#Reid x Reader

[reidalert]

spencer is for the girlies who want a cutesy nerdy boy who will beg for you

& hotch is for the girlies who want a cold yet caring man who will make you beg for him

[lavenderspence]

Bump Relief - S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content warning: fluff, pregnant reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Summary: Making you comfortable while you're pregnant is his number one priority, so he decides to give JJ's little trick a try

Request: maybe Spencer hearing from JJ or reading somewhere that holding the baby bump relieves the mother and decides to try it on his girlfriend/wife? 

A/N: So a few days ago, I asked for short requests because I was dying to write something short. I sat down to write, and it got a little longer than I anticipated(I have no excuse). It's a known fact I can't write anything short, so I don't know why I try. I was going to post this tomorrow, but I really needed the serotonin I get from posting a fic, so enjoy! 

masterlist | requests are closed!

Spencer was twirling a pen between his fingers, deep in thought. All of his thoughts were about you because of course they were. 

He thought about you while he fell in love, proposed, and watched you walk down the aisle towards him. You occupied every waking moment when he wasn’t focused on his work, friends and mother, or hobbies. You were a constant in his life, and have been for years. 

But he’d been thinking about you a lot more in the last 6 months, and especially the last few days. About you, and the little angel.

At 34 weeks pregnant, you were glowing from the inside, just as beautiful as you’d been in your wedding dress. Or that’s what Spencer saw when he looked at you. 

But along with all the beauty of growing your little one came the few negatives, some of which he couldn’t help but notice too. How you hadn’t been wearing your wedding rings since the start of your third trimester. 

Or the light sheen of sweat on your brow just going up the stairs to your apartment. Or even the discomfort at the small of your back from carrying all the weight around. The small winces he heard coming from you, along with the scrunch in your eyes and nose. 

He wanted to take a part of your discomfort and bear it as his own. He’d watched you grow this little bean inside you for months, fight the morning sickness, and the only thing he’d been able to do was hold your hair and rub your back, watching as you suffered through it. 

Or the changes in your body, your clothes not fitting, or sometimes feeling like an outsider in your own skin. He’d been able to offer reassuring words, and kisses laid across your whole body, any point that sparked an insecurity in you - worshiped. 

He’d wake up in the middle of the night to satisfy your weird food cravings, or even the desire to have him as a snack. 

He’d been to every appointment with you - held your hand, wiped your tears, or kissed the crown of your head. You’d heard the heartbeat together, where he’d spoken in your ear, thankful to you for giving him the greatest gift of all to come in a few short months - being a dad. Something he’d wished for, for years, sometimes even thinking he’d never get to experience it. 

But that’s as far as he could help you and god, he wished he could do more. 

He didn’t hear JJ approaching and wasn’t even paying attention when she called his name out softly. And then again, and again. 

Snapping her fingers in front of his face worked like a charm though. 

“Yes?” He asked, after a light shake of his head to clear his thoughts. 

“Where’d you go Spence?” She leaned against his desk, giving his shoulder a small squeeze in support, “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s good,” He didn’t look or sound convincing, and watching JJ’s brow arch in question, he sighed, “Well, okay, not everything.” 

“What’s going on? Are Y/N and the baby okay?” She asked a frantic worry in her voice.

“They’re good and healthy,” Spencer confirmed, watching her let a sigh of her own. He decided then and there to seek her advice. She was his friend, and seeing as she’d been a mom twice now, she knew exactly what you were going through. 

“She’s been feeling uncomfortable, carrying the weight of the little bean around,” He smiled, simply mentioning his child softened everything within him, “And I see her trying not to show it that much, but it’s clearly exhausting her even more, and I wish there was something I could do to help, you know?” He sounded so small at that moment, rubbing his wedding band, feeling like he was failing you somehow. 

He knew that wasn’t possible, you told him daily how proud you were of him and everything he did and has done for you, but even now, he couldn’t help but worry sometimes. 

“Well, there’s this one thing that worked wonders for me when I was pregnant with Henry, and Michael too.” She started before she shared her little secret.

You breathed in deep, moving around yet again, and then exhaled a long breath. 

Your couch was one of the most comfortable things in the apartment - at least it had been before you’d started popping. Now it felt more like the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever, but you knew that was just your inability to get comfortable - well, anywhere really. 

It was a struggle finding a way to feel good, but not like your baby was sitting on your bladder, or putting more pressure on your back than needed. You had roughly 6 more weeks to go, but you already felt about ready to pop. 

Your bean was grown in size - with a tall daddy like your husband, you weren’t even that surprised. You somehow knew that they’d take even more than his height - you hoped they’d inherit his best characteristics too. His love for learning, his calmness, and most of all his heart. Maybe his hair too - you loved his hair. And his smile. God you simply loved him.

You couldn’t wait for him to get home - the only time you felt like your whole body could relax was whenever he was with you, one hand or both thrown over your bump in a protective manner, talking to you and your baby quietly. 

You tried a few more times to get comfortable, a few different positions - leaning on your left, your right, or even with your back straight, and nothing worked.  

Another deep exhale left you and you simply gave up - lying on your back and praying for no uncomfortable sensations for at least a few minutes. 

Just as you felt your eyes droop - you wanted a few minutes to simply breathe - you felt a little kick to your left. It didn’t hurt, luckily for you, your little one seemed to be a pretty calm, small bundle so it wasn’t often any cry for attention left you rattled.

You did let out a little chuckle, rubbing the spot. As you rubbed at your stomach, small kick after small kick under your hand, you heard a key being inserted into the lock - the door opening and closing, keys rattling on the key hanger next to the door. 

“Sweetheart? Where are my girls?” He asked, as you heard the familiar sounds of him hanging his jacket and satchel, and taking off his shoes. You’d decided the gender would be a surprise, but Spencer insisted that it was a girl - you had a feeling he wanted to be a girl dad. 

You raised a hand, waving in the direction of the door, not wishing to move now, “We’re here, love.”

You didn’t attempt to push yourself up, you just stayed where you were, rubbing your belly and waiting for your husband to make his way over. 

Sure enough, just a few seconds later he was kneeling next to the couch close to your head, moving pieces of hair away from your face.

“Hi.” He whispered before he leaned down and laid a series of small kisses all over your face - one on each cheek, one on your forehead and nose, finishing with a gentle press of his lips against yours. It still made a small shiver run through you, just like it always did.

“Hi.” You returned when he pulled away, watching him as he leaned towards your belly then, kissing just next to where your hands were still sitting. A kick followed his kiss like your baby knew it was his daddy having returned from work. 

“Hi, little love.” It was his little nickname for them, and you loved it. You ran a hand through his hair then, soft and thick to the touch. 

With his hand sitting next to yours, wedding band gleaming in the light, he pulled you into another small kiss. His face was inches away from yours. 

“Can you stand up for a second, love?” He was whispering, content in keeping you three in a small bubble of touch and soft words. 

“Why?” It sounded like a whine, but in your defense, everything felt more comfortable than before now that he was there. 

His eyes softened then, understanding written all over his face, and a small smile on his slightly chapped lips too. 

“Just want to try something JJ suggested. Please? It’s going to feel good, I promise.” He kissed your brown in reassurance, and promise. 

You sighed again, allowing him to pull you up. 

“If I hate this, you have to go get me those super sour lemon candies from the candy store on the other side of town, okay?” You bargained with him. You’ve been craving those since last night, but he’d been going out on a limp for your every whim and you wanted to cool it for a day or two and allow him some time to breathe. 

He smiled softly, hand on your lower back, moving up and down. 

“Okay, sour lemon candy it is.”

“What are we doing again?” 

“Okay, I’m going to settle behind you, and I want you to lean your upper body against me, lay your head on my shoulder,” He instructed, moving behind you, hands on your hips just like he’d told you to do. His scent filled your nostrils, and you moved your head to the side to nuzzle his neck. He kissed your head, “Okay, now relax, and let me do all the work, yeah?” Again, soft, in a whisper. 

“What work -” You started before you felt his hands settle underneath your bump, holding onto it, and allowing the weight to fall on his hands instead of falling on you. You felt light like you were no longer carrying your little bean, but instead, it was safely nestled into his father’s arms. A half sigh-half moan left you, so relieved,  thankful in that moment, to JJ and to your husband. 

“Good?” He asked. Tears gathered in your eyes, so overwhelmed by the reprieve. You nodded, just a tiny bit choked up at that moment. 

