moments, is proven to aid in communication and connection."

It's something you found odd at first - annoyed, you tried to shrug him off, but he persisted, fingers clutching yours and dipping his head to hold eye contact. Now, though, you appreciate the habit.

"You have to trust me to do my job," you're saying, one hand linked in his and the other tapping along his forearm. "I'm the exact type the unsub is looking for. Emily will be right beside me, she'll have her gun-"

"But you won't," Spencer interrupts, squeezing your fingers and avoiding your eye.

The connection reminds you that he's simply concerned for your safety, not doubting your ability to do your job. Still, annoyance flares in your chest and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"He's looking for women he finds attractive - women with my eye color, my weight, my height, my hair color. He's got military background, he'll notice if I'm armed."

"He'll notice if you're wearing your vest, too," Spencer argues, nostrils flaring.

You both know that this argument is pointless. You're not going to say no to Hotch's assignment and it's been cleared by him already. Spencer doesn't have the rank to outvote him. Still, it's important to you that he understands, that he's comfortable, that he trusts you.

You keep holding his hand, returning his squeeze, and massaging his other forearm. You're in a small office in the small-town sheriff's office the team set up in. You can smell the sour dust in the air and the Texas heat causes sweat to gather on your forehead.

"Love, Emily will be right there. Morgan will be in the bar, too, and Hotch and Rossi will be outside. They're not going to let anything happen."

"I don't like it," Spencer says, voice firm. Compromise isn't clear - you can't say no, he doesn't want you to say yes.

Despite your best efforts, you sigh. Truly, you're just proud of yourself for not letting the eye-roll escape. You kind of think you deserve a reward for the effort.

You want to tell him that he doesn't really have a say in any of this. You're leaving in twenty minutes to get ready with Emily and JJ. An hour after that, you'll be in a bar pretending to sip a vodka cranberry and waiting for your unsub to hit on you.

Instead, you lean forward to catch Spencer in a hug, untangling your hands and looping your arms around his neck. "I know."

You meet him in a soft kiss, brief because of the setting. It's the best comfort you can offer him.

He sighs softly against your forehead when you pull away, hugging you tight.

"I'll be there too. Outside with Hotch and Rossi. I don't care where Hotch wants me."

"Okay," you whisper into his shoulder. Despite how high-strung you are considering the circumstances, the hug is calming you down, rapidly slowing your heartbeat.

He's right, as always -- the physical connection has you calmer instantly.

[saiilorstars]

Ch. 42: It's All Relevant Now

[Story Masterlist] // [Aitana’s Masterlist]

Fandom: Criminal Minds // Pairing: Spencer Reid x OFC

Taglist: @ocappreciationtag​ @arrthurpendragon​​​​​​​ @maaaaarveeeeel​​​ @stareyedplanet​​​​​​​ @averyhotchner​ @foxesandmagic @kmc1989 @midmourn @caplanbuckybarnes ​​​​​​

If you’d like to be a part of Aitana’s taglist, please let me know!

Also available on Fanfic ○ Ao3 ○ Wattpad

Aitana knew she should have figured something like this would happen; she really shouldn't be irritated by any means…but she couldn't help it. She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes and the only reason she managed to do it is because it was Spencer and he always meant well. He literally had no mean bones in his body.

"I just can't believe you went and showed me up like that…" she huffed exaggeratedly, earning a laugh from JJ. She leaned back against the headboard of her bed. "You could have at least gone easy on me since I, you know, have a sprained ankle." She made a gesture to her elevated ankle resting on her bed.

"Who could forget?" JJ mused. The news that Aitana had sprained her ankle had spread like wildfire in the BAU and of course Penelope had proclaimed herself the head of the "help Aitana get better fast" committee — after she created it.

"I mean, if you don't want it—" Spencer reached on the bed to pick up the scarf he'd knitted in two days — two days ago when he first started learning how to knit.

"No!" Aitana smacked his hand away. "I do want it!" She all but snatched the knitted scarf and hugged it to her chest. "I just hate how quickly you learned to do it!"

"It's not that hard," Spencer shrugged, "Knitting is a relatively easy craft to learn. Even if you've never knit before, learning the basics can be done in a couple of hours."

"For you," Aitana said, huffing. "Some of us need a little more time with the book."

"I told you it was a bad idea, Aitana," JJ said, shaking her head. "Trying to learn something new with this guy—" she pointed at Spencer, "—puts you in a mood."

Spencer scrunched his face. "What? In a mood? What are you talking about?"

Aitana agreed with JJ but never said it out loud. After all, it was her idea to try and take up knitting while her ankle healed. Spencer had offered to drop by a beginner's book and try it out with her. She loved the idea of working with someone else and had gladly accepted his offer. Being stuck at home with a sprained ankle alone was horrible. She was on top with her schoolwork which left quite some hours on her own and Angel and Elia weren't around all the time.

"Nothing, don't worry about it," Aitana said, waving a hand at him. "I'm glad you learned how to knit because I desperately suck at it. I bring shame to my Mexican ancestors."

"Okay, now you've gone too far," JJ laughed.

"I think so too," Spencer said, his eyes shutting as he laughed with JJ.

"I'm dead serious," huffed Aitana, "My grandmothers — both of them — are masters at this."

"Not everyone can do the same," JJ reminded her as she walked around the bed, "And you should just rest."

"Alright mama bear," Aitana said with a sarcastic smile. "Spencer, if this is how you're going to keep acting then I'm going to expect some matching mittens." She wiggled her bare fingers at him.

Spencer smiled. "I can live with that deal."

A short moment later, they heard the front door downstairs opening followed by the clear voice of Aitana's mother announcing that she had arrived.

"Oh brother," Aitana shook her head, her face flushed with embarrassment as her mother continued to holler from downstairs.

"They're all the same, trust me," JJ said with a chuckle. "We'll get out of your hair."

"Or you can maybe stay too," Aitana offered up the idea with a wide smile. "Angel's coming home late today so she's staying over."

"I'm pretty sure your mother wants to spend some time with you," Spencer said, earning a scoff in return.

"You do realize that I stupidly sprained my ankle, right? She had a lot of comments about this," Aitana said, gesturing at her propped ankle. "And they haven't stopped."

"Okay," JJ could barely hold her laugh in. That sounded a lot like a mother. "We're just…we're going to leave you then. Have, um, have fun."

"You're joking," Aitana said flatly.

"You could read to each other," Spencer offered. "That's what my mother and I would do."

"Yeah, my mom's not like that," Aitana shook her head. "Mine likes to watch a lot of telenovelas. I mean, I won't complain because I love them. We're re-watching La Madrastra right now. You guys ever watch 'em?"

"Oh…um…not really, no," Spencer said, exchanging glances with JJ, unsure of how to respond properly. Luckily for him, Aitana was always easy to talk to. She merely smiled at him, on the verge of laughing.

"Alright, I'll be nice and let you guys go," Aitana finally declared when she heard her mother heading into the kitchen. The sounds of pots and pans clanging was a clear sign that Pamela had started dinner already. "But please keep me posted on cases. I am literally dying of boredom here. Course when I go back to work I'm gonna start falling behind on schoolwork so…I guess it really is a win/lose situation."

Neither Spencer nor JJ could help the smiles on their faces. When they left, they didn't do it without saying hello to Pamela first.

"Thank you so much for taking care of my daughter while there was no one around!" Pamela presented them with a familiar pink box in her hands.

"Oh no, no, we can't…" JJ shook her head, chuckling, "We were going to stop by anyways so we really didn't do much."

"No, no, no, you take it," Pamela didn't wait to hear them reject her again and pushed the donut box into Spencer's arms. "I put a chocolate donut in there," she smiled at Spencer, "Con chispas de colores. With rainbow sprinkles!"

Spencer's brows raised in surprise. It took him a couple minutes to figure out what Pamela had said and when he did, his face flushed. "Thank you," he said meekly. The woman had a good memory indeed.

JJ smirked all the way out the door and did Spencer the courtesy of holding all her comments in until they were safely in her car and driving away.

"It's nothing," Spencer said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah right," JJ snorted. "I didn't get a special shoutout."

"It was not a shout out! She just—"

"Completely remembered your favorite donut?" JJ flashed Spencer a wider smirk. She wished a red light would come up soon so she could do it for longer. "There's only one way she could remember that and that's because of Aitana!"

"You're overexaggerating," Spencer said, shifting in his seat. He held onto the donut box on his lap and looked out the window.

"Oh c'mon, Spence," JJ said, biting her bottom lip as another laugh threatened to slip through, "We've been down this road before. I still think you guys would make a cute couple."

"It's exactly because we've been down this road that I'm going to remind you how terrible of an idea it is," Spencer said.

"Why?"

"JJ!"

"I'm serious!" JJ thanked God that there was finally a red light. She met Spencer's eye and suddenly whacked him on the arm.

"OW!" Spencer cried. "JJ! What was that for!?"

"I'm waiting for an actual answer!" JJ exclaimed. "It's no secret that you and Aitana hit it off almost immediately. Way back in San Diego, you're the only one she would talk to and now you're even going fish shopping or whatever. You like her, Spencer. Admit it."

"I built a rapport with her," Spencer said slowly, swallowing hard. His eyes fixated on the streetlight, praying that it would turn green fast. "And I happen to enjoy some of the same things that she does. Marine biology is very interesting but none of you seem to notice it."

JJ scoffed. "Because some of us are normal. Aitana's somewhere in-between. Naming her fish after space things isn't very normal for us but more than normal for you. That's something you would do."

"None of you guys understand that there's so much more beyond the ordinary hobbies and interests!"

"Except for Aitana, right?" JJ was able to flash her best friend a grin before the light turned green.

Spencer sighed. "You're not going to let this go, are you?" He had once hoped that this subject would finally die and avoid him future embarrassments. Clearly, JJ was not on that plan.

"I can't," JJ said helplessly, "Not when it's so obvious."

"There's nothing obvious."

"Spencer, swear to me that you've never considered the idea of going on a simple little date with Aitana." JJ waited patiently for Spencer to deny it. She knew him like the back of her hand. She'd seen several little stolen glances from Spencer and that's why she kept insisting.

Spencer refused to answer and looked away. His fingers gripped the box in his hands.

JJ sighed. "Confession time," she said, "I actually sought Aitana out for my position when I had to leave the BAU."

"What?" Spencer's head flipped in JJ's direction. "You did what!?"

"It was my idea to have Aitana take over as liaison," JJ said, shrugging, "I remembered how you guys got along so well and the way she handled the cop at the park — she was going to be a perfect fit for the team. I just thought it would also be a plus because you and her were just so good together…"

"Oh my God, JJ," Spencer scrunched his face. "You went too far."

"But was I wrong!?" JJ challenged him to tell her that she'd been absolutely wrong with her decision. "Has Aitana not been a good fit for the team?"

"That's beside the point. You lied. And you were thinking of things that weren't true!"

"C'mon Spence, she's so much fun and she clearly likes being around you. You're going to tell me that you don't like being around her?"

"Well…of course I like…being around her…" Spencer said, clearing his throat awkwardly, "But it's just that. I like being around you and-and Morgan, and Penelope and Emily…"

"It's not the same," JJ said, smiling knowingly, "And you know it. Think about it, Spence. Why were you so upset when you thought Angel was Aitana's boyfriend?" She knew she hit the right nerve when silence stretched between them.

Spencer was gazing straight ahead. He didn't like thinking about that moment. He felt embarrassed…and maybe actually upset. Oh God, had JJ made her point? He brought his hand to his forehead, rubbing his fingers over his skin.

"It's alright," JJ said softly, "You know I won't say a word."

Spencer still didn't say anything for a while more. There were too many thoughts going on in his head. All those little thoughts and feelings he'd let slip every now and then were coming back despite him doing his best to shove them into the deepest corner of his mind.

"Is that the white flag?" JJ said before she chuckled.

Spencer leaned his head against his seat, letting out a heavy sigh. "I haven't said anything because everything is okay right now. I don't think about that stuff because…because I don't want to threaten the relationship we've built. I don't want to ruin any of that stuff, JJ."

"Yeah, but, if you're already thinking about it then sooner or later it's going to be too much to keep quiet," JJ shrugged. "Get ahead of it."

"I don't even know what it is," Spencer tried to argue, albeit weakly, "Maybe it's just the extra attention or the fact she doesn't shut me down as often as others do. It could be nothing."

"That's fair," JJ reasoned, nodding her head, "But it could also be something. You owe it to yourself to find out which one it is."

Spencer sighed again. For someone else, JJ would sound completely reasonable but he really thought the situation was more troubling than one would think.

"If you ever need any help…you know I won't say a word," JJ reiterated,

~ 0 ~

Aitana was so incredibly happy when she was able to start walking again. Lying around the house with a sprained ankle was truly the most boring thing ever. She was super happy when Penelope invited her to a singles Valentine's dinner. She had not seen the team for a few weeks since they were off on a few cases. It would be a little reunion before she returned to work!

"Hey, could I invite Elia too?" Aitana asked Penelope over the phone.

"Of course! The more, the merrier!" Penelope exclaimed.

"Great! I'll call her and then we can go together! Thanks, Penelope!"

"Of course, Sprinkles! See you tomorrow!"

Aitana immediately let Elia in on the plans and, just like when they were in high school and college, they readied themselves up together.

"You two are kind of sad, you know that?" Angel caught the two coming to the front door just as he was going into as well.

"Oh look who feels cool just because he got himself a date in time for Valentine's day," Aitana rolled her eyes at her brother.

Angel smirked at her in return, laughing. "Where are you guys going?"

"Aitana's work team is having a singles night," Elia explained, "I'm the plus one."

"Sounds nice," Angel nodded, "Aitana, you know you can't drink while you're on medication."

"I know that," Aitana waved him off. "But I'm bored being stuck at home all day. So bye." She grabbed Elia's arm and pulled her out the door first, leaving Angel to lock up behind them.

From there, Elia drove them to the bar the others were supposed to be at. Aitana wasn't surprised when they arrived earlier than the others. She had a text from Penelope saying that the team had just landed and were getting ready to leave Quantico. They started ordering in the meantime. They were about two drinks in when the others started dropping in.

"Hey there Sprinkles!" Penelope planted a big kiss on Aitana's head and went to the stool right beside Aitana. "Sorry we're late!"

"The case dragged on?" Aitana presumed, raising her glass to her lips.

"Oh yeah," Emily said with a tired groan, practically dragging her feet.

"Dare I ask what it was about?"

"Nu-uh!" Penelope raised a finger in the air. "We are not discussing cases on Valentine's day! It is strictly forbidden! Do you hear me?" The threat went for everyone. "We need a bigger table!" She got up from her stool to find a table for them.

"Okay then," Aitana chuckled, "You guys remember Elia right?" She gestured to her best friend.

Elia gave a wave while she drank from her glass. "Thanks for the invite," she said afterwards, "Feel less sad."

"No JJ?" Aitana asked, looking around. "Or Hotch and Rossi?"

"Nah," Morgan made a motion at the bartender to stop by when he had the chance.

"Well, what about Sp—"

"Morgan, you owe me $25 for the VIP parking," Spencer stalked up to the group, looking mighty irritated with Morgan.

Emily snorted and laughed. "Can't believe you let him pay for it," she told Morgan.

"It's not funny," Spencer said, frowning, "You owe me, Morgan."

"Hey, hey, calm down," Morgan said, raising his hands in front of him. "How about a drink?" He plucked Aitana's glass right out of her hand.

"Hey!" Aitana exclaimed.

"You shouldn't be drinking anyways," Morgan told her as he shoved the glass into Spencer's chest.

"I wasn't," Aitana frowned.

Spencer took a sniff of the glass and agreed. "Lemonade," he said with a smile and handed Aitana her drink back.

"Thank you," she told him, happy to take another sip.

Penelope had stuck her fingers in her mouth to whistle to the group. She had found a table for them and was urging them to hurry up before someone else took it.

"Here," Elia got off her stool and went to help Aitana.

"I got it, Elia!" Aitana shooed her friend away. She got off her stool and, to her credit, did maintain a good walk towards the table.

"You do seem better," Spencer noted, eyeing her ankle while they walked.

"I am," Aitana assured him. She was so ready to come back to work too. She side-glanced Spencer as they reached the table. "Nice scarf."

Spencer's hand flew to the purple scarf around his neck like he'd forgotten it was there. For some reason, he flushed and even more so when he saw Aitana's smirk.

"Still waiting for my matching mittens," she joked, raising her free hand to wiggle her fingers.

"Right…" Spencer quickly pulled a chair out for her, ducking his head as she sat down whilst specifically watching him. Since when did her gaze become so intense?

"Okay! Okay!" Penelope exclaimed and picked up the menu to order. "I know what I'm gonna order! I'm gonna make it a series!"

"Okay," Elia burst into laughter with her. "I might join you, if that's okay?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" Penelope nodded and happily called over a waiter.

"I'm not sure pairing you up was a good idea," Aitana said, "It's a good thing I can drive us home. Are we that sad this year, ladies? It's only February."

"Then why does it feel like it's September or something?" Emily said with a weariness that nobody could outmatch. "Sign me up, please," she told Penelope and Elia.

"Great, I guess I'll be on my own," Aitana raised her lemonade as a salute.

"What are we?" Morgan gestured at himself then at Spencer. "Chopped liver?"

"Oh please," snorted Aitana, "In about 10 minutes you're gonna go flirt with a pretty girl. And in about 10 minutes when it doesn't work out, you're going to convince Spencer to be your wingman."

Spencer blinked and glanced at Morgan. As much as he wanted to disagree, it did sound like how most of their outings tended to go. Morgan didn't like it one bit.

"Alright smart alec," Morgan leaned forward on the table, "Maybe sometimes I do but it rarely works out in my favor. Genius over here," he jerked a thumb at Spencer, "doesn't really help much anyways."

"Hey," went Spencer, scowling indignantly. That's what he got for trying to help Morgan?

"I mean, no one ever really gets what he's saying," Morgan added.

Spencer's scowl deepened. "Hey."

Aitana chuckled. "Well that's probably because they don't bother to make conversation. I mean, I listen, don't I?"

The question brought a smile out of Spencer. She did do that quite often.

Morgan scoffed. "Yeah, because you're on the same sync or something."

"Hardly," Aitana laughed again. "Sometimes I feel like poor Spencer has to repeat himself so many times with me. Or dumb it down."

"No," the counter came out of Spencer like it was an instinct. "I don't do that." Aitana gave him a look to reconsider, which he did not. "I don't. I like talking to you. It's fun." As soon as that left his mouth, Spencer felt Morgan's teasing smirk burning on his face. He would have had Emily's and Penelope's stares too if they weren't so concerned about how many drinks they would be drinking and in what order they would be drinking it.

Luckily, Aitana just smiled at him like she usually would. He didn't know that her cheeks were hot, nor that she was smiling because she didn't know what to say to that.

"Well you two certainly seem to understand each other better than I thought so I'll just go ahead and follow Aitana's schedule for me," Morgan patted Spencer's shoulder and stood up. "Have at it."

If Aitana felt her cheeks warm before, they were blazing. She hated Morgan right now, but perhaps no more than what Spencer felt. He was glaring after Morgan, swearing to get him back for that.

He eventually had to face what Morgan left for him and meet Aitana's gaze. There was nothing he could do about his flushed face. With a clearing of his throat, he tried to talk to her normally.

"So, um, how are you? Your ankle, it, um…it looks better…" It was lame as hell but it was the only thing that could get a conversation started for the moment.

Aitana took the bait and looked down at her ankle. "Yeah, I can walk on it now, just slowly. Elia's been coming to help and my mom too. I force Angel too."

Spencer chuckled. "Right…"

"What about you guys? How are the cases going?"

"Like it usually does," Spencer shrugged. "Each one worse in its own way."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Aitana sighed, "But that is the nature of our job, right?"

"Hey!" Penelope suddenly snapped her fingers at the two, drawing their heads in her direction, "What did I say about talking about work?"

"Penelope…" Aitana playfully rolled her eyes.

"No!" Penelope insisted. "There are a thousand things you can talk about that aren't about work. You're a genius," she pointed at Spencer then at Aitana, "and you're spunky. Think of something."

"Kind of sounds like we're being threatened," Aitana mumbled to Spencer, both of them still watching Penelope who'd easily slipped back with Emily and Elia about their drinks.

"Feels that way, yeah," he agreed, shifting his seat to face Aitana instead. "But you know what? I did end up finding another possible fish you might want to check out when you're all better."

"I'm better now, Spencer. I promise," Aitana said, resting a hand on his arm, "Anytime you want to go, just let me know."

"Yeah, yeah, it's a da—" Spencer only barely caught himself before he said it all. He ducked his head on the spot, hoping to God that if there was indeed a God somewhere, they would take pity on him and his big mouth.

Aitana imagined what the rest of the sentence was going to be based on past experiences. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach thinking about it. It was one thing hearing people teasing her about this and another completely different story hearing it directly from Spencer. He wasn't capable of making fun of something like that. He was so sweet.

She sighed on the inside. She could imagine a date with him, but that was about it. Like she had said before, he had to dumb his conversations with her many times. There was no way he could tolerate a lifetime of that with her. Imagining was the best she would get. And then maybe one day, she could get over it and act like nothing, like the way it used to be.

When did it get like this? She didn't understand it and she probably would never. She didn't used to think about things like this with Spencer. Her mind wasn't able to construct the concept given her situation after Witness Protection and now here she was…suddenly thinking about it…

And all for half of a sentence that would never be completed.

"Do you want a refill?" Spencer's sudden question cut through Aitana's spiraling thoughts.

She didn't waste a moment and agreed. She needed a moment to herself to get her thoughts in order.

And Spencer needed a distraction.

He was taking Aitana's silence with embarrassment. She probably knew what he had almost said and was laughing on the inside. He took her empty glass and practically fled from the table.

"Wow, that was so sad," Elia shook her head. Penelope and Emily both hummed in agreement.

"You guys heard that?" Aitana scrunched her nose. "Great. Let me hear it. Let me hear all the taunts and jokes and whatnot."

"None of that," Penelope said earnestly, "I'm not drunk enough yet." Aitana rolled her eyes. "But I've been saying this should have already happened."

"Are you okay?" Emily asked as Aitana's shoulders slumped.

"I don't know," she admitted, "I only just started feeling this weird thing in my stomach. I don't know why."

Elia snorted. "Because it's Valentine's day, maybe? Love is in the air!"

"I don't think 'love' is what's in these people," Emily pointed at the other customers around them.

Aitana shook her head. "This conversation is leading nowhere."

"Aitana, I've been telling you that you like this guy," Elia said sharply, "and you decide to listen now?"

"Well, I don't know!" Aitana exclaimed. "He almost said the word 'date' and I thought about it for like 2 seconds and then I…I thought about everything else and…oh dear God, what am I doing?" She had barely put her hands on her face when Elia hissed at her to drop them.

"She's seeing the light!" Penelope cheered and raised her glass in the air, prompting Emily and Elia to do the same.

"To the light!"

"To the light!"

Aitana wanted to kill all three of them. She suspected her ankle would slow her down a bit. "None of you are funny."

"We're sorry, but you've been so blind, Sprinkles," Penelope said, shrugging as she brought her glass down. "We had to celebrate first."

"First?"

"Yeah, because now we get to plan how to make this happen!" All Penelope needed was to rub her hands like a maniacal mastermind.

"Absolutely not," Aitana said sharply, her eyes flickering from one accomplice to the other, "I don't want anyone to meddle. There's nothing to meddle with anyways because this whole thing is ridiculous."

"Okay, no meddling," Penelope agreed much too quickly and easily to be believed.

"I mean it Penelope," Aitana warned the woman.

Penelope raised her hands in front of herself. "Okay."

"Penelope."

"I — what more do you want me to say? I agree!"

And yet Aitana still didn't believe her.

~0~

"Hey, what's taking so long?" Spencer called to the bartender passing by. The bartender merely made a motion for him to keep waiting and went on to pour yet another glass.

"Hey pretty boy, why the long face?" Morgan walked up to the bar, planting his empty glass on the counter.

"This guy won't listen!" Spencer exclaimed, absolutely irritated. "I've been at this table for 15 minutes!" Morgan chuckled when Spencer tried and failed yet again to get the bartender's attention. "C'mon, man!" Spencer slammed a hand on the counter, huffing.

"Alright, alright," Morgan patted Spencer's shoulder and proceeded to whistle at the bartender, stopping the older man in his tracks. "Two drinks, please?"

"Lemonade," Spencer said loud and clear, openly glaring at the bartender.

"Mojito," Morgan said for his glass, leading Spencer to shoot him a glance. "Not for me." Morgan pointed behind, turning them towards the bar where a bright redhead was grinning straight at Morgan.

"I see." Of course it made sense to Spencer.

"You're not drinking lemonade, are you?" Morgan asked him, prepared to tease him about it. "We're at a bar on Valentine's day and—"

"It's not for me," Spencer told him, "Aitana can't drink right now. She's on medication."

"Ah, look at you getting a girl a drink," Morgan said with a laugh and bumped shoulders with Spencer.

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Knock it off."

"Oh, c'mon, if there was ever an opportunity, it's now," Morgan said, discreetly looking over his shoulder, "You've been all hush, hush so far—"

"What?" Spencer laughed.

"I was watching you. You do have some game, I'll say that."

"There's no game!"

"Oh, yes there is," Morgan promised the fact, "The mood is right, the moon's right — you should ask her to dance."

"I should what?" Spencer did a double-take at Morgan. Morgan laughed at his reaction. "I think all those drinks are getting to you."

"C'mon, there's a nice song playing—"

"She has a sprained ankle, Morgan!"

"It's a slow song," Morgan pointed out as he gestured to the couples slow dancing in the middle of the bar. "And she's definitely walking!"

"It's a bad idea," Spencer said flatly. "I'm not doing it. It's completely out of nowhere."

Morgan grinned. He could work with that subtle admission. Spencer did want to do something, just not something so blaringly obvious. "It means nothing if you don't make it a big deal."

Spencer scoffed. "And how's that? It's slow dancing."

"It's all in the execution," Morgan said, leading Spencer to scoff again. "It is. Dancing is an art, and the meaning of it is set by the way you present it."

"You're making this up as you go along." Spencer had no doubt about it.

"I'm not!"

The bartender returned with their drinks.

"If you just ask her casually, she won't think anything of it and you'll still get the chance to be closer to her. It's a win, win."

"This is crap," Spencer declared, picking up Aitana's drink from the counter.

"You're telling me you don't want to dance with her?" Morgan challenged to hear the honest answer Spencer was clearly holding onto.

And for that reason, Spencer wouldn't budge. It wasn't a game, and he wasn't going to follow just because of the teasing and taunts.

Morgan figured as much. "That's how you want to play it, then?" Spencer looked away, muttering 'I don't want to dance'. Morgan shook his head. "Fine. Then watch and learn." He took off before Spencer even blinked.

By the time Spencer looked back, Morgan was walking back to the girl he'd been talking to. Spencer thought that Morgan was bound to ask that girl to dance for show, but he whispered something in her ear and next thing Spencer knew, she was coming towards the bar instead. And then she was greeting him.

Morgan soon headed to the table where their friends were and asked Aitana if she wanted to dance.

"Me?" Aitana blinked, almost laughing. "Don't you want to ask Penelope or something?"

"I would but I'm afraid she'll throw up on me after all those drinks she's had," Morgan said, glancing at Penelope having the time of her laugh giggling with Elia. "C'mon, Sprinkles. I'll be gentle on the ankle, promise."

Aitana bit on her bottom lip, suddenly nervous. "I just — I was waiting for Spencer."

"Oh?" The smirk that crossed Morgan's lips put Aitana even more on edge.

"For a drink! He was getting me a refill on my drink!" She exclaimed. "That's it!"

"He won't mind," Morgan said with a casual shrug, glancing towards the bar.

Aitana followed his gaze and saw Spencer was making small talk with another woman. "Did he get her a drink?" The question had tumbled out of her mouth without thinking but with all the feeling in the world. Did he get her a drink instead? Aitana swallowed hard. The butterflies in her stomach faded away to be replaced with such a horrid feeling. It was like all the energy was sucked out of her.

"Hey there, Sprinkles, why the long face?" Morgan pouted.

Aitana shook her head. "Nothing. It's stupid."

"I bet it's not. You can tell me while we dance." Morgan held his hand out to her. She took it and left her spot at the table.

"I can't dance very well yet," she warned him when they reached the dance floor.

"That's alright, it's just for fun," Morgan said, wrapping an arm around her waist and taking her hand. "Although, it doesn't look like that's happening right now. Am I bothering you?"

"Course not," Aitana shook her head, sighing, "I'm just strange like that." She happened to look at the bar counter again — Spencer was now drinking a lemonade with that same woman.

In his nerves of the sudden attention from the stranger, Spencer had started taking sips of the glass he was supposed to bring to Aitana. He tried to order another one from the bartender.

"Who is that?" Aitana asked Morgan, eyes glued on the woman.

"Hmm?" Morgan glanced in the same direction and chuckled. "Oh, that's Tinsley, a friend I just made."

"A friend?" Aitana raised an eyebrow at him. "Since when?"

Morgan heard her tone shift and if he wasn't careful, she might just hurt him. "About half an hour ago. I thought she was nice and more along Reid's lines so I…made the little nudge."

There wasn't a clear anger in Aitana's eyes but there was definitely vexation in them. "You did that?"

"Aha," Morgan nodded, "I guess tonight I was the wingman."

"I can see that…" Aitana said curtly, eyes flickering towards the pair at the counter.

"That's not a problem, is it?"

Aitana's gaze immediately switched back to Morgan. "No," she said quickly, "Why would it be? It is Valentine's day, right? Night of relationships — old and new."

"Mm, yeah," Morgan nodded, "So who do you want me to fix you up with?"

"What!?"

"I've got someone in sight for you."

"No, no thanks. I'm good."

"Oh, but I really think you'd like him."

"It's not you is it? Because I'm not liking you very much right now."

Morgan chuckled. "Duly noted. No, I got someone else in mind. He's tall, very smart, and he's got these strange hobbies…" He leaned beside Aitana's ear to whisper, "Like going fish shopping and crocheting." As he leaned back, he saw the color drain from Aitana's face. Morgan couldn't help but laugh.

Aitana used that moment to try and get away. Morgan tightened his grip around her and pulled her back to him.

"It's okay Sprinkles," he assured her that he only meant well. When she tried to snack him, he locked her between his arms and chest. "I'm just trying to help out."

"Well don't," Aitana mumbled.

"I really don't mean to make you mad. It's just sometimes you're kind of blind," Morgan said, looking down at her.

"I was recently told that I had seen the light," Aitana sighed, "But I'm not sure it's a good idea to see the light."

"And why not?"

A weak smile marked Aitana's face. She looked towards the bar counter. They were laughing now. Ironically, she felt her heart sink lower.