“So, so good. Thank you.” You said, one hand moving to cup gently around his, face once again burying into his neck. You couldn’t believe the universe had granted you this man to be by your side for years to come. This dedicated, adorable, kindhearted man, and all his care. 

He rubbed his thumb against your bump, feeling your little girl kick against him, and he kissed your hair, holding you both, doing his very best to help in any way he could. Just like he always would. 

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

[sincerelybubbles]

spencer x reader || alarms

late night working on a case, the hotel fire alarms on your floor won’t stop going off. what choice do you have other than to crawl to a pining spencer reid’s room to try and get some rest?

warnings: one slightly ? suggestive comment if you squint, mutual pining, not proof read. build up/background of a bubbly!reader i’ve been meaning to write about <3 v short n sweet fluffy!!!

————

“hey,” you whisper when spencer opens the door, pillow crammed under your arm. your sweats are rumpled, long shirt almost hitting your knees under an equally oversized academy shirt, hair mussed and eyes sleepy.

the sight makes his chest burn and his knuckles grip tight against the doorframe.

“hi?” spencer manages to respond, voice confused but still stepping to the side to let you inside automatically.

you shuffle by, pink fuzzy socks peeking over the tops of your dress shoes. it’s ridiculous, the sight of the fluff spilling over the edges of your mary jane’s (unbuckled), made even moreso by how cute he finds it.

“sorry, i know it’s early. the fire alarm on my building won’t turn off, it’s been almost 45 minutes.” you turn once you hit the small kitchenette in his hotel room and awkwardly clutch your pillow to your chest.

after a moment of squinting, eyes unaccustomed to the dim of the room and contactless, spencer realizes that you’re not holding a hotel pillow. rather, it’s covered in little pink daisies and looks far more comfortable than the rocks on his bed.

“i was wondering if i could take the chair in your room?” you ask, continuing despite how spencer’s mind is now racing with thoughts of your pink daisy sheets that he was aware of before tonight (this morning?) but wasn’t expecting to be reminded of when his mind is still hazy enough to crave the warmth of your body next to his.

“you—yeah.” spencer shakes his head in one, fast motion, rapidly switching to nodding when he realizes that could be misread as a no to your question. it makes him dizzy but wakes him up just enough to dig himself out of dreams. when he opened the door, there was a moment where his heart thudded in his chest, sure you were coming here to climb in his bed for other reasons.

not that you ever had before or that he thought you were the type to, of course not that—never that. it was just that his mind was stuck in a molasses of sleep that so frequently rewarded him of dreams where scenarios like that happen. or, even better, dreams where you two simply sit next to each other, your stocking-ed leg pressed against his pants, knocking together, hands intertwined, a warm glow emanating from somewhere for you to read to him by.

those dreams were the worst, just real enough that he could feel the love emanating from your breath, know that you want him close too, only to be yanked away with the spasms of beeps from his phone serving as his alarm.

“yes, of course you can stay here,” spencer finally says after his tragedy of a nod, moving past you and into the bed area of the room to yank the pillow he was using from the bed, “but you take the bed, i can take the chair.”

“no, spence, it’s like 3 in the morning and you’ll get a headache. i intruded on you, i’ll take the chair.”

spencer is shaking his head no before you finish, turning to stare at you. subconsciously, you mimic how he holds his pillow under his left arm and spencer makes a note to research if it’s actually true that attraction causes people to mimic each other.

and, fuck, this is why he had to put distance between you two because his brain can’t just be normal about things. you’re an affectionate person, spilling over with hugs and hands on arms and kisses on cheeks and he can’t help but analyze everything for a sign that it might be more.

“no, really, i’ll take the chair.”

you laugh at him, shaking your head and making your way closer. “let’s just share,” you suggest, tossing your pillow onto the side of the bed not made messy by spencer and rubbing your eyes with two closed fists, digging in deep. “i’m exhausted and we have to get back to it tomorrow. i’m not winning this fight and i can’t have my best brainiac impeded by a headache tomorrow.”

“no, it’s really—“

“spencer.” your eyes are earnest when you look at him, wide and tired and so so hypnotic. he can’t say no, not when you’re blinking up at him, only lit by the obnoxious street lights filtering in through the cheap hotel curtains, in your pajamas, taking in a tired, tiny voice.

“yeah, okay,” he says, forfeiting the back and forth and allowing himself to give in, just for tonight.

you yawn in response, hand coming up to cover your triumphant smile. you look exhausted, climbing into bed and shoving your feet under the sheets with much more aggression than necessary.

spencer climbs in after you, stretching his legs out and flexing his arm so his shoulder pops with a loud click. it’s a testament to how close you are to sleep that you don’t wince and tell him he shouldn’t do that—you always get onto him for it.

“hey,” spencer says after a moment, mind slowing but still moving fast enough to keep him on the cusp of sleep.

you makes a small sound, high pitched, as you roll over and press your forehead to his bicep. “what?” you say, voice half asleep, half complaint.

“is that my academy sweater? i’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

“mm,” you hum, head moving up and down against his arm. “you left it at my place. i like wearing it—miss you less when i do.” your voice is trailing off, spencer’s heart is pounding, and he nearly misses the soft sigh you let out before tacking on, “makes m’feel like yours.”

it could mean a million different things, spencer tells himself as he listens to your breath deepen and slow, but he lets himself imagine it means exactly what he wants it to as his eyes settle closed.

[in-another-april]

spencer being a menace and distracting his s/o while they're working because he's clingy and wants attention hehe

summary/prompt + genre - Spencer misses you while you're working :( | fluff

warnings - none

wc - 505

notes - aaaaa cute cute cute :( this got so longgg, im experimenting with different formats since i got kinda tired of just blurbs and hcs but if this flops i'll stick to what i know!!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In Spencer's defense, he really does try to give you your space. He's spent the majority of the day on the couch, reading book after book to keep himself busy, while you've been holed up in the bedroom working.

He's a few pages into his 8th (or was it his 9th?? 10th? He's lost count at this point) book, when he reads something that makes him think of you. Smiling, he turns to your usual spot on the couch to share it with you, only then remembering that you're not there. Then it hits him.

He misses you.

He quickly decides to check in on you, just to see how it's going and make sure you're not overworking yourself. Yeah, that's it. No ulterior motive there at all, he swears.

He makes his way to the bedroom and knocks gently on the doorframe, shuffling in after hearing your "come in." Wordlessly, he climbs onto the bed next to you, leaving just enough space to not distract you while also satisfying his need to be close. He places a hand on your knee, entirely self-indulgent.

You ask him what's up, eyes never leaving your papers, and he pouts at the lack of attention. A part of him knows he should feel silly for being so clingy, but another, bigger part of him is too wrapped up in his love for you to care.

He only supplies a "missed you," casually shrugging his shoulders like it's the simplest thing in the world. You bite your lip, trying (and failing) to hold back a smile. Cute. He's so cute, and you're so tired, and god, a break does sound nice...

But, you really do have to finish this.

"Missed you, too, angel." You concede, placing your hand on top of his. "Just give me a few more minutes, then I'm all yours." You offer, and he nods quickly in return, eagerly awaiting the moment where he'll have you all to himself again. Your eyes shift back to your work, continuing where you left off,

His thumb brushes along your knee, hand trailing up just slightly, and you feel your resolve crumbling. Still you make a feeble attempt to stay responsible.

"Spencer." You warn, weakly glaring at him

"What?" He feigns innocence, voice soft. "I'm not doing anything." It's a lie, you know it, and he knows you know it. As much as you'd hate to let him win, one look into his soft, lovesick eyes makes you decide that if this is what defeat entails, you guess you wouldn't really mind losing.

You sigh dramatically, pushing your books aside and opening your arms for him. His doesn't miss a beat, moving to close the gap between you almost instantly.

He falls unceremoniously into your lap, wrapping his arms around your middle and burying his face in your neck. You give in, reaching to brush your fingers through his hair. You feel his victorious smirk against your skin and roll your eyes fondly.

Your work can wait, you’re sure.

masterlist | inbox ← requests open! ♡

taglist - @lover-of-books-and-tea @maskysluvr @aurorsworld @wisteriaspencer @radioactiveinvisible @mandarinmoons @spencereidapologist @lyd14k4y @luvkatryna @khxna @flow33didontsmoke (send an ask or message to be added/removed!)

[maeintree]

almost doesn't count | s. reid

Summary: Spencer Reid has been crushing on you ever since you joined the BAU, and Valentine’s Day feels like the perfect time to finally ask you out Pairing: early seasons!Spencer Reid x agent!fem!Reader Word Count: -900 Author's Note: just some fillers to put something on my masterlist! and some lil lovey dovey valentine's day fics!! this is really short but i missed spencer so here ya go!

Spencer Reid had been working up the courage for weeks.

It wasn’t as if asking someone out was an impossible feat—he had recited entire passages of obscure literature from memory, broken down complex behavioral patterns in serial killers, and once even explained the mechanics of quantum entanglement to Morgan (who had promptly told him to shut up).

But somehow, walking up to you and asking you out on Valentine’s Day seemed more daunting than anything he’d ever faced before.

His crush on you had been a quiet thing at first, sneaking up on him the moment you joined the team. It started with stolen glances across the bullpen, the way your laugh made his heart stutter, and how you always listened—really listened—when he rambled. And then, before he knew it, you were in his thoughts more often than he cared to admit.

So, on Valentine’s Day, he made a decision: he was going to ask you out.

It started with a simple Valentine’s Day card. Well, simple in theory. In reality, it was an intricately folded piece of card-stock, filled with Spencer’s neat (?) but small handwriting, detailing an absurdly specific statistic about the origins of Valentine’s Day traditions.

You knew it was meant to be sweet, in his own Spencer way, but it also made your heart race in ways you weren’t prepared to admit.

Spencer, naturally, was oblivious.

“So, historically, Valentine’s Day wasn’t actually a romantic holiday,” he had begun, sitting across from you in the BAU’s break room, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater. “It originated from the Roman festival Lupercalia, which was a—uh—fertility ritual involving the sacrifice of goats and, um, the slapping of women with strips of their hides.

Which is—obviously—not romantic at all, but somewhere around the 14th century, Geoffrey Chaucer wrote ‘Parlement of Foules,’ and that’s where the association with love really started. Although there’s also speculation that St. Valentine himself was a priest who performed marriages in secret, which is why—”

You leaned forward, watching him with amusement as he continued rambling, the words spilling out at an almost frantic pace.

It was endearing, the way he talked so much when he was nervous, and you weren’t sure if he was even aware of how much he was saying at this point.

“Spencer,” you interrupted gently, resting a hand over his. “Breathe.”

He blinked rapidly, as if suddenly realizing he hadn’t taken a proper breath in minutes. “Right. Breathing. That’s—uh—important.”

His cheeks turned a shade of pink that rivaled the candy hearts Garcia had placed around the office. “What I—I mean, what I was trying to say is that I know Valentine’s Day is usually about, um, flowers and chocolates and not historical analysis, but I—uh—I wanted to give you something that—”

“That’s uniquely you?” you offered, smiling.

He exhaled, relieved. “Yes. Exactly.”

You took the card, running your fingers over the embossed edges. It was thoughtful, sweet, and—most importantly—Spencer. “I love it.”

Spencer’s face lit up in a way that made your heart stutter. But before either of you could say anything more, a loud whistle from the doorway made you both turn.

“Reid,” Morgan drawled, grinning as he sauntered in. “Did I just hear you giving a TED Talk on Valentine’s Day?”

Behind him, JJ and Emily exchanged knowing smirks, while Hotch simply raised an eyebrow in quiet amusement.

“Oh, he didn’t just give a TED Talk,” Garcia chimed in, appearing suddenly with her arms full of pink-wrapped candies. “Our resident genius just made the most adorably awkward Valentine’s confession in BAU history.”

Spencer groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”

And despite his embarrassment, despite the teasing, despite the overwhelming urge to disappear into the floor, Spencer smiled. Because, for once, he didn’t entirely mind being the center of attention.

It was supposed to be simple. Once everyone clocked out, he’d find you outside, ask if you wanted to get dinner—something casual, no pressure. But as he stepped outside, he saw you before he could call your name.

And he saw the man standing next to you.

Saw the way you smiled at him. Saw the way he cupped your cheek before leaning in to kiss you.

Spencer stopped in his tracks, feeling his heart plummet to his stomach. The words he had rehearsed in his head over and over evaporated into nothing.

The man pulled away, and you hugged him before stepping into a car, leaving Spencer frozen where he stood.

“Well, that sucks,” Garcia’s voice cut in, startling him. He hadn’t even noticed her walking up beside him, arms crossed as she watched the same scene unfold.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Who is he?”

Garcia tilted her head, looking at him like she was about to break bad news. “That’s her boyfriend. Aren’t they cute?”

Spencer felt something in his chest tighten, but he forced a small smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “They are.”

Garcia’s face softened. “Spence…”

But he was already turning back toward the parking lot, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Garcia.”

She sighed, watching him walk away, before muttering under her breath, “Okay..”

help this feels so ooc for him, i'm so used to writing cocky people.. i'm so sorry! but anyhow, likes, comments, & reposts are greatly appreciated!

[piqtescue]

pls tell me someone else has seen this😳

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

a little comfort fuck with Spencer Reid after he's back from prison, questioning if you still deserve him after everything that happened. (i love this man a completely normal amount i swear)

LOVE it!! thanks for requesting, hope you like it💌

SAFE AND SOUND.

spencer reid x fem!reader — smut

word count. 615

warnings. 18+ pinv, cowgirl on the couch, cute comfort stuff. minors dni

You found it difficult to process everything during those months of Spencer's absence, everything almost crumbling around you while your boyfriend sat in a cell for a crime he didn't commit. Every thought went to him, every ounce of energy went to him, every resource went to him, but it wasn't enough. The endless sessions in front of lawyers and his teammates felt almost pointless.

You didn't want to lose hope, especially for someone you love, someone innocent, but it was hard. You and his team struggled, and you couldn't imagine how Spencer was coping with it all - with all the changes.

But then, the day of his release finally rolled around. 

He had been back for almost two hours now: all fresh, clean and showered, tummy full with a hearty homemade meal. He wasn't himself, but as the minutes slowly passed, you began to see him settling back to being home, being safe. Tiny slithers of his old personality creeping back.

It wasn't long before you were rekindling the passion from before those few months, both of you on the couch - you sat atop him, straddling his lap. The full length of his cock, tucked snugly inside your pussy. 

Neither one of you barely moving, the grinding motion of your hips almost non-existent. It was as if your sole focus was to feel one another, to feel the skin of the other after all this time - the concept of cuming being a distant thought. 

His palms rest loosely on your waist, fingers skimming the hem of your baggy tee, the placement only there for your stability. His pretty hazels peered up at you from your slight height advantage, gaze keen as he looks over your features. 

You keep your hands on his face, palms over his cheeks, fingers grazing across his scalp as you hold his head carefully. You, too, kept your attention on your lover, watching those tiny microexpressions play across his face. 

It was as if you were both making sure that this was real, that you weren't imagining it like all those times when you were apart.

But then you notice his countenance change, eyes downcasting, his mere grip on your waist vanishing. The warm spot on your skin growing cold with his absence. 

"What's wrong?" you quietly ask, carefully tilting his face - making him look you in the eye.

He faintly shakes his head, the motion almost delicate. 

You could tell something was on his mind, something gnawing at his thoughts. With Spencer, when something good happened, he was often likely to question it - doubt if he even deserved it. And with him being home after all that time locked away, you knew those prior feelings would resurface, only worse this time around. All you could do was comfort him in the now, hoping that the little bits of love and care and affection you give him would bring him back sooner.

"Please let me be there for you," you murmur, gaze honing in on him. "Let me help."

He frowns softly —a sad smile— the corners of his lips tilting downwards as he brings his hands to the initial spot on your waist. His palms resting firmly over the slight indentation. "I will."

Your thumb glides over the apple of his cheek, pad lovingly swiping over him. "I'm happy you're home," you whisper between the close distance, tucking a messy, unkempt curl behind his ear. "I've missed you."

He presses a kiss to your lips, eyes darting over you. "I've missed you," he utters, voice soft.

You slowly wind over him, cunt dragging over his dick in no particular rhythm. "I'm glad you're back."

[elegantlyeva]

can you do a spencer and hot chocolate and maybe hes protective of her? or jealous

DAY THREE

Hot Cocoa

Summary: Spencer’s embarrassed after getting jealous.