"It's scary as hell," she said with a shaky voice, "It took me years to get better from Witness Protection and even now I'm still not completely there. Just because my life was ruined doesn't mean I should go ruin someone else's. Besides, Spencer looks pretty happy where he is now, so…"

Morgan told her she was wrong. Of course she was wrong. But given the circumstances, Aitana wouldn't believe him. She danced with him until the song was done then returned to the table where their other friends were busy getting drunk. Aitana no longer waited for her lemonade, nor for any other drink for that matter.

Spencer didn't return to the table regardless. He had finished the glass meant for Aitana and paid for them while Morgan explained what he had tried to do. Spencer didn't say a word about it except 'thanks for trying' then excused himself for the night. He would go home that evening with a mixture of feelings and the biggest one was, funny enough, how much he would have liked to dance with Aitana.

[dalamjisung]

A muted shade of green ✧ Spencer Reid

genre: fluff, light angst

word count: 6339

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: Dr. Spencer Reid is simply adorable. And you actually think he might be perfect. Until, that is, he isn't.

a muted shade of green masterlist // next chapter

His apartment is a muted shade of green and you always wonder why is it that he painted it so dark. The book covered walls never fail to impress you, making you smile into the ether that was this place with its shelves and shelves of worldly stories. His taste, you think, is more towards the classics and refined tales that carry significance and importance in the world of literature. Dostoyevski, Austen, Orwell, Doyle. Though here and there, in some corners of the living room or thrown haphazardly in the kitchen counter, you see peeks of contemporary names, the ones you’re sure you sold him a long, long time ago. Murakami, Zadie Smith, George. 

You met Spencer when you first moved into D.C., about a year or so ago, and sometimes, you really think that it was just yesterday when you first saw him with his purple scarf walking inside your store.

“Excuse me.” 

You have too many books in your arms to even see who is talking to you, but you apologise nonetheless; it’s the least you can do for your first customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment, apologies for the mess, we literally just opened.” In your defence, you had been so busy unpacking all the new orders and organising things into shelves that you absolutely forgot to put the plaque with your opening hours by the door. You can hear his shoes clicking and clacking around the place, and a wave of anxiety washes through you. If he leaves with a book– luckily two– you will have made your first sell and that just might remind you that of the reason why you decided to do this in the first place.

Carefully putting the pile of Maggie Nelson’s on the counter, you finally turn to face him, tired smile from ear to ear when you see him holding two books already. “You found something you like?” You gently ask, voice calm and fingers fidgeting while you wait for an answer. “Many things, actually. I’m quite glad to see a wide variety of books here, it’s been hard finding something new to read lately.” 

His voice is pointed and it echoes in the empty store. The clock on the walls says it’s 7:58AM and you suck in a breath; it’s definitely too early for someone to be looking for books, but maybe he wants entertainment for his commute, maybe he needs a distraction for the way, or maybe he is odd like that. 

It must be cold outside. The man is wearing a purple scarf  inside what looks like a wool coat, and somehow, he fits in there, in your store. He looks like the kind of person who would be buying books as early as 8 in the morning and you’re not sure if that is adorable or unhinged. 

“Just these, thank you,” The loud thump of the pile of books he deposits by the cashier makes you gasp. “You have a great selection here, I was lucky you open early!” The twinkle in his eyes is what keeps you from telling him that that, in fact, was a big mistake. In the middle of rushing to get the keys from the landlord in time, get the deliveries, get everything sorted and organised, you had completely forgotten to put out the hours for the shop. 

“I am glad you found us here! Do you live nearby?” At this point, you’re just trying to make conversation as you bagged his items, smiling at the titles and happy to see your favourite book in the midst. “I live just across the street, actually,” He said, giving you his card. “You’ll see me a lot, I’m afraid.”

“And what should I call my most loyal customer, then?” One look down at his card and you would know, but you wanted him to tell you himself. 

“Spencer Reid.”

There is not really a sound reason as to why you walk so freely into his apartment. The first time he asked you to do this, he was going on a case and needed someone to water his plants. As it turn out, your store is quite literally across the street from his building and you don’t really mind the mindless task, so you tell him to not worry, you’ll take care of it. It had been a few months since you two met, five or so, and despite taking you some time to truly understand, you got used to the fact that Spencer created a routine for both of you, knocking on your shop’s door every Monday at precisely 8 in the morning. With time, you stopped questioning him even when you had many, many questions– was he even reading all these books? If yes, how?! Every visit, he left with three books or more, and unless he pulled all nighters every night, those were simply sitting on his desk. 

Instead, you start putting a few titles aside whenever you spot them. You start it with ‘A Gentleman From Peru’ by André Aciman, short and sweet. Next week it was ‘A Little Paris Bookshop’ by Nina George. Then ‘Cultish’ by Amanda Montell. And just like this, you two form your own little book club, his visits extending beyond their usual thirty minutes into the better part of the hour to talk about the plot, the characters, the arcs. You know there is quite a lot you don’t know about Spencer, of course there is, but you learn more and more with every little debate you two have. You learn about his morals through the character he likes, and his dreams through the plots he enjoy. You learn about his photographic memory that allows him to quote his favourite sections to you, and you learn that he is a very logical man through his hatred for the inaccuracy of investigative books. You learn and you learn and you learn and you find out that you like learning about Spencer. More than you like learning about anyone else, that is, and now, every time he walks in, you can’t help but get excited, smiling as you only imagine what you would learn that day. 

Sometimes, you did notice the absence of your favourite customer. He would disappear for weeks on end and then act like nothing happened, and you get it; he doesn’t owe you anything, you’re just the lady that sells him books, but you feel like there is something that is starting to bloom when, every time he comes back, he brings you a book. “I thought you’d like it,” Is all he says before leaving with his bag of new reads. For a moment, it’s like an exchange, but Spencer never demands anything of you; never asks for anything more than new books and recommendations. 

It’s quite rewarding finding the books you sold him scattered through the apartment. There are a couple in the kitchen, open split on the counter and you smile fondly at the clumsy way he marks his books. There is no folded page, no book marker, no random picture; just his book, cover facing up, open and splitting the spine in half enough to crease. You shake your head, smiling like he’s done this just to rile you up.

“Oh my god, don’t!”

You don’t mean to shout but it’s too late. His eyes widen in shock and he immediately freezes, mouth stuck in a little ‘o’ shape that makes you blush. “What did I do?” 

The wince in your expression is as visible as the light of day when you speak. Your hands hover in the air, unsure of what to do now, but still trying to do something. “The book, Spencer,” The words come out like a whine, and if you start stomping your feet you might as well look like a child. “The spine. The book. The– oh my god, the noise!”

The way he laughs at you is contagious, and you start laughing with him, face hidden behind your hands in embarrassment. Owning a bookshop doesn’t come for free. Your particularities when it comes to your literary treasures are enough to scare any sane person away. “You know, there are worse sounds than a book’s spine breaking,” He mused, closing the book before walking to your counter. His nimble fingers drum a soft rhythm as he waits for you to go around and charge him for the book. It’s a symphony, almost; so loud in your quiet store that, for a second, your heart is tuning in, thumping as his fingers do, beating to the song he creates. 

“You don’t have to buy it,” It’s a little ridiculous how airy your voice sounds then. Aren’t you a little too old to have a crush? “It’s okay if–“ But he doesn’t even let you finish, rattling off some facts about the writer. Most of the time, actually, he is rattling off some fact about something, and some you know, some you don’t, but you never interrupt him. You like hearing him talk. 

You miss hearing him talk. Whenever Spencer leaves, you miss him. You miss the knock on your shop’s door at 8AM. You miss the shy little chuckles. You miss the purple– the constant, always there purple. A wave of sadness hits you then, looking around the apartment with a longing expression. 

The first time he calls you over, it’s not really an invitation. A week before it happens, he doesn’t show up for your Tuesday unboxing and you have to carry all the new orders inside by yourself. It takes double the time and despite the effort it takes you, it’s the absence of his coy chuckles and snarky commentary that leaves you breathless. When you open the boxes, checking inventory to make sure there had been no issues with your order, you find the book Spencer asked you to get him. It’s one of those special books, so old and unique that you could only get your hands on it because you had contacts in the space. “Huh,” You frown at that– it isn’t like Spencer to forget something. Hell, it isn’t like Spencer to forget anything. Before you can cower away from doing it, you send him a text. You have his number saved in the system, and this feels wrong, it really does. Using his personal information that he gave to you as a client felt wrong. But for a second, it makes you stop biting your nails in anxiety. 

Your book is here. 

It’s Y/N, by the way. 

He doesn’t answer right away and you wallow in your regret for as long as you can. Your shoulders hunch forward as you line up the new arrivals in the shelves. Your frown sits on your forehead all day while you help other passing customers. Your hands brush against the book, all ready and wrapped up and sitting on top of the counter. You hate waiting; you hate waiting for someone or for something to happen as if you’re praying for a miracle. Literature has taught you many lessons in life. It has shown you countless of love stories that could’ve been resolved with a simple conversation. It has told you about people that waited and waited and waited until time passed them away. It has taught you that waiting is simply delaying the inevitable. 

But what literature has not taught you is that, sometimes, waiting truly is all you can do. 

That day, you don’t get a message back. 

You get a call instead. 

“Y/N?” The familiar voice on the other side speaks before you can and your shoulders tense up. Something is wrong. He sounds hoarser than usual, airier, too. 

“Spencer,” You say back, clearing your throat of any remnants or indicators of how nervous you are. “Spencer, are you okay? You sound rough.”

Even his laugh sounds weak and a zap of worry rushes through you. “I’m fine,” He mumbles, and you know he’s saying it out of politeness. “I just got sick. I think I have a cold, it’s nothing much, really.”

The relief that washed over you in crashing waves is almost embarrassing. Even though he is not there to witness it, your face still flushes in a dramatic red. “Oh. I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you–“

“It’s not a bother,” The way his voice interrupts you, so strong and concise, makes you chuckle. “You’re not a bother. I uh, I’m glad to hear my book arrived.”

For a moment, you both stay quiet. You, on your end of the line, are nodding like he can see you. Except he can’t. Except he is waiting, probably, for you to say something. Do something. “I can bring it to you. If you want.”

This time, there is no pause. “Yes. I mean, yes, please. I– I don’t have anything new to read and–” Spencer pauses to cough and you start moving immediately. There is no one in the store and you quickly change the sign to ‘closed’, grabbing his book and your bag before locking the door behind you. There is a pharmacy at the end of the block and you keep your cellphone balanced between your shoulder and ear while your hands make sure you have your wallet with you. “Sorry.”

“No problem at all,” You cross the street in such a hurry that you don’t notice the traffic, getting a symphony of horns calling you out as you run to the other side of the street. “Shit…”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” You tease, laughing a little and entering the pharmacy with purpose. “So just a cold, right?”

“Y/N, where are you?”

“Out,” There is no need to be vague, but you don’t want to give him a chance to protest. “I should be at yours in fifteen minutes with the book.”

“Just the book?” He asks in such a suspicious tone that you can’t hold back a laugher. 

“What else?” Thank god for automatic cashiers speeding up this entire process. You are in an out in less than five minutes and before he can even answer, you are almost at his door. Admittedly, you are speed walking, almost running, in a futile attempt to get there sooner. “Which apartment do I buzz?”

“Apartment 23.” And that is the end of the call. 

By the time you make it to his floor, panting just as you hike the last step upwards, he is already waiting for you, and you can’t say you’re terribly bothered to have a man like Spencer Reid waiting for you by the door. “Spencer,” You still admonish, a small smile playing on your lips. “You shouldn’t be out and about like this.” 

“Then who would let you in?” The mischief in his expression, much like that of a child making an innocent joke, makes you giggle, nodding in agreement. “Do you want to come inside? I promise everything is clean, I’m not a slob or anything.”

“Yeah, let me come in so I can give you your stuff.” 

“I knew it wasn’t just the book,” The coughing fit that followed has you rushing your hands, pulling things out of your bag in a desperate attempt to get him the medicine you bought. This had always been your curse, the flustering anxiety of wanting to help but being unable to take your time. Shaky hands push the book towards him, with the medication and some old receipts stuck to it. 

“Oh shit, sorry!” You squeak, grabbing the receipts and shoving it back in your bag. One of these days, you’d have to close the store early to clean this thing. “But uh, yeah, I got you some cold medicine and your book. I’m sure you know this with your big brain and all, but you need to take this before bed, cause it makes you drowsy, and this other one in the morning since it has caffeine! And you should be good in no time… hopefully!”

In life, a pause is not always a bad thing. It’s a time to think. A time to appreciate, to enjoy. It’s a time to be. A pause, however, from the man whose brain worked a thousand miles an hour, doesn’t feel like something to be thankful for. “Is… Do you not like that brand? I didn’t want to get the generic thing, I don’t know why, I–“

“Thank you.”

At first, you barely hear it. For someone whose voice is so rough and hoarse, you’re surprised he can still sound so smooth and airy. Your reaction is obvious; he can see the blush in your cheeks and the way you bite back a smile. “Y/N, thank you, I really appreciate it,” He says it again and now you think he just wants to get a rise of you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” You shrug, faking humbleness while you keen at his praise. “I wanted to.”

“I know.” 

There is a dance that happens after that, one that you find yourself enjoying quite a bit. Spencer is more present than ever, and you’re getting used to having him around. It’s like you two broke the glass wall the kept you at a safe distance, and now is when you two discover each other a bit better. Like how you find out that, when Spencer’s hand lays on the cashier counter, just an inch or less away from yours, you feel the heath that it emanates. Like how your fingers curl and your palms itch at the sight of his shaggy curls falling on top of his beautiful eyes. Like how his laughter is deep when it’s true and dry when it’s forced. Like how he can read 20,000 words per minute, but he chooses to read 183 instead just so he can read you passages out loud.

You are not sure what he has learned about you, or if he even cares to learn something about you, but the thought still makes you smile. “What’s gotten you so smiley so early in the morning?” 

Ah, yes; another thing you’ve learned about Spencer Reid– he is as quiet as mouse when he wants, and as loud as an elephant when he doesn’t. “My god!” You jump, hand immediately going to your heart to try and keep it from beating our of your chest from the shock. “Spence! You scared me!”

“I’m so sorry,” He laughs, raising his hands in the air, shaking the two cups of coffee he is holding. “I come in peace.”

“And with bribery, I like your style.” 

His style doesn’t change, still haven’t. For ages, you think he buys you coffee at the nearby cafe. You don’t really know the name of the place, some cliche Cafe something something, but the one time you’ve been in there the coffee was terrible and the music too loud. It’s hard picturing your shy, smiley book-lover in there, trying to order something without raising his voice. It’s only when you see the go-to paper cups on his counter, on the fourth or fifth time you come around, that you realise Spencer has never gone to that cafe to begin with. 

The cups are still there. You make a point in spotting them every time you come over– next to the microwave, close to the paper towels. The reminder that this man has, in fact, been making you coffee most mornings validates the fluttery feeling you have whenever you think of it. It makes it somewhat logical. “I must be spending too much time with him,” You mumble to yourself, pushing your sleeves up and getting to work. You are there for a reason, and if those wilting plants die on you, you fear that you might just never be invited back. “Why does he even have plants?” 

You don’t know much about Spencer’s job. He hasn’t told you anything about it except that he travels a lot for it, but you can imagine it is something of importance– a man like Spencer was someone of importance, after all. In your mind, you can imagine him walking into an office down by the Financial District, working with big corporations as an advisor. Yes, you can absolutely see him as some sort of advisor or consultant, but something about him working in finances doesn’t sit right with you– he is yet to talk to you about crypto investments and how to better implement a payment system into the store. Shaking your head, you switch it up. Financial services, aren’t quite right, but maybe an editor, working in a publishing house. With the way he devours books and how well-rounded his personal library was, you could see him as a Publishing Director instead, reading manuscript after manuscript. 