Word Count: 0.4K 

Realistically, Spencer knew the jealousy that burned inside him was unfair to you. You had been nothing but perfect since the two of you got together two months ago.

You were beyond understanding when he showed up late to one too many dates due to work, reassuring him that it sucked but wasn’t his fault.

You never asked him to shut up, even when he knew he was talking too much.

You hadn’t been repulsed when he asked you to stay over at his apartment for the first time either, so why was he getting worked up over your co-worker buying you a hot chocolate?

It was stupid, and he mentally facepalmed. Here you were, draped across his lap, playing with the end of his sweater—a loose string he hadn’t pulled out yet—and he was worried over a drink.

As if sensing his thoughts (and maybe you did), you tapped his jaw with two fingers. “You okay? You’ve hardly spoken since you picked me up from work.”

He hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t say much else until he felt you shift to sit upright, causing him to frown.

“Spencer?” Your voice sounded worried, and he hated that it was his fault.

Clearing his throat, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine, sorry. Long day.”

You nodded, not totally convinced but not wanting to pry either. You took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and the act alone had him speaking up.

“Are you hungry? Better yet, thirsty? I can make you something,” he offered, though he didn’t specify what.

“Oh. I’m okay...” you trailed off, realizing he was already up and across the room. You furrowed your brows, mumbling under your breath, “Never mind.”

Not even five minutes later, Spencer was ushering you into the kitchen to sit at his counter, handing you a mug of hot cocoa.

The smell filled your senses, and the face you made when you took a sip had him relaxing slightly.

“It’s good, right? I made it the way you like it. I think. Although, maybe you like the way Ryan makes it more,” he said, scowling at the mention of the man’s name.

You gave him a knowing smile. “Spence...”

He shook his head. “No, no, I know it’s dumb. I know. But he was so... I don’t know. Not me.” Watching you frown, he sighed. “I’m not trying to be self-deprecating, I just—”

“No, you’re right. You’re nothing like him.” At his crestfallen look, you clarified, “Which is a really good thing. The best thing, actually. I might rip my hair out if you were anything like him. I’ve never met a man so obsessed with himself that he didn’t even care that he spilled the hot chocolate on the floor.”

When he sort of almost-smiled, you continued, “Not to mention he added way too many marshmallows. I mean, I couldn’t even taste the hot chocolate. Didn’t you notice I went inside your car empty-handed?”

“You threw it out.” It wasn’t a question. Spencer groaned, the tips of his ears turning pink, and took the mug from your hands to place it on the counter before wrapping his arms around you.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I reacted like that.” He mumbled.

“No apology needed. I’m happy to know you like me so much that you can’t even stand another guy giving me hot chocolate.”

“Don’t say it like that. He was flirting, I could tell.”

“Oh, you could tell?”

“Mannerisms.”

He squeezed you tighter when he heard you laugh.

[babybatsunite]

My girl - Spencer Reid x tattooed!fem reader

Genre: Fluff, romance

Word count: 1,5k

Summary: Spencer’s tough girlfriend, Y/n, was never the type to take shit from anyone. And it's not like a new recruit with attitude problems would be any different.

Warnings: Misogynistic views, homophobic language, English is not my first language.

The Quantico bullpen was buzzing as usual – ringing phones, the hum of the coffee maker, and agents running around with files. The BAU had been assigned a fresh case earlier that morning, leaving Spencer buried in boring paperwork.

It was around lunchtime when Spencer’s focus was interrupted by the familiar click of boots and a voice that sent his heart racing every time he heard it.

“Hey, genius,” you called, holding up a brown paper bag. “Thought you might want something that doesn’t taste like printer ink for lunch.”

Spencer’s head shot up, his lips curving into a soft smile as he took you in—blue hair tied up messily, tattoos peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeves of your dark flannel, ripped black jeans, and those scuffed combat boots you refused to part with. You looked effortlessly cool, as always.

“Y/N,” he said, standing up to greet you. “You didn’t have to do that!” Spencer said, kissing your lips softly.

You smirked. “Please, you’d survive on coffee and air if I didn’t step in.”

The interaction caught the attention of several team members. JJ and Garcia exchanged knowing glances, while Morgan shot Spencer a teasing grin. “Ah, the queen herself. You spoil him too much, Y/N.”

“Somebody’s gotta,” you shot back playfully, setting the bag on Spencer’s desk. “The man doesn’t even own a proper umbrella.”

“I do!” Spencer said defensively.

“That's not a travel-sized shower curtain?” you teased, earning a round of laughter from the nearby agents.

Everything was lighthearted and fine, until the new recruit, Agent Carter, sauntered over. Carter had been with the team for about two weeks, and while he was competent in the field, people whispered around about him being a complete asshole.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone clipped, eyes raking over your appearance with clear disdain.

You raised an eyebrow. “Nope. Just here to see my boyfriend.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Boyfriend? Here? You sure you’re not lost? You don’t exactly scream ‘i have a boyfriend.’” His tone was biting, with a sneer. “More like… a dealer who stumbled in from a punk concert.”

You stared at him for a beat, processing his words. “Wow,” you said flatly. “You’re bold for someone who looks like he barely passed the academy fitness test.”

“Who’s this?” Carter asked, nodding toward you with a smirk that made your skin crawl.

“This is Y/N,” Spencer said, his voice friendly but firm. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Carter’s eyebrows shot up, and he let out a low whistle. “No way. Didn’t peg you for the type, Reid.” You frowned but stayed quiet, observing the situation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spencer asked, his posture tensing slightly.

Carter shrugged, his tone casual but dripping with condescension. “I mean, no offense, but she kinda looks like… I don’t know, a lesbian junkie or something.”

The room went silent. JJ’s jaw dropped, Morgan stood up straighter, and Garcia’s eyes widened like saucers. Spencer’s face hardened—a rare sight, but one that immediately made everyone uncomfortable.

“That’s incredibly disrespectful,” Spencer said, his voice colder than anyone had ever heard it. “Y/N has a PhD in chemistry and is one of the smartest people I know.”

Carter laughed, clearly not reading the room. “Sure, she’s smart. But, come on, man. Look at her. She’s wearing more tattoos than clothes-”

“Excuse me?” you said, stepping forward before Spencer could react. Your tone was calm, but there was an edge to it, one that Spencer learned to identify quite early in your relationship. You were pissed.

The recruit scoffed, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “I’m just saying, you don’t look the part. In fact—” He glanced at Spencer, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “—you kind of look like the man in the relationship. If that’s what we’re calling it.”

The bullpen went silent. A few heads turned, agents pausing mid-task to watch the scene unfold. Spencer’s cheeks flushed red, but before he could step in, you beat him to it.

You laughed—low, sharp, and dangerous. “Wow,” you said, shaking your head. “That’s the best you’ve got? I look like a man? Cute. Here’s the thing, son: there's nothing wrong with being a lesbian, and I don’t give a single damn what you or anyone else thinks I look like. I didn’t show up here for your approval, and I sure as hell don’t need it.”

You stepped even closer, your boots nearly touching his. The recruit visibly stiffened, his confidence faltering as you stared him down.

“Y/N,” Spencer called out, his voice a mix of warning and pleading.

You ignored him, stepping closer to the recruit with a calm tone that somehow made you more intimidating. “But let’s make one thing crystal clear,” you continued, your voice dropping to a near growl. “If you ever disrespect me or Spencer again, I’ll make sure you regret it. And not in a fun, HR-friendly way.”

The recruit opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked to Spencer for support, but Spencer just stood there, arms crossed, letting you handle it.

“Got it?” you asked, patting Carter’s shoulders. Your tone was sweet but with an edge sharp enough to cut glass.

The recruit nodded stiffly, clearly out of his depth.

“Good,” you said, stepping back. You looked at Spencer as if nothing had happened, flashing him a casual smile. “There you go, Penny. I hope you enjoy your lunch.”

Spencer blinked, torn between mortification and admiration. “Uh, thanks,” he said, taking the bag.

As you turned to leave, you shot the recruit one last look. “Oh, and FYI,” you added, smirking. “If I was the man in the relationship, you’d be begging me to fuck you. Think about that.”

The bullpen erupted in quiet murmurs as you walked out, leaving the recruit red-faced and stunned.

Spencer sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. The team slowly gathered around him, grinning.

“Dude,” Morgan said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Your girl is savage.”