The thought of him reading brings a smile to your face. In his living room, there is an armchair that sits next to the large window on the west wall of his apartment– he says he likes how the sunset hits and makes the pages look warm and golden, turning words into a burning fire of knowledge– and you can practically see him there, blanket over his legs, books and books pilled next to it. It’s your own little secret, how every time you come over, you grab a book, any book, and you sit there for thirty minutes, forty, fifty, an hour; until the sun has completely set and you have to get up to turn the lights on. 

Today, when you sit down, when you bring your knees up, when you drape the blanket over you, something feels incredibly right and incredibly wrong. On the pile of books next to you, right at the top, lays a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. If you remember correctly, which you usually do, last time you sat down at that spot you managed to read up to chapter five before the sun was gone. When you grab the book and you see the bookmark you gave Spencer the second time he visited the store, and you frown– usually, he’d pick up from where you left off. “How long has it been since you last came home, Spencer?” You muttered out loud, grabbing the book regardless. Because even when it breaks your heart to know something has been keeping him away from his precious nook, it fuels your heart to know he leaves your book where you can easily pick it up. To know he doesn’t mind you sitting on his armchair, to know he doesn’t mind you reading his books, to know he doesn’t mind you settling, somehow, in his house. 

A knock on his door, however, breaks you away from your precious moment of rest and relaxation. For a moment, you can’t move, frozen in place light a kid that has been caught doing something wrong. It’s only when they knock again that you move, shuffling to the door to look through the peephole. “Who is it?” You ask, voice weak and shaky. 

“I have a delivery for Spencer Reid.”

How silly you feel in that moment, hand over your heart as you take a deep breath in relief. Unlocking the door, you smile to the USPS guy. “Sorry, he isn’t home right now. I can take it for him.” All you have to do is sign it and close the door, but once you put the package on the counter and your eyes catch sight of a note scribbled on top of the box, all those butterflies inside of you slow down. And find perch. And for a second, make you miss them just like you miss him. 

The first time you think Spencer might have a girlfriend is when he comes into the store with a certain look in his face. He is practically glowing and his eyes don’t leave his phone for a second. “What has you smiling like that?” You two are close enough to ask these kind of things now, making jokes about each other as if you have been friends for ages. “Or uh, who?” Even though you started the conversation, you want to end it now. There is a sour aftertaste in your mouth when you suggest another person to be cause of his happiness, and you know, right there and then, that that is just your jealousy speaking. At this point, you’ve been harbouring a crush on Spencer for the almost two months and there’s only so much a girl can take before exploding. 

“Oh, it’s just a friend.” Somehow, this answer doesn’t settle you as much as you hoped it would. 

The second time is when he brings a woman around. She is blonde, and loud, and colourful, and you eye her carefully. They are matching costumes, and for a second, without even saying, you already feel left out. It’s stupid, being this green over someone so pink. If Spencer was purple, and if you are green, than that woman was pink– she is happy and light and exciting. Next to her, you… well, you are as muted as his green walls. “Y/N!” He calls for you with such a big smile and you just don’t have it in you to pretend to be busy anymore. 

“Hey Spencer,” It comes out quiet and a bit distant, but he doesn’t seem to notice, not with the way he is going back and forth on the ball of his heels. “And hello, ma’am. Welcome, I’m Y/N Y/L/N, the owner. Please let me know if you need any help.”

That day, you two barely talk, but that’s okay, because Penelope, as she introduced herself to you after you help her find a specific book on coding, speaks for both of you. She says that it’s lovely to finally meet you, and mentions how much she has heard about you, and you think this is a very cruel thing to do to your poor, squeezing heart. But you push through. You pretend you’re tired, you apologise for the distance, and you lie about a cough. It’s better if they stay away, you say, but Spencer doesn’t buy it. Instead, he buys Penelope her book and leaves with promises of coming back the next day with your usual coffee. 

After that, you don’t see Spencer for two weeks.

It’s a bittersweet feeling when you get the text that he is back. After almost a week and a half without seeing him, you miss Spencer. He created a space for himself in your life and in your store, and when he is gone, it’s just not the same. But just like how he did, you created a space for yourself in his apartment. Suddenly, the muted green walls aren’t claustrophobic or smothering, but comforting. They are safe. Familiar. They are Spencer. And just like you said, you miss Spencer.

“Y/N!” 

You should be happier to hear his voice, but it’s not the same. The fluttering in your stomach is still there, like a slow buzz trying to come alive, but it’s not the same. Not when the note on the box, flashing like neon signs behind your close lids, has been tormenting you and your poor heart ever since you made the mistake of opening the door. “Y/N? Are you here? The door says open…” At one point or another, you have to come out of hiding and face him. Delaying the moment, though, is the best defence plan you’re able to come up with– if you look into Spencer’s eyes, if you see that pretty smile he has every time he comes back from a work trip… you’re fucked. 

“Y/N, I need you to tell me if you’re here!” It’s not the same. 

His voice. It’s not the same.

Usually mellow and undulating, Spencer sounds stiff, like he’s holding something back. Something new. Something… heavy. There is an edge to him right now, so sharp and cutting that it has you stepping out from behind the Science shelf in pure curiosity. And just like people say, curiosity killed the cat. In this case, however, it almost kills you. 

When you turn the corner to find him by the door, the first thing you see is a man. He is tall and handsome and oddly serious. The way his brows are pulled together make you falter, steps slowing down and mouth opening to ask if he needs help.

That’s when you see it. 

More like you catch a quick glimpse of it, the shinning spark of metal to your side, and you do a double take. You have to do a double take. It’s like your brain doesn’t believe what you’re seeing, and you move your head so fast you feel your neck tensing up in that way that makes your eyes water. “WHAT THE FU– OH MY GOD!” There is no way to throw yourself against a wall graciously, arms over your head and fear written all over face. You land in an awkward angle and your shoulder takes the brunt of the shock, making you gasp in pain while your legs give our under you. 

Of all the ways you’ve imagined Spencer, him holding a gun up to your head was never one of them. “Y/N!”

“Oh my god!” You think you might pass out– you’re breathing too fast and your chest is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing to the point of physical pain. There is a ringing in your ears, muffling the entire conversation between Spencer and the other man and even though you try, you can’t look up; you’re frozen in a state of distress. For the first time since you met him, you’re scared of Spencer Reid. “I– I– Oh my god, I c-can’t– I can’t b-breathe, I can’t–“

“Y/N, look at me! Look at me, you’re okay, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” The moment his hand touches your shoulder, you’re shrinking away. 

“Who are you?!” You manage to gasp enough air into your lungs to scream at him. One shake hand moves to the back of your neck, pressing down on the sore nape as you finally move to look at him, crying and all. “Spencer, who are you? Who is he? What is happening? Why do you have a gun in my bookshop, why–“

“Ma’am, I need you to take deep breaths,” The other man quickly holsters his gun and you actually think you might be going insane when flashes you a badge. “I’m SSA Derek Morgan, I work with Spencer. We are with the FBI.”

Federal Bureau of Investigation. Spencer is a fed. And he never told you. 

“The FBI…?” You whisper, eyes going wide and breath hiccuped in your throat. “S-Spencer, you work for the FBI?” Nothing about this makes sense to you. The gun, forgotten in his left hand and now pointing down and away from you, is all you can look at. The gun that looked heavy and cold. The gun that those hands hold– the same hands you’ve wished and, admittedly, dreamed of holding yours instead. The gun, the gun, the gun.

The gun. You’ve never seen a gun before, not this close. In museums, of course, and in movies and shows, but never in real life. You don’t have interest in it either, having voted, without fail, for anti-gun laws and representatives. Anything and everything about this, about seeing him with that deadly weapon, feels wrong, and you really think you might be sick soon.

“Kid, put it away, you’re freaking her out.” 

Then is when you catch sight of the Spencer you know. It’s the clumsy actions, looking almost freaked out himself– his hands fumble with the holster and it takes him a couple of tries to fit the gun properly. That’s when you know for sure– you are going to be sick. “Trash,” You mumble, trying to get up but falling again and again. “Trash, pass me the–“ But there is no time and you throw up right there and then, between the cashier and the nonfiction section. 

“What just happened?” 

“Morgan, get her some water– there, over the counter,” The rapid successions of words make you feel a bit better, a cadence of tone and rhythm that has your hands finally stabilising. “Y/N, you’re in shock. Adrenaline kicked in and left, and you pressured crashed, which is what made you nauseous. You need water, and to come sit by the counter.”

It’s funny, how in any other circumstance, you’d be ashamed and embarrassed to have gotten ill in front of him. As far as you know, Spencer is a germaphobe and this surely counts as germs. But as he grabs your hands, gentler than you’ve ever seen him grab any book in your store, and brings you to your chair behind the counter, you wonder if he forgot or simply doesn’t care. Both options don’t make sense. “Spence, what is going on?” Your voice comes out winey and rough, and there is no way to hold back the pained wince when you feel the sting spreading through your throat. Sip by sip, you try your best to drink the water and soothe yourself, but nothing seems to help. 

Nothing until you hear him next to you, small and quiet and, dare you say, meek. “I’m sorry.”

As much as you’d like to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, he does. “I see…”

“It was just… it was new, having someone not know I’m FBI,” His thumbs play with each other and you’ve known him long enough to recognise that Spencer is nervous. “And we started getting closer and I just didn’t find an opportunity to tell you.”

“There were plenty,” You clarify, feeling a bit of a bitch for the bite in your voice making him gulp. “But it’s okay. I’m not… I’m not anything of yours, I guess, so it’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Don’t say that. You’re my friend.” That hurt.

“Do you point a gun at all your friends or am I just special, Spence?” It is supposed to be a joke, but the memory makes your bottom lip start wobbling again and you feel stupid. You feel so, so incredibly stupid right now that you can’t even begin to explain why. “Sorry, I’m just– I’m not okay.”

“I know, and we’re sorry,” There is such raw honesty in his words and he manages to make you smile a little. Your hand is still shaking, but you stretch it out towards him regardless. It’s a conscious decision to hold onto his wrist, covered by his jacket, than to reach out for his palm, and from the way he looks at you, you know he recognises the effort. “But you need to come with us.”

“Why?” You cry out, a single tear coming out of the corner of your eye. At this point, the shock is going away and you’re more overwhelmed than anything else. You’re scared and confused and overwhelmed and it’s his pulse, beating again and again, that brings you back to Earth. “Why do I need to go with you? What is going on?”

“Y/N, when you were housesitting for me, you received a package, right?”

In the midst of everything, the memory of that day, that box, that note, all fade. Frowning, you shrugged. “The delivery man knocked and said he had a package for you… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I–“

“No, no, no, you didn’t, you didn’t. Please.”

“Ma’am, when you signed for the package, did you use your name?” The man, Morgan, ask, and all you do is nod. Of course you signed with your name. “Kid, we need to take her to the office now.”

“I am not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”

Finally, some energy in you. Some strength. Your voice echoes in the empty shop, and the chair tips back when you stand up on stiff legs. Looking at Spencer is hard, when you feel the burning of your rage inside, but you still do; you still meet those pretty brown eyes, you still stare him down until you practically force the answers off of him. “The package… did you see who it was from?” 

“Spencer, are you insinuating you’ve pointed a gun at me because I read a message your girlfriend wrote on the package she sent you?! Because I didn’t mean to– I didn’t! It just… It was there, right at the top and I–“

“She is not my girlfriend,” He immediately cut you off, hands waving in front of him in a visual demonstration of desperate denial. “Not at all! I don’t have a girlfriend! I was–“

“We can deal with this later,” Morgan is quick to interrupt, sighing as he looked at you. “Y/N, we re really sorry to disrupt you like this, but this is for your own protection. Please lock the store and let’s go.”

It takes time for you to gather everything you need. You are not a disorganised person by any means, but suddenly, you can’t remember where you put what. Your bag is thrown under the cashier, and your keys are, for some reason, in the Fiction shelf. Your glasses are in your head the entire time, and Morgan has to point that out to you. The more you look, the more flustered you get, yet somehow, you make it to the car. Morgan is driving and Spencer is on the passenger seat, and the way they keep talking to each other using words that make no sense to you make you want to scream. “Spencer.”

The heaviness of his name, said with such emotion,, lingered in the air. His eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror, and he nods. “Yeah?"

“Spencer,” You whisper again, eyes wide in shock as reality starts to dawn. “Spencer, if she’s not your girlfriend, then who the fuck is Cat Adams?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AAAAAhhhhh I'm trying something new >.< I've been a massive criminal minds fan for a long, long time and Dr. Spencer Reid has my heart <3

Please let me know what you think, this is my first Spencer fic and I'd love if it got to turn into a series!

[mrs-weasley-reid]

JULY REC FICS

Hello, my sweets!! I wanted to try something out to provide my full and utter support to all the amazing writers I've come across in the form of monthly rec fics (starting this month). Join me in giving them love through comments and reblogs. It really is a joy to hear how you're doing as a writer. It makes up for all the angst we write lol

I will be going based on what I've read recently and not by the date the fic was posted. And the number of fics will depend on how much I've read the entire month. Also, please respect these writers. Some contents are 18+, so MINORS should not be interacting in any way, especially when the authors themselves specify it.

— ✿ — ✿ ✿ — ✿ ✿ ✿

Spencer Reid

✿ a question unasked by @easy-there-leftovers ↳ SOOOO ADORABLE. I'm a workaholic craze gal, so it speaks to me on a silly level.

✿ missing the happy hormone by @lavenderspence ↳ I'm a sucker for Spencer fluff this month, what can I say? This fic Tina made had my waterworks going on for about a minute because it's so sweet

✿ desk duty by @reiderwriter ↳ All you have to know is the amount of evil laugh I made while reading this

✿ the theory of love by @ophelia-is-complex ↳ Genuine intimacy is quite a challenge to write, but THIS ONE, this one had me in a sappy mood

✿ like nothing matters by @cerisereids ↳ gagged and had to pause the reading so many times because HELLO— had me spiraling at work

✿ the devils disguise by @qlossytbh ↳ I said I sobbed a little bit, but I actually cried so much I ended up taking a nap and felt better afterward. It's all fluff, though, don't get me wrong. I'm just very dramatic when the red devil's on the clock

✿ not so funny by @reidmania ↳ Angsty, that made me wanna start a fight with some random twiggy tall guy. Sooooo good!

✿ cloaked in passions touch by @raekensluver ↳ If you don't like Spencer's hands, you're fucking lying to yourself!!!!!

✿ language of devotion by @gghostwriter ↳ I'm in love with reid, and this fic just had me stumbling back onto his lap like a good gal

✿ this req response by @mandarinmoons ↳ Sorry, I'm not sure what the title is, but it's so adorable and got me to go to work, so kind of a lifesaver tbh

✿ hallucinate by @gghostwriter ↳ Oooo, this one was so cute, hehe. Honestly, I lean towards Spencer fluff lately just because I've been too overstimulated with work this past month, so READ THIS ONE ITS CUTE

✿ it's golden, like daylight by @dudeitiskarev ↳ I actually felt like I was reader the entire time I read this. It's well-written and so adorable and something that should be framed in a museum

✿ much ado about nothing series by @incognit0slut ↳ binged it all morning, and I was whipped !!! It's ongoing, so if I have to wait, so does everybody else

— ✦ — ✦ ✦ — ✦ ✦ ✦

Aaron Hotchner

✦ choiceless hope series by @hotchfiles ↳ This series had me rolling over my bed on a Saturday. A lot of feelings getting played (mostly mine)

✦ beanstalk by @solardrop ↳ I kid you not; I was giggling like a weirdo when I read it. And that itself deserves the recommendation.

✦ too busy being yours by @hotchfiles ↳ Lari knows how to get a sick gal to giggle. I love bau!rossi!reader. I love Rossi as reader's dad, so I enjoyed it more than I thought I would

✦ ignorance by infatuation by @boneblushed ↳ Oh, this one was a nice snack while on my break at work. LOVED IT SO MUCH

✦ hungover by @basketonthedoorstepofthefbi ↳ Mmmm, such a good read! Plus Jemily is there sooooo

✦ from across the bar by @hotchscoffeecup ↳ Evil laugh ensues. A nice cuppa of some good ole kinky stuff

✦ doomed by @hotchfiles ↳ guys, I stopped my car in the middle of driving home just to read it, so it's THAT good. Honestly, I strongly encourage everyone to read all of Lari's works! She's my writer crush, if none of you realized it by now

✦ a bunch of cuties in love by @lavenderspence ↳ hehehehehehe this definitely did not remind me of that one older guy I used to flirt with who had an adorable younger brother that I babysat🤭

✦ schrodinger's cat by @none-of-your-bullshit ↳ angst on a Saturday morning is like taking a shot of soju before 11 am, and this one felt like it <3

how about you also comment your top 3 fave fics for this month to spread more love to our great writers?

[girlkisser13]

hair pulling with spencer reid

pairings: sub spencer reid x dom fem!reader

warnings/tags: smut (18+), oral sex (r receiving), hair pulling, dry humping, cumming in pants.

divider by @plutism

you can hear him underneath you, moans muffled by your thighs clamped around his head. you can feel his hair moving against your thighs, tickling them while his mouth is busy pleasing you.

he’s been not so subtly grinding against your foot while he eats you out, already achingly hard just from his face being between your thighs.

you’re sitting on your kitchen table, gripping the sides of it while spencer sucks on your clit. you throw your head back, letting out quiet moans. you’re squirming from the pleasure you’re feeling, and spencer’s letting out little whimpers as he continues to dance around your cunt with his tongue.

every time his tongue enters you, your body leans forward. you need to grip the counter so that you don’t fall on his face. not that he’d mind.

“are you close?” he looks up at you, kitten licking your clit while you take a breath to talk. you’re too busy with the pleasure you’re feeling, so you just nod and push his face closer towards your cunt.

while he begins suckling your clit, your hands drift up to his brunette locks, pulling slightly. spencer lets out a very loud whine at the gentle sensation of you tugging his hair, and shifts his hips faster against your foot, bucking up when you continue pulling his hair.

“fuck, you’re really desperate from doing this? huh, spence?” you can’t help but tease the blushing man between your legs.

he lets out a little whine and nods, pressing kisses to your clit. you let out a whimper, and arch your back, pressing your cunt closer to him. spencer can feel himself leaking precum into his boxers, and you throw your head back, tugging his hair even harder.

he can’t resist anymore, reaching a hand down to his pants, rubbing himself through the material. you see his movements, but can’t bring yourself to stop him when his eyes flutter shut in pleasure.

“aw spence, does that feel good?” you chuckle, pushing his hair off his forehead.

spencer slowly opens his eyes to you looking down at him with a small smile. he returns it, but then his eyes drift down to your neglected cunt in front of him, dripping just for him.

his eyes widen, and he removes the hand playing with his clothed cock, letting it fall on your thigh, while his other hand grips your other thigh, keeping them apart.

“i have to make you cum,” his eyebrows are furrowed, and you can’t resist tugging his hair to pull him towards you.

his tongue pushes inside you, and you find yourself arching towards him. his hands move to cup your ass, pushing you further off the edge of the counter, almost sitting you on his tongue.

“spence, what has gotten into you?” a few seconds ago he was touching himself, and you were more than happy to help him out.

“i’m already…close…you know?…” he trailed off, embarrassed that he admitted he was getting himself off to eating you out.

you can’t help but let out a small moan at the fact that he can feel like this because of you. your legs clench around his head when his tongue enters you while his nose bumps against your clit.

your toes start curling from the pleasure, and you let out moans and whines that go straight to spencer’s cock. he shifts his legs together to release some of the tension, and looks up at you.

he can almost see your hard nipples through your shirt, and can see your head thrown back in pleasure. your thighs are clenching around his head, suffocating him, and spencer can feel himself getting so close to cumming.

you’re harshly rolling your hips against his face, chasing your impending orgasm. spencer has taken to humping your leg again, moaning against your cunt when he can breathe.

you look down at him, his chestnut curls were splayed out on your thighs, you give them a sharp tug as your head falls back, and you cum with a shout of his name.

spencer moans out into your cunt, vibrations helping you through your orgasm, and he cums in his pants.

you’re both panting as you come down from your respective highs. spencer can barely keep his head up, and drops it onto your thigh. his eyes slide shut in bliss, and you notice the wet patch on his pants.

you run your fingers through his hair, pulling a smile from the genius.

“hi,” you say softly.

“mmm hi,” he mumbles out, grinning at you.

“i think i’m going to have to carry you to bed, honey,” you motion down to his collapsed legs on the floor.

both pairs of eyes narrow in on the cum patch on his pants, and you chuckle to yourself.

“i didn’t know you liked having your hair pulled,” you tease.

[angellic4l]

thank you’s - s.r

in which; sunshine!bau!reader is demeaned by an officer on a case and season2!spencer sticks up for her.

content: fem!reader, reader described as having ‘girly’ flair, sexism, mention of blood/bloodstain, mainly fluff, protective spencer, and i think that’s it but lmk.

a/n: i just rawdog it and write on tumblr as a draft so i have 0 clue how many words there are. also, thank you all so much for the love on my first fic, i adore you all. these are my babies now and i hope you love them.

Warm sunlight warms the skin on your back while you’re crouched down at the latest crime scene, examining a bloodstain on the concrete floor. Despite it being November, it’s still considerably warm in Texas, a big contrast to Virginia weather for sure.

Despite official policies about dress code and such, you’re still a fun person, so you like to add your own girly flair to the professional attire you sport almost every single day. It doesn’t harm anybody, it doesn’t break any rules, and it’s cute.

However, pair the cute flair you add to your clothes with your enthusiastic, optimistic, ‘happy go lucky’ personality, and the fact that you’re a woman, and it causes people to make their own assumptions - typically sexist ones.

After doing bloodstain analysis on the red splatter that coats part of the parking lot’s floor, you go to stand up from your crouching position. Mid motion, you spot a small note on the floor, tucked under the wheel of a car. Crime scene analysis requires everything and anything to be processed, and the unsub has yet to make contact with authorities, so you make the decision that it’s worth looking at before motioning for Spencer to come over after seeing him somewhat idle.

He begins to make his way over from the other end of the parking lot as you stay crouching, waiting for him to come over because you don’t have gloves on. What you don’t see after you turn back around is an officer, an average sized male with blonde hair who appears to be slightly older than you, approaching you at the very same time.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, workin’ for the FBI? You sure yer pretty little brain can handle allathat, darlin’?” A man’s voice; a thick, Texan drawl, coated with a somewhat flirty tone, yet at the very same time, it’s seeping with disdain - ambivalence.

Unfortunately, you’re used to that tone of voice and can recognise it all too well. It’s not going to be the first time you hear it, and it certainly won’t be the last, no matter how progressive times are or how you express yourself.

Standing up, spinning on your heels, ready to give the - officer? that’s poor - a rehearsed response to ensure your own safety, yet keep a boundary, you see Spencer stood behind the average sized, blonde haired man that you don’t recognise. He’s giving the officer one of his looks, his face saying everything, as usual, despite the officer not being able to see it.

Spencer’s fully aware his face is saying everything without it coming out of his lips, he’s completely baffled at how someone could say something so demeaning to anybody, much less you. You’re probably the sweetest person he’s ever met, always so supportive and enthusiastic. He feels protective of you. He doesn’t even realise he does until the words are out.

“She’s perfectly capable of doing her job, if not more so than other male agents, not that it concerns you whatsoever. And I’m perfectly capable of reporting a sexist comment to your supervisor.”

Spencer’s tone is defensive, no, protective, and you can feel heat rushing to your cheeks. It’s the bare minimum - sticking up for someone to a discriminatory comment - and you know that. It’s more so that Spencer hates confrontation, but he’s doing it, and it’s for you. Thank God for the Texas weather masking your fluster as warmth.

With the threat of his supervisor being involved, the officer offers a mumbled apology before walking away, almost as if his ‘tail’ is tucked between his legs, like a scolded puppy. A soft laugh elicits from your lips at the sight. Once the sexist officer has gone, Spencer’s eyes find you, his expression changing to one of concern.

“Hey, you okay? That was demeaning,” the brunette offers, his hand coming to rub the back of his neck, a habit he has, typically more often around you.

“‘M okay. Used to it, unfortunately. Thank you, though, Spence. That was sweet; I know how much you hate confrontation,” you say, giving him a soft smile as you do.

It’s Spencer’s turn to blush now, you calling his actions sweet and that soft smile - god, that smile - flushing his cheeks a light pink while his hand still rubs at the back of his neck.

“Oh, you don’t need to thank me. Anyway, you called me over here. What did you find?”

With his question, you’re quickly reminded of why you did call him over, before the sexist comment and mini confrontation that’d ensued with the officer’s presence, but there’s something you want to do first.

“I don’t need to thank you, but I want to,” you reassure him before stepping forward, moving closer to him, leaning up on your tiptoes, turning your head to face Spencer’s cheek, and slowly placing a chaste kiss to his already pink cheek.

Spencer’s eyes widen before they close, realising what you’re doing and wanting to savour the feeling of your lips on his skin. Unfortunately for him, the brief contact is gone just as quickly as it had started. He opens his eyes again and moves his right hand from the back of his neck to touch his cheek, realising what he did in front of you, and acting as if he was wiping away your lip gloss stain.

“Oh, uh.. thanks. Anyway, the, uhm, you called me over to see…?”

Silently, secretly, he wills the feeling of your lips on his skin to never leave his memory, not even when he’s old and grey, and maybe, just maybe, he wishes that you’ll be by his side when he is.

[hoe4hotchner]

hi! can i request a hotch fic with shy!reader? like the reader has been in the BAU for a while and is known to be quiet and they start trying to open more to the team (specifically hotch) and the reader jokingly keeps calling hotch “oldman” or “grandpa” and like they get rlly close and the team wonders if their dating or not? thank you!! :))

Old man | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!Reader CW: Fluff, Alcohol consumption somewhere in the middle, one kiss. WC: 1.3k

           Working at the BAU had been a whirlwind for you. You’d joined the team a little over a year ago, but even after all this time, you still found yourself feeling quiet and reserved around your colleagues. While they were all kind and welcoming, it wasn’t easy for you to open up, especially when everyone else seemed so close-knit. You were known as the team’s quiet one - efficient and hardworking, but not particularly outspoken.

           Your interactions with Hotch, however, had started to shift things. At first, you admired him from afar, his calm and composed demeanor had made you both nervous and intrigued. He was older, wiser, and had an air of authority that made you hesitate to speak up. But slowly, something began to change.

           It started with small things. Hotch would catch your eye during meetings, offering a slight nod or a barely-there smile when you shared an idea. You noticed how he’d linger after team briefings, giving you subtle encouragement in his own way, telling you that your insights were valuable. It was these small moments that made you feel more comfortable, and a little braver around him.

           Then, one day after a particularly grueling case, you found yourself standing by the coffee machine with Hotch. You were both exhausted, the silence between you comforting. You took a sip of your coffee and glanced at him, noticing how the lines around his eyes seemed a little deeper, the exhaustion written on his face.

           “You alright… old man?” you teased quietly, barely looking up from your cup as you spoke.

           For a moment, you weren’t sure how he’d take it, but when you glanced up, Hotch was smiling - an actual, soft smile that made something in your chest flutter.

           “Old man?” he repeated, with an amused arch of his brow.

           You shrugged, suppressing a grin. “You’ve been at this a lot longer than the rest of us, I mean except for Rossi,” you said, feeling a surge of bravery. “Just calling it like I see it.”

           Hotch chuckled, a sound you rarely heard from him. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, his voice warm. “Though I don’t feel that old.”

           It was a small exchange, but it opened the floodgates. After that, the teasing became a regular occurrence. You’d throw in a playful “old man” here and there, and Hotch would respond with a dry comment about your youth and energy. The team noticed, of course they did. Morgan would give you side glances, smirking whenever you slipped the nickname into conversation, while JJ and Emily exchanged looks with each other.

           The banter became a way for you to feel more at ease, not just with Hotch but with the whole team. But there was something special about the way you and Hotch interacted, a certain closeness that wasn’t there with anyone else. He’d seek you out in quieter moments, asking how you were doing, offering advice on cases or just sharing a cup of coffee during the rare downtime. You started to open up more, sharing little pieces of yourself that you’d kept hidden for so long.

           Then the team began to wonder. You could see it in the way they observed the two of you. During briefings, when Hotch would speak directly to you, his voice a little softer than usual, you’d catch Morgan’s raised eyebrows or Rossi’s grin. JJ had asked you once, out of the blue, if you were seeing anyone. When you’d said no, she’d hummed in response, her eyes darting briefly to Hotch’s office.

           But you weren’t dating. At least, not in any official capacity. Sure, there were moments that felt like something more - like when Hotch would brush your hand as you passed files to each other or the way his gaze lingered on you a little longer than necessary when you were deep in thought. But neither of you had acknowledged it, not yet.

           One evening after a case, the team had gone out for drinks. You were sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of wine, when Hotch slid into the seat beside you. You smiled at him, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence, and leaned in slightly.

           “Old man, out at a bar? Didn’t think you had it in you,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.

           He chuckled softly, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I’m full of surprises,” he said, his voice was low.

           You sipped your wine, feeling bolder than usual, perhaps from the alcohol, or maybe just because it was Hotch. “Guess I’ll have to stick around long enough to see them,” you replied, your tone playful but with a hint of something more.

           Hotch turned his head slightly, his gaze catching yours. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that made your heart skip a beat. He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’d like that.”

           Your breath hitched, your pulse quickening as you stared at him. There it was again - that tension, the unspoken connection between the two of you that was growing stronger by the day. You smiled softly, the warmth in your chest spreading.

           The team noticed. Over the next few weeks, the teasing from Morgan and Emily grew more frequent. “So… you and Hotch, huh?” Morgan had asked one afternoon when you were both working late.

           You’d blushed furiously, stammering something about it just being a joke, that you and Hotch were just colleagues, but Morgan didn’t seem convinced. “Sure, whatever you say, kid,” he’d said with a wink, leaving you flustered.

           But the truth was, even you weren’t sure anymore. You and Hotch had grown close - closer than you’d ever imagined when you first joined the BAU. He made you feel seen, appreciated, and more comfortable in your own skin. And as much as you teased him about the age gap, there was something about Hotch that made you feel safe, cherished.

           One evening, after the rest of the team had gone home, you found yourself in Hotch’s office, helping him sort through case files. The room was quiet, the only sound was the rustling of papers and the occasional hum of the air conditioning. You’d just handed him a report when his fingers brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity up your arm.

           You looked up, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. Hotch's gaze softened, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “We’re not… you know, dating, are we?”

           The question hung in the air momentarily, and you immediately regretted asking it. But then Hotch smiled a soft, almost tender smile that made your heart race.

           “Not yet,” he replied, his voice low and steady. “But I wouldn’t mind if we were.”