“Yeah,” JJ agreed, smirking. “How’d you land someone like her again?”

Spencer groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “I have no idea,” he muttered.

---

Back at your shared apartment, whatever happened that day seemed like a distant memory. You were both curled up on the couch, freshly showered, with the muted hum of a playlist Spencer had made playing in the background. Spencer was lying with his head in your lap, legs stretched out along the cushions, while you twirled a strand of his long hair around your fingers.

A half-smoked cigarette rested in the ashtray on the coffee table, the faint smell of it lingering in the air. Spencer’s book was closed on his chest, his brown eyes tracing the tattoos on your arm gently.

“You know,” he said suddenly, his voice soft.

“Hm?” you hummed, looking down at him.

“I don’t understand why some people think you’re a lesbian.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the comment, then snorted. “Oh, yeah? That guy got in your head, huh?”

He shook his head quickly, his brow furrowing. “No, it’s just… I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, it doesn’t make sense. You’ve been with me for over five years. You’re—well, you’re you. You’re not exactly subtle about being with me. It’s not like you’re walking around holding a giant ‘I’m gay’ sign.”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Babe, people are just dumb. I dress dark, I’ve got tattoos, and I don’t really scream ‘girlfriend of a genius FBI agent.’” You paused, smirking as you leaned down slightly. “Plus, you can’t lie—there’s a part of you that gets a little kick out of people being shocked I’m with you.”

His ears turned pink, and he looked away sheepishly. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, smiling.

You chuckled, brushing your thumb against his cheek, bringing his face towards you. “Look, I don’t blame them for getting the wrong idea. You’re my girl, after all.”

That caught him off guard. Spencer blinked up at you, a startled laugh escaping his lips. “Wait—what?”

“You heard me,” you said, leaning back smugly. “You’re my girl. Pretty, soft, and way too nice for your own good.”

“Pretty?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief but his smile growing. “I’m pretty now?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, nodding firmly. “You’ve got that whole delicate, intellectual vibe going. Pretty as hell.”

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before he reached up and poked your side, making you squirm. “Well, if I’m pretty, what does that make you?”

You shrugged, grinning. “The badass who gets to call you hers.”

Spencer rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his amusement. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, pulling you down into a kiss.

“And yet, you’re still here,” you teased against his lips.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he replied with his voice low.

The two of you stayed like that, wrapped in each other, as the night stretched on. Pretty boy and his badass girlfriend, what a team, huh.

[hotwritergf]

You caught him red handed last week. His hand turned into a fist and wrapped tightly around his cock, jerking over his length. His tip a shade of pink that somehow looked angry, needy, begging for more stimulation. You cleared your throat, standing in the corner of doorway; smirking down as the submissive man whose cock had decided that the exhibitionism of this situation was much too much to handle before he erupted. White ropes of cum spurting out of his tip, covering his soft belly with his arousal. You smirked at Spencer, evil intention in your pupils meeting with his flushed rosy creams and embarrassment.

“Oh Reid.” You mewl, a voice soft like silk and as sweet as cocoa on a snow day. He couldn’t handle the humiliation, scrambling to wipe his cum off of his skin, tossing a random shirt on over himself to his the evidence. Spencer dips his head into his hands, he knows he should never touch himself without your permission, let alone orgasm.

The following week, the scenery is slightly different. Your hand is pumping up and down his cock, in just the same furious, aggressive and animalistic fashion. The head of his cock just leaking with salty fluid, coating your hand as you jerk him. This time he was words on his tongue other than whimpers and sweet nothings to help himself get closer. “Please.. let me cum…” Reid cries, his face painted with an expression of desperation and annoyance. He thrusts his hips upwards, his dick fucking your fist until your hand fiddles with the rubber around the base of his cock. Teasing and trailing your fingers over on top of the cock ring, you giggled, happy with the punishment you had expertly given him. You nodded in response, but did no more to help him other than your continuous jerking. If he wanted to cum so badly, he could cum with the cock ring on, right?

[alexander-arcturus-black-lupin-r]

Kissing

Y'all don't know how jealous I am of the girl who is in the picture like please lemme posses you for a minute I wanna taste him

Spencer didn’t expect you to just pull him by his collar and lock your lips with his. He and you had been trailing a suspect in some sleazy club and had gotten stuck in the closet beside where they were having talks with a possible accomplice, you had heard footsteps surrounding you and Spencer could hear them cocking their guns.

They were leaving the room and he heard something about checking the coast and the closet was going to be the first thing they looked through. Before he knew it you had used one hand to grab his neck and pull him down while pulling him with you against the side of the closet wall the other snaking around his waist.

The scent of your River Island Milan Body mist flooded his head. 

“Trust me.”  you whispered and he forced himself to relax.

"Always."

He couldn’t think as you moved your head against his and kissed him. He was awkward, his teeth hitting your slightly as you tried to find a balance and you did. Soon he got more comfortable as he held you, deepening the kiss. Forgetting everything. He could taste mint and the remains of a drink you had on your way here. 

His hand undid the side of your untucked shirt and he gently trailed his hands up, feeling every crevice, every bump and every scar. He had dreamt of this for far too long he didn’t want this to stop. He didn’t know what you were thinking, what he was feeling, what was going outside and how long you both were in there.

He pulled you back as he raised you, instinctively you wrapped your legs around his waist and he pushed you back against the walls of the closet just in time as the door opened and the thugs you were following stood with guns raised. At the disgruntled commotion the two of you pulled apart, breathing heavily at the sight of the two of you they muttered apologies and shut the door. Spencer looked over at you and finally took you in. 

Swollen lips, flustered face, messy hair, dilated eyes  and a half ridden up shirt. You were the epitome of sexy. He ran his hand through his hair, the memory of your hand pulling and tugging and scratching was seared into his brain. 

“I-” he wanted to apologise for crossing the line but you cut him off. 

“If you apologise Spencer Walter Reid I will smack you into next week.” your voice comes out in a way that sends shivers down into his pants. “You have me panting from a kiss, A KISS!?”

He could help how flushed his face turned. You glanced at your watch. 

“We have 15 more minutes,” you began as you typed on your phone. “I don’t know about you but I can do a lot of things in 15 minutes.”

Spencer felt his soul leave his body and run a lap.

----------

Comments, likes, reblogs and shares are welcomed

no. 1 of Spencer Reid's firsts

[reidalert]

IT’S OKAY NOT TO BE OKAY | spencer.reid

| spencer reid & fem!reader 3.1k words

| content: a case has you feeling helpless and guilty, and no matter who consoles you, nothing helps. maybe all you need is to take a break, but what if the break is being risky with dr. reid?

| warnings: mentions of death/kidnapping, flashback to the case, reader feeling vulnerable

| author’s note: i haven’t written in a longgg time and boy does it feel good to finally get these words out of my head. it feels like a privilege to get my writing spark back & i can’t wait to share all my ideas with you. i hope you enjoy reading <3

feedback and comments are highly appreciated!

You have thick skin.

Well, that’s what you say to anyone who asks if you’re okay.

But after today? After this case? You’re not sure if that’s true anymore. You don’t get affected easily, not when it comes to blood and gore. You’ve homed in on keeping your reactions and feelings at bay when it comes to that… but what happened out there? It’s made you feel helpless.

You knew from the minute JJ briefed you back at the BAU that this case was something you hadn’t dealt with before. Even Agent Hotchner had asked if you wanted to sit this one out.

But you said no. You wanted to get more experience to become a better profiler and a better agent. And it came at a cost.

You feel like an outsider. Like you’re watching yourself from an outside perspective as you go through airport security. The endless whir of machines and planes landing and taking off in the background do nothing for the thoughts racing in your mind.

You’re the last to be cleared and you know the others are watching you. Their eyes burning through your skin and doing what they do best. Profiling.

You don’t meet their gaze. You know as soon as you make eye contact with one of them, they’ll be asking you questions and it’ll make you torture yourself about whether you’re fit for this job. So, you make your way through the long and endless corridors until you’re at the gate for the jet.

The dull whirring of the jet engines helps you zone out. The leather seats are a cool comfort to your heated self.

Logically, it would make sense to let them know you’re not doing okay and that you need some time to yourself. But who are you kidding? You’re a thick skinned woman who can do anything… so you’ve made them believe.

You’re sitting on the farthest seat in the jet, right in the corner away from everyone else. You can’t deal with the questions you know they’re going to ask you.