           Your breath caught in your throat, and you stared at him, wide-eyed. He stepped closer, his fingers grazing your hand, and you felt the familiar warmth of his touch.

           “Well… what are you waiting for, old man?” you teased, your voice shaking slightly with nervousness and excitement.

           Hotch chuckled, leaning in just a little closer. “I guess I’ll just have to stop being so old-fashioned.”

           And with that, he closed the gap between you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It was gentle, sweet, and everything you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for. When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you smiled, your heart pounding in your chest.

           “So… we’re dating now?” you asked softly, your fingers curling around his.

           He nodded, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “Looks like it.”

           And from that moment on, the team didn’t have to wonder anymore.

[endearng]

Loner to lover

Pairing: young!Spencer Reid x professor!reader Summary: Running away from your problems is said to be irresponsible, but it just might lead you to where you need to be; to whom you must be with and, utterly, to the one you're supposed to be. WC: 10.1k Warnings: jealous spencer (a warning of its own) unspecified age gap; infidelity; smut in the form of soft and vulnerable sex between two virgins - (p in v), creamp*e (sorry), softdom!spencer, dacryphilia if you squint. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: I had to use the frightening 'L/N'. Sorry sorry sorry. Also I just know Spencer is a little shit when encouraged so... he's a bit insistent here............ anyways I love this do much and I hope you enjoy reading it as well. | Masterlist

Spencer remembers the time when you first met. The reason, happenstance and the enormous range of mixed feelings that it brought him.

Early twenties. Collecting BAs for fun. Dr. Spencer Reid thought of a social life second, third, fourth... whatever position behind his education. His responsibility and intelligence were mere details compared to his application to his studies, which was a trait that made him singular to every single one of the professors whose classes he chose to take. Quick and smart remarks, useful contributions, thought-provoking ideas, you name it; there wasn't a single good student expectation that Spencer couldn't meet. In the academic world, the young man was highly recommended and wanted by any and every superior who wanted a good insight on their research, and that was saying a lot — society's greatest minds would compete for that brilliant brain in hopes to have his attention and participation on their projects. Spencer Reid, to his colleagues, was a walking experiment: that guy was able to keep up with his classes, the research programs he was invited to be a part of (they were jealous of this particular information, because they had to almost literally fight their way into a internship) and, on his free time, he had the nerve to feed his curiosity and come up with even more ideas of his own.

A brilliant, lonely heart amidst a crowded sea of people who were mainly too focused on themselves to notice him, unless it was to compare themselves to the absolute success he was among the academic world.

Given his mild demeanor, it is no surprise that his professors would trust him anything and that he easily won their hearts over — he remembers attending dinners at their places when they were particularly close to him; Spencer was not a stranger to a safe proximity to his mentors, after all, they were his only friends. So, it was with a dreadful surprise that he received the news that his favorite professor and advisor, Dr. Brown, would retire. Immediately, Spencer thought, with a frown on his face, that nobody could replace him. Plus, it would be disencouraging to go to those classes with someone he didn’t even know. The news had dampened his mood, to say the least, and he was ready to protest.

"Don't worry, Reid," said Dr. Brown, kind eyes wrinkling in the corners as he smiled, sitting on his chair behind his huge desk, "Dr. L/N is a great person, in more ways than one. I'm sure you will be thrilled to work with her."

"I'm not sure. It takes me some time to get used to certain situations."

"I know, but I'm sure you've had to adapt to some unexpected events at some point," retorted the older man, psychologist mode in full swing, "This is no different. And, if I must say, not entirely unexpected. There's only so far a man can go without losing his mind.”

"I suppose so," Spencer muttered, feeling a bit selfish — it wasn't fair of him to put his thoughts before the older man's needs.

Dr. Brown looked at his pupil, who avoided eye contact for most of the time. The professor had taken an almost paternal liking to Spencer as they grew closer after the younger man stood behind in the classroom wanting to ask different and plenty of questions about the spectacle he had just watched, his first one. It was rare, for Mr. Brown, to have and hold a student's attention so uniquely, and it was as rare for Spencer to have someone explain things and welcome his curiosity so openly. Science had bonded them together — being men of science, they knew better than to argue with its effects.

"I was thinking, Spencer. If you're not so busy, you could keep leading the experiments in our lab, helping out our new professor." At that, Spencer's expression turned a bit sour, to which Mr. Brown chuckled, "Trust me, you'll have nothing to worry about. In fact, I think you two are greatly alike."

Spencer let nothing out but a hum of agreement, perking up slightly at that remark. He wanted to ask what the older man meant, but stopped himself, asking instead, "When does she get here?"

"I believe she is settling in her studio as we speak. You'll meet her tomorrow. I wish I could introduce the two of you, but, unfortunately, I leave at 3 a.m."

Exchanging goodbyes and wishes of a safe flight, Spencer left for his dorm, where he busied himself with the papers of the guest professor. Of course, he would not betray his ritual of researching the guest professor to know about their academic background, as well as their field of research, stylistics and projects to check if something would raise his spirits. It didn't matter that he wasn't pleased with the replacement.

Dr. L/N. You were, apparently, a great researcher for the Psycholinguistics area—a branch that made you known in fields such as Education, Criminology, Psychology, Linguistics, Communication... The list was endless. If he was honest, he felt a little baffled—and embarrassed—that he hadn't done any research on your contributions thus far. A mind like yours should get a recognition beyond any borders. Once he got a glimpse of your brain and what it could do, he was gone. Your resume was impeccable: you had studied in different institutions in countries, proficiency in multiple languages, uncountable papers and mentions of your name in studies in all the areas above.

He doesn't remember falling asleep or turning off his laptop. However, he remembers that, in dreams, he finds someone, but, strangely, he can't make up a face.

(...)

Walking through a bustling crowd of people always made you winded, the noise and the inevitable bumping too overwhelming for you to handle on top of being somewhere new. So, you preferred to sit and wait in a small, more secluded hall in the building that Dr. Brown said you would find his lab. After the morning rush, the corridors were filled by distant echoes of louder professors or students, which made you calmer; to think you weren't completely alone. Traveling to help out a friend was a much welcomed distraction from what you had left at home, something you weren't quite ready to access just yet. You could remember your shrink's voice as she said that, at times, it was useless to think so ahead of the future.

Unbeknownst to her, you agreed wholeheartedly. It was useless. The moment you could have done something for yourself was already lost, long gone, buried by endless hours of work and occupations to keep you from breaking a dam of lonely despair.

Speaking of the past, you slid your golden ring off your wedding finger, letting it fall inside your coat pocket as you made your way through the halls. Upon seeing a door with Dr. Brown's lab small logo on it, you cracked a small smile, remembering the story behind it: you and a bunch of other students trying to come up with a nice, thoughtful gift to encourage the guest professor's new interests. When you opened the door, you found a tall, thin man sitting by the computer desk, apparently engrossed until he heard the click of the lock, finding your eyes with equal parts startle and wonder, lips parted gently, surprise etched all over his pretty face.

The young man had innocent, almost bambi-like eyes. It was the first thing you had noticed about him. Staring at you, hazel eyes so expressive that you were sure he could speak through his glance alone.

After the initial surprise, you thought you knew who he was, having heard all about Dr. Brown’s new favorite student and mentee. Spencer Reid, who seemed to study for leisure, deeply intelligent and reliable. No wonder he was in the lab, settling everything so that he would be helpful. It was a faithfully vivid image, much like the one that had settled into your brain when your colleague had described who he was working with.

"Dr. L/N."

"Dr. Reid."

Your unison voices mingled in the air. You walked up to where he was, holding out a hand for him to shake. Dazedly, he stood up, taking your hands in his, which made you smile at him, appreciating his politeness. Spencer, on the other hand, felt frozen.

Whatever it was that he, at some point, imagined you would look like, it was nothing compared to the real thing. All your features seemed to be mathematically, precisely calculated to form one of the most beautiful and soft complexions he had ever laid his eyes upon. You spoke again, no longer blocked by his own voice, so gently that it was almost as if he was being physically touched by your voice. Your accent was not strong, but it was perceptible, something that he attributed to your multilingual abilities. "Sorry to barge in like that. It's nice to meet you. Dr. Brown told me a lot about you," you revealed, still smiling.

"It's okay. Nice to meet you too.” Tongue-tied. He felt illiterate, close to a woman who he was not supposed to have certain types of thoughts around. You breathed out a huff of amusement at his widened eyes.

There was a bit of an awkward silence when you both noticed that none of you had let go of the other's hand yet. With a clear of your throat and his fugitive glance, you both composed yourselves, retreating from your touch. "He said," you started with a chuckle, "and I quote, that you are now his eyes, ears, hands and brain in here. So, beforehand, I want to say that I truly appreciate your support and help." You said, politely, to which he smiled nervously with a shaky nod.

"It's no problem, really. Dr. Brown is one of the greatest here and it'd be naive of me to not accept his request."

You grinned, agreeing. "Yeah, he is a great man. Well, I believe you are more familiar with all the devices than I am." You said, motioning to the set-up behind him. "I do have these back at my university, but yours is a bit different from what I can see. I suppose they work the same way, but, to be honest, I don’t want to mess anything up."

Spencer blinked, scientist mode on full swing. "Yeah, yeah." He nodded, looking at her again. "You don't have to worry, I was just checking the last details before starting the experiments. Everything is already settled, but I can talk you through it if you want to conduct the experiment by yourself at some point.” He trailed. Curiously, he added, “If I may ask, what made you interested in this research?"

Your heart's happiness bursted into sparkles in your eyes as you smiled, glad that he asked you about it. You talked him through it, giving him specific details as he sat and listened like you were the most brilliant brain in the entire world. As you talked, he remembers feeling his lips twitching up in a small smile. Once you were done, encouraged by your honesty and heartfelt explanation, he revealed with a faint dust of pink on his cheeks, "I know. I, um, I searched and read some of your papers last night.”

"Really?" You asked, cordial.

"I try my best to get to know my professors' fields before meeting them. It's a way I found to keep my brain entertained and to get ready for what's coming next." He admitted softly, mentally patting himself on the back for not stuttering.

"That is a good approach. I must say I wish I had that kind of mindset when I was your age."

"It’s okay. You've been doing a great job."

Silence. Understanding from both parts.

"But... to answer your question, I have been really interested in working with language lately, more than usual, at least." You chuckled softly. Spencer couldn't stop his own grin at your enthusiasm, eager to hear your voice.

You agreed once he offered to show you how their device worked, sitting on the chair in front of it. Spencer motioned for you to go ahead and place your chin on the small stand. He took notice of your hands when you placed them on the desk, bitten nails and small, red spots on their edges. It concerned him, but he brushed it off, thinking it could have been a simple nervous habit, knowing he had no business asking or worrying about you. You were his professor, after all. "Whenever I lead this experiment with my students, they always tell me they feel like they are at the ophthalmologist."

Spencer chuckled. "Yeah. It does feel like it. You can't even move an inch."

You followed the instructions on the computer screen so that the device would follow your eye movements. It worked quickly, which made you pleasantly surprised and it was hard to hide it from your tone, "This is faster than any other I have tried before."

"Welcome to our university."

As you worked on the experiment, answering to the commands on the scream silently, the device following your orbs, Spencer took his time to study your features. Your hair was neatly up in a ponytail, dainty earrings adorning your ears that matched your gentle features. All your sharpness, if you had any, was in your eyes. An intense gaze that made him falter a bit, as if his brain had the need to stop for a second to store the sight of your gaze on him to remember it for good. Your movements were calm and collected, and, ironically, you looked rather young to be a doctor.

Once you had finished, you didn't pull away immediately from the device. The computer could no longer pinpoint where your eyes were, because then they were directed at Spencer instead glancing at him as if studying him, taking him in to remember his features like a quote that you knew by heart. As he turned to look at you, he started explaining how to save a volunteer's progress and, honestly, you were only half listening, focusing on his mild mannerisms, voice and use of language. You nodded here and there, absentmindedly storing that information. You two departed after exchanging some more information, mostly him guiding you through the campus, talking about each department and what was the fastest and best way to get to the building you were staying at.

Spencer remembers going home with renewed interest. He couldn't help but think about the way you portrayed yourself, the way you talked and moved, almost as if you were an ethereal being that was placed on Earth by an unfortunate mistake. Even though he had been unable to come up with a face for you last night as he read your thoughts, you had been an enchanting surprise. Unable to stop the thought, he gave it some indulgent room: you would, somehow, be a distraction. And he was crazy to get to know in which way.

A couple days went by without Spencer seeing you. You were quite busy yourself with the lectures you were planning and teaching. That morning, though, he had found you teaching Dr. Brown's previous class. It was surprising, and mildly irritating, to see that the class was the most crowded it had ever been. Taking a good look around and listening to a few comments that bothered him to no end, he found out the reason. Some of them wanted to simply see you. The thought was like being bathed in scorching water. He chose to sit in the front, because he thought, petulant, that you would know and remember his face and his face alone. As you entered the classroom and greeted the students with a warm good morning, you were pleasantly surprised to see Dr. Reid in the front row.

After neatly arranging your belongings on the desk, you started your class on the dot. “Hello, everyone. I am professor L/N and I am here to take over Dr. Brown's class.” You started, voice precisely clear. “Now, I understand that some of your colleagues might be running late for some reason. I don't mind if you are late at some point, but try not to make it a habit because it might disrupt our class. I do tend to start my lectures on the dot in respect to those who managed to get here on time. Today, we will talk about…”

You spoke gently, but you had your boundaries set and clear, which made Spencer squirm a bit. Seeing you so sure of yourself, so assertive, made something stir deep within him. Besides, the dumbstruck look of the many students gave him enough clue that he was not the only one feeling a little affected by you and your ways. As you went on and on about the topic, you gestured with your pretty hands, making smart remarks and cracking some light jokes that made everyone a lot less nervous around you. The new, pretty professor.

The topic, behavior, sounded redundant, at that point, because he had studied that subject over and over again, tiringly, exhaustingly, but there was just something about the way you spoke, about your mannerisms that he couldn't look away. You had a way with words, and he was fascinated by how you managed to make some more complex subjects so understandable to students, even if you sometimes drifted deeper into a certain concept, only to go back to them later. He couldn't even speak. The class was relieved while he was troubled.

“Huh, that's odd. Half of you are not in the roll.” You commented, turning the lights back on. “Is this correct?” You muttered to yourself, afraid that maybe you had the data of another class instead.

A girl suddenly spoke up, “Many of us are auditing.”

“Oh?” You wondered. “How many of you?”

Quickly calculating, Spencer bitterly noticed that about 70% percent of the class raised their hands. He wanted to think that it had to do with the fact that these people weren't around for Professor Brown. You smiled, warmly. It was a punch to the gut. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the lecture.

It was when the students slowly exited the class that he was able to reach you, gathering your papers and looking content. Sharply gentle eyes, impeccable posture and pristine clothes found his gaze and he found that he didn't want to look at anything else. He didn't seem to be ready to have that small heart attack every morning. He felt equal parts of embarrassment and a flutter on his belly. He approached you calmly, and as you greeted him, there was a warm look on your face. "Hi. Good morning, Dr. Reid.”

“You did a great job,” he blurted out, voice a bit strained. You only pretended you didn't notice. “Good morning.” He remembered to greet you back. Nice.

Your voice was low as you muttered a soft "thank you."

"Of course." He said, fiddling with the strap of his bag.

"I never asked... What is your field?” You inquired, curiously, grabbing your bag and walking side by side with him, exiting the room.

Spencer had that answer nearly tattooed on his brain. “I have PhDs in Chemistry, Engineering and Mathematics,” he started, nonchalantly, as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I also have a BA in Sociology and Philosophy. This is my third one, Psychology.”

“How old are you?” You blurted out, baffled.

“23. I, uh, I graduated from school at the age of 12.”

You stood there, speechless. Of course you knew that that was possible in some countries, but the casualness in his tone got to you more than his exceptional educational background. “That is… unreal.” You whispered. “You are so young and… and… You are still absorbed with learning.”

He chuckled, shrugging, delighted by your compliment. “Yeah, I guess… Not many people would make the same choices as I would.”

Your entire body froze, including your hidden hand, because his words had hit a particular spot within you. You gave him a nod, agreeing. “Well, it is still impressive.”

“I appreciate it.” He said, looking down and missing the slight dejection on your face. Nevertheless, his heart fluttered at the praise coming from you.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, you started again, “If I may ask, why did you switch from STEM to Humanities?” You asked, now mildly amused as he looked at you, taking the stairs with him to the office. Occasionally, your shoulders brushed.

“Curiosity.”

“Is that all?” You asked, puzzled.

“I was always surrounded with a wide access to books and overall knowledge. My mother was a Literature teacher.” He explained, a small smile gracing his face.

“That must have been nice. You must know a lot about the classics. They are my favorite kind of Literature.”

“They were good distractions, I guess… I wasn't, uh, the most popular kid growing up.” He trailed off.

“Me neither,” you said.

Spencer noticed that you walked with a hand on your pocket, but couldn't say anything about it, too much more focused on the way he seemed to be bathed in a newfound confidence around you. As you reached the office, he quickly placed his belongings on the leather couch by the door. With a low whine of disappointment, which caught your eye, he announced, “If you'll excuse me, I have to get a few books from the library.”

It was better than saying, hey, I was too distracted by you that I forgot that I also have responsibilities.

“Oh, sure. Go ahead. I'll be here.”

“Thanks.”

The door closed with a soft click, and you found yourself all alone again. Taking a look around, you busied yourself by analyzing your surroundings. There was a wall covered by huge, tall, dark shelves, cramped with books. The piece of furniture reached the roof with all sorts of technical literature. A small glass cabinet on the opposite wall showcased trinkets from all over the world, kids drawings and family pictures. A leather couch, cushions and an equally dark wooden desk adorned the room as well. A white light brightened the room, illuminating his titles, and a yellowish one lightened a painting on the wall, made by Dr. Brown's daughter, of the beach they visited frequently. It made you irrationally jealous. The reminder that other people had constant remnants of love was a stab to your chest, and you looked away from the bitter/sweet reminders.

Suddenly, your eyes got a glimpse of Spencer's belongings: technical books, a satchel bag, his coat and a small notebook. You wondered what he would write about in there, whether it was some sort of planner or he just thought out loud on those pages. You fought the urge to touch his stuff, deciding to sit on the couch after shrugging off your coat and laying it close to Spencer's things.

Still plagued by an annoying flicker of envy, you picked your ring, analyzing it with fierce focus between your fingers. The material, white gold, was supposed to adorn your hand for the rest of your life. The only personal thing about it was that it had been custom-made, by demand, just for you. A wedding band was supposed to hold, to be a souvenir of the deepest commitment of love. But as fate would have it, it had been nothing but an object. It held no meaning, since you and your husband easily slid it off when it was convenient.

There was a small date carved on the inside part of the ring. Neither you or Oliver wanted any stronger reminders of each other. To you, he was merely tolerable, and you struggled to feel anything but sorry for him. Despite the fact that you were helplessly coerced into marriage, you despised him for never having the guts of chasing a life, instead busying himself with living the fleeting pleasures that his parents' money provided him, spending his endless vacations overseas, sleeping around. A typical bohemian. A bon-vivant. The fact made you bitter. How does one possess every kind of mean and doesn't care to improve themselves as a person?

Inevitably, you were pulled into a strong stream of memories.

The sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating the dining room that held uncountable and expensive decorations. What caught your eye, though, is a much too long and large table with endless chairs. You remember thinking it was over the top, since neither you or Oliver would plan to have guests over. Swallowing your remarks, you smiled to your father and exchanged a look with your sister-in-law, not bothering to look at Oliver and therefore missing his awestruck look. It was the first time you were visiting the big house with its endless rooms, windows and useless areas. You ignored the subtle meaning of it: you were supposed to carry on your families’ names. The mason had been your parents’ gift, so you decided to stay quiet about it, not commenting on the tacky, outrageous muchness of things. You had learned the hard way not to fight back when it came to their decisions.

From a very young age, you were special. A charming, intelligent, quick-witted child who busied herself with studies and books who had a series of leisure time activities to go through during her free time. Hence, you grew up exceptional. You were always the center of attention somehow; being the first grandkid from both sides of your family granted you a few privileges, you held their entire focus, entertaining them with your particular and curious behavior during their gatherings. Whenever they showed up, your parents would remember some new ability for them to show you off. Playing the piano, chess, languages… You were always in the top of the class, in the best schools, surrounded by kids your age that belonged to the best families.

It was with a deep, heartbreaking sadness that you realized that you had their attention for your potential and everything you could add to their name. Nobody ever played with the first child.

Beautiful, graceful, wistful, clueless little you.

Your family’s connections and endless activities for you had been how you met Oliver in the first place. A smart, easy on the eyes boy who became a smooth talker as he grew older. You were friends from a very young age, but nothing more. You were always too caught up on working on yourself and your abilities in order to charm everyone that romance was something you couldn't even begin to fathom — it was nothing but a strange and distant feeling. You kept things platonic between you and him, spending time, mostly listening. Oliver would tell you all about his interests, and when the age came, he would tell you, rather technically, how his endeavors with other girls went.

You never thought of Oliver as more than a friend. In fact, his manners grew to annoy you, like a small barb in your shoe, if you were totally honest — not that you would dare to. You simply endured his existence, saving your reviles for yourself, because, growing up, you never knew what it was to freely express yourself. How lacking it was to grow up not knowing what it was to speak your mind freely without a strong reprimand of some sort.

Such painful dawnings had only taken place at the age of 20, when your parents and Oliver's had agreed to marry the both of you. Unable to fight back, you simply watched it happen. It was so damaging and traumatic that you could barely remember the times you had spent together, everything was just a big knot of confusing memories to which you felt more like an spectator than an actor. Over the course of the years, Oliver and you would make public appearances, but you had told him, on the first night after your marriage, that he was free to do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn't ruin your image. No. Not the one you had dedicated your entire life building.

Throughout the entire thing, your sister-in-law had been your anchor. A distant one, that sits in the bottom of the sea, as you navigated through your own life. Being too close to you was a sad reminder of your situation and she was aware of that. She had her friends and connections, unknowingly, check on you, though. She was all in for pretending her sad excuse of a brother didn't exist. Theresa and Oliver were polar opposites: a hard-working woman and a sluggish man.

Eventually, as you both moved through the world, engrossed in your true passions, Oliver had truly found someone. Someone you didn't bother learning the name of. Someone, you preferred to think, that didn't know about you and that if she did, she truly didn't care. The feeling was mutual. You, on the other hand, delved deeper into your studies, busying yourself to the fullest. It was nice, in a way, because that way, you were shielding yourself from the world and your inevitable, eternal struggle of a loveless life in the only way you knew how: through being someone.

It was far from a solution, but that's where it ended. It had been years since the last time you heard your name coming from someone else's lips. You didn't dream of it happening anytime soon. You didn't let it happen, anyway. Every advance was cut before it turned into expectations.

A small gasp erupting between your lips broke you out of your reverie when you heard the lock being harshly handled, which made you bolt straight to the door, dropping the ring on the floor. Opening it, you saw Spencer struggling to balance a huge pile of books and a tray with two cups of coffee. He thanked you softly when you offered to help him, your skin touching his briefly, jolts of something unknown coursing through both of your bodies. Pulling away, you placed the books on the desk, searching his eyes as he blushed like crazy.

“I got you coffee… I don't know how you take it, so I got it black with two sugars. There are many options these days, which can make choosing one a challenging decision, since there are undeniable and endless possibilities of you being allergic to some of the ingredients. Of course, there are also chances of cross-contamination. Now that I think about it, I should have probably gotten you tea. Oh, my God. Do you even drink coffee?” He finished, almost panting.

You stifled out a laugh. His ways were endearing. “It's okay, Dr. Reid. I'll drink it. I'm not allergic nor prefer tea over coffee. Okay?”

“Okay.” He said, puppy eyes finding yours again.

“Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He said, smiling softly.

It quickly turned into your go-to order.

—

Students came and went, and you made conversation with them, which made you all the more endearing for Spencer. You asked about their day, how they ended up there, and you looked genuinely interested in their answers. It could be a stretch, but Spencer felt that, much like himself, you wanted to make connections — but not the professional kind. You wanted to belong somewhere, from the way your eyes held an intimate and unwavering hint of sadness when you heard their answers, but none of them had the nerve to ask you back. It was expected, though, because no one would think of a professor as a friend. The entire time, you were being addressed as such or as Dr.. You couldn't blame them. That was who you were, too lost in that character to remember who you actually were. If you had been someone, that is.

As Spencer sat behind the computer, ready to access today's tests, you chatted with a freshman student. Glancing at the clock, the girl with excited mannerisms almost shrieked, “Oh, my God! Is it that late already?! I have to go to my piano class.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you said, sounding a bit deflated. “It was nice to meet you, Dana. I'm really happy you've helped us.”

“Anytime, professor! Bye!” She said, walking through the door and closing it behind her.

You turned to Spencer, a hint of longing in your expression. “Are you leaving as well?”

“Not yet. I want to go over our results for the day.”

“Oh!” You exclaimed, approaching him to lean by his side on the desk, supporting your weight on one arm as your other hand touched the back of his chair. He could smell your perfume, something uniquely different, aromatic and so fitting. “Does it compare results automatically?” You asked, turned to look at him.

“Unfortunately, no,” he muttered, unfocused, eyes scanning all over your face, focusing especially on your lips. “I have to do that myself, which is why I'll take longer to leave. If we leave this for the last minute, it'll be much more stressful.”

“Slow and steady it is, then.” You said, grinning. “I'll stay to help you.”

—

Spencer remembers when he started feeling a lot stronger about you.

You were in the office, decorating it as your own. Spencer took notice of your belongings, trying to catch a glimpse of everything that made you yourself. There were abundant novels in many different languages filling the tall shelves, some souvenirs from different parts of the world, your titles… The analytic part of his brain took notice of the lack of family pictures and overall personal items. It was achingly professional and distant, the way you were setting your space. He couldn't help but chime in, “Is that all you're putting up?”

With a lopsided grin, you tried to justify, sensing his intentions. “I don't like cluttering.”

He didn't answer, sensing that it might be sensitive unknown territory. You unboxed a wood chess board, placing it on one of the bottom shelves. He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. “Just in case someone wants to play,” you said, as you forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

The next day, Spencer walked through the office door with a box in hands. He hid it between the sofa and the wall. As you arrived, you talked briefly about the research, which was now coming to an end. Flopping down on the floor, crisscrossed and barefoot, you sighed, smiling as he updated you. “You know, I don't think I've ever been happier.”

“Yeah?” He asked, curiously.

“It almost feels unreal, how kind life's been to me lately.” You revealed, voice trembling a bit with emotion.

“Somehow, that's hard to believe.”

“Is that so?” You asked, playfully. Spencer had to swallow before your mischievous smile. A new expression on your face that he found that he quite liked.

“I mean, look around. You have everything some people think it takes to be happy.”

“You're right. Some people. I don't.” You retorted with a dip of your chin.

“What would make you happy, then?” He inquired, eager to find out. To become it.

You breathed in, closing your eyes. “I'll let you know once I figure it out.”

Should he say it? Would it be indelicate? Insensitive? Too much? Too straightforwa— “You sound a little hopeless.”

“Maybe I am.” You said, almost shrugging. Like it's not a big deal.

“You shouldn't be.” He retorted, sitting down in front of you.

“What makes you so certain?”

“You're young.”

“If anything, that only feeds despair, to some extent.” You said, distantly.

Internal battle at full extent, once again. “You know… I… I have been keeping an eye on you.”

You tilt your head the slightest bit, gaze unwavering. “What do you mean?”

Spencer struggled to form coherent thoughts, to articulate his own ideas before blurting them out rather excitedly. “You seem so… different. It's almost like you're out of this world. It's fascinating, actually. You're very deep in your own little world. Even the way you speak tells something about loneliness. So well, eloquently—”

“Susan Sontag.”

He smiled, satisfied. “See? How would you remember a quote by heart if your mind was filled with some things else?”

Against your will, you agreed. “You're right, Dr. Reid.”

Silence. He stood up, walking to grab the box behind the couch. He came back and sat in front of you once again, but this time, his knee brushed yours and neither of you mentioned it. You welcomed the warmth. Spencer hid the one coloring his cheeks. “Call me Spencer.”

“What is that?”

“Flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“You need some life around here.”

You giggled, absolutely delighted when you saw the box, containing an orchid Lego set. Spencer fought against his every instinct to just pull you into his arms at the sound that twisted his insides instantaneously. It was the first time he had heard you laugh, a rich, funny sound that seemed to have erupted from your own soul. “Is this for me? Because, you know, this might be the best thing I've ever gotten.”

“Oh, really?” He asks, feigning sarcasm. “I could've sworn it was the original piece on your wall.”

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“You're welcome.”

Despite your position, your posture was as elegant as it had ever been. He placed the pieces between the two of you. Eventually and almost silently, like a personal prayer, he learned how to call you by your name upon your insistence. With a soft look in his eye, he relented. Everything about him seemed to tell you that he was there to help you build the set. That it was alright, because he was there.

You two stood up, one at a time, once you had finished the set. Standing by the window, you glanced at the pretty plastic orchids that now were placed on your desk, right next to your name, a funny little piece amidst such a formal environment. He followed you after a brief moment of doubt. “You know, Spencer,” you uttered and he thought he might be addicted to the chain of sounds that makes up his name falling from your lips as he watched them, mesmerized. “Thank you so much for this. It's a nice feeling. Like I have a friend.”

You both shared the intimacy of a glance with each other. You decided to elaborate, too shaken by the thought of your loneliness being palpable. “You're right… I've always been a bit on the lonely side.”

He was pleased to see so much honesty from your end, and happy to see something of himself in you. He swallowed, trying to control these thoughts and keeping his composure. “I think you're very easy to get along with.”

“That's the first time I hear that.”

Spencer couldn't help the wince that came with the stabbing pain he felt at your revelation. “It's true. I…” Who are these people? “I think you're very easy to like.”

You thanked him again, quietly, lowering your gaze to the space between the two of you. Seemingly under a spell that had been casted by the way you let your guard down, ignoring the nervous pit on his stomach and not taking the time to process the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings running through him. You stood so close, if he could just— “Looking from up here, all people look so tiny.”

“Considering the extent of the universe, we are pretty tiny.”

You snorted, shaking your head softly. “Proportion changes perspective, huh, Spencer?”

Losing control over his words, utterly lost, he continued, “I also… I find you pretty… pretty.”

Your eyes glanced up to meet his. Spencer tried to read your expression, desperate to see if you were surprised, disgusted, uncomfortable or if you welcomed his words. Instead, he found a hint of longing in your eyes that he couldn't begin to understand. “I… I don't know what to say.”

Compliments were a sensitive, unknown territory for you. You only knew what these were if you outdone yourself in whatever earned you attention. Sighing, you looked at him, almost guilty.

“Sorry, I… I shouldn't have said anything.” He cringes, avoiding your gaze.