But apparently, that doesn’t stop Agent Hotchner from taking the seat opposite you.

“I know what you’re gonna say.” You break the silence but continue staring out the oval window. The city lights below turn smaller and smaller as you progress through the flight.

“And what’s that?” Agent Hotchner asks. You’re not happy he’s here, invading your little self-pity bubble, but you do appreciate the way he keeps his voice quiet.

You shrug. “That something has upset me. Or that I’m too in my head about this case. Along those lines, anyway.”

Agent Hotchner regards you for a moment. You can feel his eyes staring at the side of your face as you purposefully stay looking out the window.

Because you know the second you make eye contact with him, he’ll see what’s going through your head. And he can’t.

“I gathered something was wrong.” His voice is low, a nice baritone that doesn't annoy you. “I know when someone in my team is different. And you’re different.”

You fight back the scoff that’s threatening to spill. “And what is that supposed to mean, Agent Hotchner?”

“Just…” he sighs. You’re very similar to Spencer Reid; in a way that you both struggle to admit when you need help. “If something is bothering you, I am here to listen.”

“Who says something is bothering me?” You kind of regret asking that question as you know damn well he’s about to go into an explanation of how he can see you’re upset.

He sits up a little straighter, hands clasped over his crossed knees. “You’re avoiding eye contact with me, your knuckles have turned white from how hard you’re gripping the arm rests—”

“That’s nothing—”

“You’re interrupting me. You don’t like being analysed as it makes you vulnerable. You haven’t eaten anything in the past,” Agent Hotchner checks his watch. “Six hours. Your stomach is warring against your emotions and you don’t like that. You’re sitting in a corner trying to push yourself away from other people.”

“Okay.” You bite out, now finally giving in to looking him dead in the eyes. “You’re a great profiler. No need to showboat.”

“I’m not showboating.”

You roll your eyes, “Sure seems like it.”

A minute or two pass in silence. Agent Hotchner is still staring at you and you feel incredibly small under his gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything.” He fixes his shirt cuffs, acting so nonchalant as if he didn’t just profile one of his team members.

You grit your teeth. “Fine. Today messed with my head. That case was… it was wrong. So wrong that I can’t stop thinking about how I could have helped that family.”

Agent Hotchner leans forward, gently placing his hand upon your own on the arm rest. You feel your grip loosen and you fight back a grimace at how cold his hand feels against your warm one. “It’s not your fault. We all know we could have done something different out there, but sometimes the unsub takes a surprise route. Things like this happen and it’s unfortunate, but don’t blame yourself.”

You shrug again, avoiding eye contact once again. “Yeah.”

He stands, pulling his suit jacket to fit more comfortably. “If you need to talk to someone, come to my office.”

You only offer a silent nod in answer.

“Oh, and Agent L/N? Stop calling me Agent Hotchner, Hotch is just fine.” He offers a small smile and you shake your head, going back to staring out the window until your eyes feel too heavy to keep open.

“Why is there so much paperwork?” Your voice comes out all agitated as you rifle through a stupid amount of folders and loose paper.

Emily peeks over the cubicle dividing and raises an eyebrow. “You okay there?”

You sigh, slumping down onto your desk chair, spinning until you’re facing her side of the cubicle. “Do I sound okay to you? Who in their right mind decided to give me the goddamn paperwork for that goddamned case?” You glance around the wide room, trying to find JJ; this has to be her doing.

Emily purses her lips, “Doing paperwork isn’t that bad, Y/N. I mean, I guess there’s a lot but it’ll make the day go by quicker.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, feeling yourself grow more annoyed by the minute. You know you need to get yourself in check, but the past 24 hours have ridden you like the Grim Reaper is taking jockey lessons in Hell.

“What’s got Little Miss Thick Skin so angry today?” Derek Morgan walks up to your desk, a hot mug of coffee in his hand. A brief thought had you biting your lip— it’d be wrong to spill it on him.

“Don’t start, please.” You rest your elbows on your desk, hands holding either side of your face as you stare at the paperwork. The names of the family you couldn’t save stare right back at you. Your stomach drops and you’re not sure how long you can stay in this office.

“Hey,” Derek places his mug on your desk before crouching down to your eye level. “What’s wrong, girl? If you don’t want to do the paperwork, I can take it off your hands. No big deal.”

You shake your head, “Don’t bother. I’m fine.”

Derek watches your face and you turn your head to look at him. “If you start profiling me, Morgan, I swear to God that coffee mug will end up in a place you really don’t want it.”

Derek chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, girl. Just tryna help ya out.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need help. I’m fine.” You scoot your desk chair closer and grab the closest pen, tapping it against the top of your desk to distract you from the fact you have to relive this case just a day later.

You don’t catch it, but Derek and Emily share a knowing look. They’ve seen this before. It’s not hard to notice someone you spend days on end with is struggling.

Derek grabs his mug and pats you on the shoulder. Emily sinks back into her cubicle and makes sure to keep an eye on during the day. If she finds you with smoke coming out of your ears, she’ll go get the fire extinguisher.

Your hand cramps as you write your final notes. The computer screen has turned too bright for your eyes and a headache begins to form behind your eyes. It’s been a long day.

Clicking the pen closed, you lean back against your chair with a deep sigh. You close your eyes just to rest them for a brief moment and scenes from yesterday plague you.

It’s like you can’t escape.

Your heart rate picks up speed. You’re not sure how it turned into a game of cat and mouse, but you’re adamant on putting a stop to it.

“What does he think he’s doing?” You’re standing with your palms pressed against a conference table in a police station in Washington. The projector casts a live shot of the news— a helicopter is chasing after the unsub in a car. The family you’re trying to protect is with him.

“He’s trying to flee.” Agent Rossi says, so matter of factly that it has you turning your attention to him instead.

You squint at him. “You saw this coming, didn’t you?”

He gestures to the screen. “You didn’t?”

“No, I did not.” You grit your teeth, moving so you’re now standing up straight. “I predicted he’d do something out of the blue. We all did. But we didn’t know he was going to kidnap them. That wasn’t part of his game.”

Rossi shrugs, “I’ve been in this job longer than you have, kiddo. It takes experience to know something like this. Don’t blame yourself.”

“What?” You let out a disbelieving scoff. “Listen here old man—”

“That’s enough.” Agent Hotchner cuts through your words, ending your little spat with Rossi. “We’re all here to do a job. So let’s do it.”

Faint footsteps sound behind you. You’re not sure who’s still in the office, but considering how late it is, there’s only a few people that come to mind.

“Hey, what are you doing here so late?” That all too recognisable voice makes your heart swoop. Spencer appears in your line of vision, his man-bag crossed over his torso. He looks ready to leave. “It’s nearly 7PM.”

“Oh.” You glance at the clock mounted on the wall. You didn’t realise that you were doing the paperwork for the Washington case for nearly 10 hours. “Guess I lost track of time.”

Spencer regards you for a minute. “Everything okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” You offer a weak smile, not trying to be bitchy to him like you were to the others earlier. You make a mental note to apologise to them tomorrow.

“It’s just— nevermind.” He shakes his head.

Your brows furrow, “No, what is it?”

“Ever since we got on that plane yesterday, you’ve been hostile.” Spencer rocks back and forth on his heels. “I know you don’t like to be profiled, I don’t either, but I know something is wrong.”

You twist in your chair, facing your computer screen with your hands hovering over the keyboard. You don’t want to talk about it, you just want to figure it out on your own.

“Y/N?” Spencer says your name and you look at him over your shoulder. His eyes all sparkly, his cheeks smooth, his lips… perfect.

You blink slowly. Your head isn’t in the right place, but your heart (and hormones) are.

You internally say fuck it and reach for the strap of his man-bag to pull him down to your level. Your breaths mingle and your eyes dart in a triangle from one eye to his lips to his other eye. And lo and behold, the triangle method actually works because Spencer leans in and you feel his lips ghost over your own.

And nothing.

He just stays in that position. Hunched down in your grip, lips mere millimetres away from your own and he doesn’t finish the job.

You breathe in a deep sigh, your senses being filled with his scent. “Why aren’t you kissing me?”

“I— I think it’s because I know you’re not yourself. It feels wrong.” Spencer's breath is minty as it fans over your cheeks and neck. You want to say something snarky, but you know he’s right. “I do want to kiss you, though. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now.”

You lean back a little, your eyes staring into his pretty brown ones. You don’t see a sign of a lie and your heart skips a beat. “Would it help if I admitted what’s going on? Would you kiss me then?” God, are you really that desperate to get kissed by Spencer Reid? Yes. Yes you are.

Spencer lowers into a crouch, one hand grips the armrest of your desk chair, whilst the other splays across your knee with a gentle squeeze. “If it helps you, then it’ll help me. Talk to me. Let me inside your pretty head.”

You reach out for his tie, fiddling with it to help your nerves. “You know I don’t like talking about how I feel, but this is something I can’t keep to myself anymore.”

Spencer nods, his hand on your knee giving you another squeeze. But this time in a reassuring way. That’s your go ahead sign to lay it all down.

“That case we did. The family where we couldn’t save them, where I couldn’t save them, keeps replaying in my head and I don’t know what to do to stop it.” You take a breath, your fingers still playing with his tie. “If we got there sooner, I know we could have stopped him from hurting them. From killing them. I feel like if I did or said something right or helpful, I could’ve saved them. I hate feeling like this because I know it isn’t my fault, but I just can’t help but feel guilty.”

Spencer stays quiet, letting your words sink in. “You’re right, it isn’t your fault.”

You sigh, dropping his tie and moving your attention to his face. To his lips.

“I wish I could go back in time and help.” You admit, feeling a small weight lift from your shoulders.

“I wish for that, too.” Spencer admits as well. Both of you find comfort in knowing you feel the same. It makes feeling like this just the little bit easier to deal with. “Thank you for sharing how you feel.”

You let out a small laugh. “Thank you for not dismissing me.”

“I could never dismiss you.” Spencer’s voice is soft and warm. His fingers slowly trail up and down your calf, sending a shiver through your body. “Would you like that kiss now?” The smirk on his lips has your stomach flipping and you want nothing more than for his lips to be on yours.

“I would very much like that kiss now.” You smile at him, leaning in and already feeling your body succumb to him. When your lips meet, you sigh. You’ve missed being able to be physical with him; it’s hard trying to stay colleagues when all you want is to be wrapped up in his arms.

Spencer lets his hands travel— up your thighs, round your back, cheekily up the hem of your dress. You moan lightly into his mouth and he swallows it.

Your hands grab for his collar to deepen the kiss. “More.” You mumble against his lips and he complies. Spencer bites your bottom lip to elicit a gasp from you so he can dive his tongue down your throat with ease.

You feel yourself involuntarily squeezing your thighs to quell the ache forming between your legs. God, you’d do anything to take him home with you right now.

Before you get a chance to start undoing his tie, a loud and clear cough comes from your right.

You stop moving but Spencer keeps going. Trailing open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, you now get a perfect view of Hotch standing outside his office with his arms crossed. You can’t make out what his face is portraying.

“Spence.” You tug on his collar, but he thinks you want him to go further. You feel his tongue lick a stripe up the column of your neck and you have to fight back a whimper.

You’d die on the spot if you let Aaron Hotchner hear you moaning.

“No. Spencer.” This time you push at his shoulders and the look he gives you makes you feel bad. But if you let him carry on, both of you would never be able to be in Hotch’s presence. Ever.

“Are you okay?” Spencer brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something you didn’t like?”

You shake your head, your fingers quickly straightening out Spencer's tie. “I loved it. You were good, but, um…” your eyes drift off to where Hotch is still standing.

It’s as if Spencer was zapped by lightning. He shoots back away from you, and somehow manages to hit every piece of furniture around him. You want to laugh but this situation doesn’t call for laughing. You’ve been caught by your boss making out in the middle of the BAU.

“Reid, L/N. Care to explain?” Hotch moves slowly down the stairs, his aura too strong for you to look him in the eyes right now.

You twiddle your thumbs. “He was just helping me finish this file report from the case yesterday.”

Hotch looks at Spencer, knowing that he’ll blab the truth. “She was upset about not being able to save them and I wanted to help ease her pain and—”

“That’s enough.” Hotch raises a hand. “Since it’s past working hours, I’ll make a one time allowance for this behaviour.”

You have a big sigh of relief and Spencer lets out an audible groan of embarrassment. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right. It won’t.” Hotch checks his watch and frowns. “I’m late for something. Finish that report and I’ll see you both tomorrow. Behaving correctly.”

You nod your head and Spencer keeps his head down staring at the floor. You watch Hotch leave the office and you finally let out your cringing grimace. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know he was here. I thought he left already.”

“I can’t be mad. I got to kiss the prettiest girl in here.”

“Shut up.”

Copyright credit to @reidalert as of 2024-present.

[lavenderspence]

her possessive trigger | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader | Word Count: 1.5K

Content warning: professor!spencer, jealousy, a lil bit of possessiveness, cuteness at the end

Summary: they could look at him all they wanted, but they needed to know he was yours. or the reader announces to spencer's students that he's taken

A/N: this was actually written back in june and i’m just now coming around to posting it. But lavenderspence writing for her husband spencer is back. Heavily inspired by my love for professor!reid and my desire to slap all of his student fangirlies and proclaim him as my own in a heavily possessive manner. you too? Oh, enjoy then🤭

masterlist

The auditorium was dark when you first walked in. His voice rang around the space, successfully gathering the attention of everyone present. Words like “victimology”, “modus operandi” and “signature”, the same ones you’d used for years, left him in quick succession, as did their explanation and usage in your profession.

He was captivating, an educator’s role suited him just right, but that was hardly new information. You’d seen him thrive on sharing his knowledge for years, be it as an FBI agent, or as a guest lecturer over the years. 

When he’d been offered to take on a class for the semester, alongside his work with the BAU, he’d been more than happy to. 

He loved it, and he told you as much regularly. And even if he didn’t, you’d still be able to tell. He loved challenging young minds, hopefully shaping the next generation of BAU profilers. 

His students loved him too, that much was evident in the way they hung onto his every word and explanation. Their hands raised with questions, taking part in the discussion, and diligently taking notes. They were dedicated to their studies, and to the subject Spencer taught. 

Or, most of them were. 

The other part, multiple young women it seemed, were far more dedicated to checking him out, than the class itself. 

You didn’t need it spelled out for you, you didn’t even need to see their faces. The art of reading people from a distance was deeply engraved into your being after years of working with the best. And then another part of it was your love for the man at the front. 

Your eyes ran around the room, the profiler in you working over time. 

Two brunettes sat near the front, third row, right side of the auditorium. Both their bodies turned towards the center of the room, following along with Spencer’s movement. One was casually leaning back in her seat, trying her hardest to mask her interest in her professor, and for anyone less vigilant, she might have been successful.

The girl next to her twirled a piece of hair around her finger, head moving left and right, but judging by the lift of her cheek, you could tell she was smiling, probably a little shily. It wouldn’t surprise you if her eyelashes fluttered too. 

A row in front of them sat a blond, hand constantly touching her hair, or her face, even fanning it. It was mid-March, the room wasn’t hot, but quite the contrary, a bit chilly. 

And then there was a girl, a few places to the left of the blond, whose hand was constantly in the air. Her voice was smoky, with questions that hardly contributed to the topic at hand, but Spencer let her ask them anyway. He even went so far as to answer as he would any other question.

Even though you knew he’d long ago picked up on her behavior, much like you had, he still indulged her, just like any good educator would. She looked just a tad too interested in the class, but maybe far more interested in him. If you had to guess, she had it bad, judging by the way she readjusted in her seat, every time her eyes met Spencer’s, even for a second. 

You knew Spencer was handsome, maybe even more so than that. He was beautiful in ways you found hard to explain sometimes. His curls, soft and golden-looking in the sun, the barely there scruff you could still feel against your palms and lips as you kissed him goodbye this morning. The suit, and how well it fit him, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and the cardigan vest that made him look soft, when you knew he was anything but when needed. 

But there was so much more beauty on the inside, just as long as you wanted to see it. A heart that spans miles, big, always ready to give, but rarely willing to take. A godfather, proud to be one, and a smile that could light up whole skies, out of happiness, out of love. Your own little search engine in a body, facts, and statistics, as long as you wanted to listen, and you always did. 

How he was with you, his love like no other, and his eyes lighting, the green in them even more prominent, just with you in the room. How calm he was, whenever in your presence. Patient, even when you couldn’t be, and he could bring you back down from any ledge you found yourself stuck on, or whatever worry sat heavily on your mind. 