“It… It wasn't.” Deep breath. “It's just that… you're…”

Were there words in the English language for these feelings?

“I know. I didn't… I don't expect you to say anything in return,” he says, almost dejectedly. The truth is out and he can't take it back. “I just wanted to come clean. And I think that it's not just looks that draw me to you.”

You stood there, speechless.

“You're not mad? Or… or offended?” He tries.

You looked at his widened, scared eyes. It made you want to soothe him — the instinct disconnecting your mouth from any sense of ethics or decency that ran through your brain. Taking another deep breath, scared to death, “I’m actually flattered. You're a very beautiful person, inside and out, but… but… I'm your professor, Spencer, and older than you.” You said, voice wavering slightly as you got to look into his eyes again.

“Somehow… when I think about you… neither of these seem to be a problem. I can't—not think about you.”

His words crafted a small crack. There would forever be a memory in your brain of the exact same moment when his words settled in. You fell to pieces, and as you did, you felt yourself losing control of your own actions, of your sense of ethics or principles. Before you thought it through, as you felt every sense of reason leaving your body, you tilted your head up, a silent, welcoming consent of his lessening distance. Spencer, who looked almost pained with so much want, let out tiny puffs of breath as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't believe you were seemingly taking a risk like that, but he found that he couldn’t and didn't want to hold back any longer. The young man, very carefully, cradled your cheeks, bravely holding your glance as he caressed the soft skin of your cheek with his thumb. Time stood still when you closed your eyes, slowly, and he tilted your chin up the slightest bit, angling you just the way he needed. The touch, the existence of you was so intense and overwhelming that it made him shiver, and he was failing to keep his hands from shaking. Following the stream of whispered truths, you added, “I want to give you something to truly think about. I need your permission.”

Softly, Spencer brushed his lips against yours as he closed his eyes. It was gentle, tentative, almost experimental. The touch, albeit subtle, calmed his every nerve, and his shoulders relaxed at the contact. A shaky exhale left his lips when you pulled him in, placing your hand on the nape of his neck, the feeling grounding and safe. When your lips interlock together, it's a moment of realization; he doesn't think that he wanted something so badly without even knowing what it actually was.

Your touch is tender, as if you were both afraid that harshness would steal one from the other, relishing in the moment and in the rush of sensations that were unknown to the both of you. Spencer was so afraid that you were going to pull away and run, but he just couldn't control himself as he slid his tongue into your mouth, basking in the small satisfied sound that you made, his hands gripping your waist. You, on the other hand, felt as if you had been pushed into a sea of hot, scalding water. No touch had ever made you feel like that, and your desperation had you now tightly gripping at his vest, trying to get him impossibly closer to you. Your bodies pressed against each other set a trail of fire between the two of you, and the kiss gradually became more urgent. Violent, even.

When you pull back, he doesn't let you go far, his face only inches away, barely registering that you actually needed to breathe so great was his need to feel you against him once more. Panting, you leaned your forehead against his, not ready to open your eyes and see his face. You'd be lost.

“At least now I have something proper to think about.”

Flustered at him using your own words against you, you couldn't meet his gaze. You tried to say something, but all the courage pumping through your veins seemed to have found a way out of your system, leaving you helpless, utterly defeated into silence. A small feeling of guilt started to grow inside you, and you were warring against it. You had just kissed a student in your workplace when you were trying to have a fresh start. Spencer, noticing your turmoil, was quick to engulf you in a hug. The action, so simple, worked like a balm to your nerves, and you allowed yourself to take a deep breath, inhaling his scent, which had just become your favorite. You didn't want to let him go, neither did you know if you would ever be able to.

Resting his chin on your shoulder, he cradles the back of your head. Under the sofa, lies a small, shiny object that was long forgotten due to both its irrelevance in your life and the first moment of genuine affection you've ever experienced.

—

You remember how it felt like to lose control of yourself.

It had been days since the secret kiss you shared with Spencer and it had been the last time you saw him. Your days were filled with endless phone calls with lawyers and Theresa, desperate to find yourself free from your doom excuse of a… marriage? It seemed offensive to even relate that word to whatever you had been forced upon doing. Your nights were spent by your bedroom window, watching as people came and went, noticing with heartbreak how distant you seemed to be from everyone. You were a stranger in many ways, but above all, you were a stranger to yourself. Every little manifestation of action or thought made you inevitably remember all the people and their behavior that shaped you into whatever you are today.

And then there was Spencer. Spencer, whose touch was making you feel constantly equal parts guilty and entranced. Spencer, who was spamming your email inbox, wondering where you were. Spencer, who was the only person you truly allowed yourself to think about. The sight of him haunted your nights and the ghost of his voice echoed inside your head when you were sitting around in the empty studio. It was supposed to be refreshing, really, how his mere existence made a new flicker of hope bloom in your chest that had been unknown thus far. It was bold to call it hope, but you preferred to do that because there was no other word, no other feeling that you knew well enough to associate it with the memory of him.

You had forgotten the sound of your voice. The only thing your apartment walls heard in the time span of three days and three nights had been the following string of words:

“Theresa, are you there? Can we talk?”

—

Spencer remembers how it felt to miss you like a lost puzzle piece.

It had been days and your silence was upsetting him like nothing ever had. Sick of replaying that moment over and over, he decided to find you instead. It was late at night as he walked your street after pondering whether he should or not confront you about your silence. There wasn't much to discuss. It was just a kiss — secretly, he was scared that you would argue so —, but the lack of news from you had him feeling on edge. A tall building, endless windows. On the fifth floor, he could make a figure staring out into the city, and he couldn't begin to explain where the strength came from to run up to where you were. There was only one apartment per floor, so he knocked impatiently on your door.

501.

Upon hearing the sound, you stared, a bit scared, at the door. Opening a small slit, you saw him and your entire body froze. You closed it immediately, fear etched into your features as if he was an impending threat. As if he could cause you any harm.

“Please,” he cried, resting his forehead on the door. He tried not to compare the stiffness of the object to the softness of your skin. A clear of his throat. “Please. Nobody's seen you for days. I… I haven't seen you in days.”

There was a minute of mortifying silence, but he decided to wait. What was another moment if he had waited for you for so long? Spencer let out another plea, this time, calling you by your name.

You let him in, but you couldn't meet his gaze. Nevertheless, he noticed your bloodshot eyes. Speaking your name softly, he inquired, worryingly, approaching you. “What happened to you?”

You took a small step back, straightening your posture once you realized how close he was getting to you. The action made your heart shatter. “Don't,” you pleaded, soft-spoken as ever.

“Look at me.” He croaked, pleadingly, timorous.

Reluctantly, you met his eyes. They were confused, questioning, and it was a first on his expression. You felt guilty for doing this to him. “I can't do this to you, Spencer. I can't.”

“Please… Talk to me. Don't shut me out.”

“We can't do this. I'm your professor, and, and…”

“Are you seriously pulling the professor card? I'm not one of those undergraduate students. I'm me. It's me. We've been so close and when I think something finally might happen, you disappeared. It wasn't fair.”

Each of his words were stabs in your already hanging by a thread heart. Rip the band-aid.

“I'm married.”

There was a moment of stunned silence from his end. You knew how cruel it was to use your formal marital state to avoid him from coming any closer, but you tried not to dwell on it. This was it. Spencer deserved better. And for the first time in your life, you couldn't be better. His silence made your stomach churn painfully, aware of the ache you were causing him, and desperate to be the one to soothe the damage you had done.

Spencer, on the other hand, stared at you blankly. Almost skeptically, even. You'd have analyzed it better if you weren't too busy with your own turmoil about him. “I don't see him anywhere,” he finally said, defiantly.

Surprise took over your features, and before you could form another painful remark, Spencer approached you decisively. “Where is him, huh?”

Cutting you off as you opened your mouth to speak, once again, he scowled. “Damn him. I would do anything just to have you around.”

The crack was now big enough that he could see all parts of you from where he stood. Right then, though, the glimpse he caught before you violently smashed your lips against his was enough to haunt him for a lifetime. Your gaze, so utterly tired yet determined, looking at him as if he was the only thing in your entire world — perhaps he was. The kiss was demanding, fueled by sheer animalistic hunger. You had been hungry your entire life, deprived of the simplest pleasures and there he was, ignoring all your lackness. You failed to think of a motive for his actions, but you decided that you utterly didn't care. To feel seen like that was enough of a reason for you.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, exploring every inch with a neediness that surprises even him. You gripped at his shirt's collar as his hands tangled in your hair, tightly, almost afraid you'd disappear. Neither of you recognized your own actions, everything was far too new for you to know how to act properly, losing yourself in each other, consumed by the unique, addicting taste of your kisses and the heat building between you. The sizzling, almost bothersome feeling in your core, combined with the intensity of his kiss left you feeling lightheaded. He pulls away, reluctantly, squeezing his eyes shut, as if refraining from doing something. You rest your forehead against his. Uneven breaths mingle together as you had your eyes on him, waiting for the final blow, when he would look back at you. “Let me in,” he croaked. “I wanna be yours.”

Don't.

“You deserve so much more than this. Than what I'm able to offer you,” you whisper in a ragged breath, closing your eyes, hands now softly holding his head.

“I'll take anything you are.”

You winced, a helpless crease finding its way between your brows. “You don't get it, do you? I can't. I can't do this to you. I don't know how to do this.”

He softened, hands never leaving your skin and eyes never leaving yours. “You don't have to know anything. I don't know it either. I just wanna be yours tonight.”

Silence.

“Is it because of him?”

You promptly retorted. “No. It's not because of him.”

“From now on, it's me.”

Spencer crashed his lips to yours, barely giving you time to let his words sink in. Seemingly trying to convey his emotions, his willingness to beg for you to let him in, his devotion to be yours in that moment. Brushing your fear of not getting him to stay, you gave in, too blinded by the sheer strength of the burning within you. Spencer kissed you deeper as you slid your tongue inside his mouth, ravishing and relishing in the taste of him. A small moan broke through you when he gripped your tighter, leading you to the nearest surface — conveniently, the bed. Spencer barely had time to take in his surroundings when he got there, too busy with you and the strong pull between the two of you, but his body unconsciously and seemingly knew exactly where to take yours.

You had now entered a land reserved for only the two of you. You looked at him, softly placing you on the bed, kissing all over you, as if you were something worth looking at, worth worshipping. The tears streamed down your face freely, and he kissed each of them as they bloomed again. “Let it all out. I'm here.”

Intertwining your fingers on the nape of his neck, adjusting so that he was between your legs, you looked at him intently while he lowered the straps of your cami top, eyes never leaving yours, lips caressing your collarbone gently. The action made you shiver, and you were under his trance, taking whatever he wanted to give you, signaling over and over that you allowed him to be yours, just like he asked to be. In hindsight, he was making you his.

Gingerly, you leaned up to reach his jawline, kissing and nipping at the soft skin, trying to find an outlet for all the overwhelming feelings and fire inside you. He moaned softly, basking in the feeling of being marked so gently, already satisfied with the mere thought that he would have something of yours to remember. It was when you were undoing his shirt, not so accidentally brushing your fingertips against his fiery skin that a wave of pleasure, embedded with a persistent feeling of guilt, crawled its way into your thoughts. You were like a helpless being caught between the fight of two violent ends, and you found that you loved it. You loved being at their mercy. You loved being at his mercy.

Quickly getting rid of your top, Spencer leaned even lower, brushing his skin against yours, which elicited a series of goosebumps to erupt on your skin. You clenched your hands after retreating them from his body, desperately trying to find something that could ground you instead of feeling everything all at once. He was overwhelming, and he had barely touched you. “I never knew I could feel like this,” you breathed out, unable to keep the truth from him any further when he skimmed his fingertips against your ribs, touching with the most desperate of delicacies.

Grinding against you, he whispered, rushed, “Do you feel how much I want you? I see you and I want you. Let me in.”

Spencer's words, albeit simple, were hitting many unreached places within you. Without breaking eye contact and a bit clumsily, you two got rid of the remnants of your clothes, baring yourselves to each other in more ways than one. Spencer, still accommodated between your legs, eased himself so easily into you, making you hold on tightly to his arms, you two both letting out strangled noises at the feeling. You, beneath him, around him, enveloping his length in the most pleasant wet warmth, sucking him in, gripping, squeezing, never letting him go. A broken sob erupted as he mumbled, “I missed you so much.”

You could barely find your voice, too lost in the sense of him on top of you. The taste, the sight, the smell of him inebriated you like no drug ever could. “Ah—I missed you too,” you whimpered. “You… have no idea.”

“Show me, then.”

Desperately, you pulled him in for another searing kiss, trying to convey how much his absence had made you feel, how guilty you felt by putting what it felt then like an unnecessary distance between the two of you. Trying to get closer, impossibly closer than you ever had been before. The sensations were shattering, and you found that you didn't want to be put together again. No, you were gladly ruined for the rest of your life. Scratches down his back, bites on his lower lip and an endless stream of whimpers left your lips complemented the exhilarating experience as he watched how you reacted to him.

Lowering your gaze to where your bodies met, you were met with an exquisite sight, how he pulled away just to shove his cock back inside you making you dizzy as he had his way with you. Following your line of sight, Spencer moaned as he saw the mess between you two, how his skin began to stick to yours as your arousal glimmered on his skin. Fully sheathed again, you cried out, “There's—mmmm—so much of you in me.”

“Will you remember me?” He asked, resuming his thrusts, violently shaken by your words. He wanted to give you all of him.

Struggling to speak, your entire body trembling with the force of his strokes, you stuttered, “I could never forget you.”

His hips halt their movements. He asks, pointedly, with a stark gaze that burned its memory into your very soul, "Say you'll remember," he whimpered with a small sigh. It was difficult to tell if it was from neediness, impatience, frustration or anything else.

It was not the time for semantics, but you smiled despite yourself as the tears started to to steadily roll down your cheeks, and you replied with a shaky breath, "I'll remember you forever."

Spencer pushed in again, swallowing the strangled moan that left your lips as he kissed you intensely and your tears kissed his cheek as well. Your bodies embraced one another, as if they needed each other to exist. The moon and the sea. You tried to hold on to him, hands curling against the skin of his back and legs circling around his waist. Spencer, on the other hand, had a desperate hold on your waist, which would probably lead to faint marks of his fingers. You found that you didn't care, the astounding feeling of him against you, so forcefully and simultaneously lovingly, could use all the memories to tell you later it had been real. That you had been yours as much as you had been his that night.

The pleasure building within you was new, almost scary given its force to shake everything inside. Spencer was equally reeling, trying to prolong the moment as much as he could, too caught up on the existence of you to let it go anytime soon. With a mewl of his name, you let go, pleasure coursing through your veins and spreading through your body like being bathed by the sultriness of your moment together. The fever reached your heart, and with tearful eyes, you watched him as he released inside of you, eyes dazedly searching yours and his lips singing your name like a prayer.

On top of you, in that place of sheer veneration, your bodies tangled together like an abstract painting. Neither you or him made mention to move, too content in the feeling of sticking to the other.

"I'm not leaving,” he muttered after a while, nuzzling your neck.

"Spencer..."

"I'm not leaving. You'll wake up in the morning and I'll be here.”

—

Tonight, you aren't watching strangers from the windows of your office nor from the ones in your studio apartment. Instead, you are walking home with Spencer, hand holding hand, a firm, fierce, steady grip that never faltered.

You now exist, hearing your name being called several times a day. And so does he, the one proudly uttering said name, whenever he gets the chance. A small, simple reminder that you belong together.

dividers by @cafekitsune <3

[alana-reid-2005]

i need some air-