He brought out the best in you, and you let the best of him out too. 

And even knowing him as well as you did, and loving him as much as your heart allowed you to, and knowing how he loved you, with everything he could, there was a part, if small at that, that couldn’t help, but feel taken aback by this behavior. 

Maybe taken aback wasn’t the right word, but jealous felt more appropriate. 

There was no need for those feelings to arise, insecurities that bore no weight. Your relationship was as secure as the sun was bright if the stunning rock on your finger was anything to go by. 

But maybe it wasn’t really jealousy either, but the desire to protect, maybe even to possess. 

It sounded ridiculous, to an extent, because Spencer could protect himself just fine. He wasn’t an object that could be picked up from a shelf, and owned. 

He was your equal, in every way that counted, your other half, your best friend, your closest confidant. 

And maybe that’s where that protectiveness stemmed from.  

Because as you looked around, women, without knowing him, and who he was beyond his looks, and as deep as you and your BAU family knew him, sat there, gawking. 

And as the lecture was coming to a close, the desire to cement the fact that Spencer Reid was happily in love, and soon to be much more than just a boyfriend, arose. It was petty, very much so, but at that moment, pettiness won over. Because the man in front, the same one those students were thirsting over, was very much your own, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

“Before we end today’s lecture, any questions?” 

No hands rose at the question, except one, your own. 

He pointed at you, giving you permission to ask the question, and his hand reached for the light switch. 

Just as you started speaking, the room was illuminated in light, and his eyes focused on yours, and you winked.

“Uhm, Dr. Reid, I was wondering, do you happen to have a girlfriend?” A silence so defeating followed, as every head turned in your direction as you stood from your seat. Spencer, the dork smiled big, and then he laughed, surprised, and maybe a little bit proud at that moment. His laugh was rich, attracting a part of the attention back to him, as you started walking in his direction. 

“Wasn’t expecting a guest lecturer today,” He raised a brow just as you reached him, and you just shrugged, smiling. “Class, this is Supervisory Special Agent Y/L/N” Spencer introduced you, as you looked on over his class. 

“Soon to be SSA Y/L/N - Reid” You added, looking at his students sitting in multiple stages of processing the information. He laughed, and instead of looking shy or even embarrassed by the display, he just looked happy, and proud. Maybe it was the knowledge of the fact that you were his, and his desire for everyone to know. 

Soon after that, he dismissed the class and you watched as the auditorium emptied, students turning to look at you both as you pulled him into a big hug, followed by a gentle kiss. 

When you separated, he looked at you with a huge smile, lifting a brow, “You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He picked your hand, bringing it to his lips to lay a kiss right on your ring before he rubbed it with his thumb. 

“No, no I couldn’t. They were looking at you like you were a piece of meat on a platter.” Your reply was swift, a smile just as big.

“Is that jealousy I detect, and a bit of possessiveness?” He was amused by the fact that you wanted to stake some kind of claim on him in front of his students, but secretly, he felt happy you loved him enough to do it

“Noooo…” You didn’t meet his eyes, playing stupid, but you knew he saw right through you.

“Wait until I tell Morgan about this,” He said as he picked up his satchel. 

“Aww, that’s just mean, Dr. Reid.” He pulled you towards the exit, arm wrapped around your waist, possessively. You may have seen the girls looking at him, but he saw the boys checking you out just the same. 

Maybe that was why he felt happiness when you stated you weren’t just a colleague, but rather his soon-to-be wife.

“Don’t I know it, Mrs. Reid.” And then he pulled you into another kiss, this time, a little more urgent, and very much possessive.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!

[sincerelybubbles]

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[in-another-april]

i had this idea that seems right up your alley-

i think spencer would love subtly showing his partner off, he'd wear a locket with their picture or a necklace with their initial,, so they're always with him yk :3

you hear that? that’s my heart monitor flatlining. this KILLED ME, thanks.

Spencer absolutely adores having a part of you with him wherever he goes! He loves the reminder of you (not that he really needs reminding, but shh) and the comforting feeling of you being there with him, even when you’re apart.

He so would wear/carry your initial somewhere on his person, I’m thinking a charm attached to a bracelet or his watch band. OR, instead of the initial: something related to an inside joke you have. There’s something so intimate about having something only the two of you would get.

He’s always fiddling with it (as he’s thinking of you!) Even just seeing it on his wrist is enough to cheer him up. And know that he is never!! taking that thing off, it’s a part of him now. Just like you are :(

Spencer loses it if you get one with his initial, he is so flustered and happy. He can’t take his eyes off of it for the next 3-5 business days, you’ve got him so smitten. (And smug, smirking to himself whenever someone asks and you answer that it’s for your boyfriend)

He alwayss keeps pictures of you with him, and he pulls them out to look at when he gets stressed or misses you. I think he’d keep a little one of the both of you on his desk, too.

Occasionally, some new agent or visitor will see it and be like “Hey, who’s that?” and the rest of the team just has to teasingly go “DON’T EVEN get him started,” because he can (and will!) talk about you for hours if given the opprotunity.

masterlist | inbox ♡

taglist - @lover-of-books-and-tea @maskysluvr @aurorsworld @wisteriaspencer @radioactiveinvisible @mandarinmoons @spencereidapologist @lyd14k4y @luvkatryna (send an ask or message to be added/removed!)

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤGOD'S WILL * SPENCER REID

SUMMARY　::　Where Y/N Reid is forced to watch her husband being tortured by a delusional and psychotic serial killer through a computer screen.

FEATURING　Spencer Reid x reader　　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　Based on s2e15 ‼️ Use of gun, blood, being beaten, death, usual CM violence.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The air was thick with tension as Y/N, Morgan, and Emily stepped out of the SUV, the silence of the rural property around them almost deafening. The barn loomed ahead, a dark, foreboding shape against the twilight sky.

They moved in quickly, flanked by a small group of local police officers, their flashlights cutting through the dim light, illuminating the path to the barn. The scent of decay and rot hit them before they reached the entrance, a sickly rancid smell that made Y/N’s stomach churn. She pressed a hand to her nose, trying to filter out the stench, but it was impossible to escape.

As they entered the barn, their beams of light swept over the scene inside, revealing the carnage. Dead dogs littered the floor, their bodies twisted and broken, and the last victim's remains sprawled in a grotesque display.

The walls were smeared with blood, and the metallic tang filled the air. Y/N’s heart clenched, horror flooding her senses at the sight of the animals’ suffering, the brutality of their deaths. She’d seen a lot in her years with the BAU, but this... this was something else.

"Jesus." Morgan muttered under his breath, the disgust clear in his voice. Emily’s jaw was clenched, her eyes dark with anger and revulsion. They moved further into the barn, their guns raised and ready, searching for any sign of the unsub or another victim.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows, a gun pointed directly at them.

"FBI!" A familiar voice screamed, the word slicing through the air like a knife.

Morgan’s reaction was instant, his gun snapping up to meet the threat.

"JJ! JJ, it’s Morgan, Prentiss, and Y/L/N!" He yelled, his voice a desperate plea. "Don’t shoot, it’s okay!"

Recognition dawned in JJ’s eyes, and her grip on the gun faltered, her arm lowering as she took in the sight of her colleagues. Relief flooded her features, but it was mixed with fear, her face pale and drawn.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She rushed forward, her hands reaching out to steady JJ, her heart pounding in her chest.

"JJ, are you hurt?" She asked, her voice laced with worry, her eyes scanning JJ’s for any sign of injury.

JJ shook her head, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Tobias Hankel is the unsub." She said, her voice cracking, eyes wide with horror.

"Yeah, we know." Emily replied, her tone clipped and urgent.

JJ’s eyes flickered over the dead dogs, her expression crumbling.

"I had to kill them." She whispered, her voice thick with guilt, her gaze distant as if she were replaying the scene over and over in her mind. "They attacked me. I didn’t have a choice. I had to-"

"JJ." Y/N interrupted, her voice firm, cutting through JJ’s daze. Her hands tightened on JJ’s shoulders, grounding her. "Where’s Spencer?" There was an edge of desperation in Y/N’s voice, a need for answers that she couldn’t contain.

JJ seemed to waver, her eyes not quite focusing as she tried to gather her thoughts.

"He... he said he was going to the back. To check the cornfield." She finally said, pointing vaguely towards the rear of the barn, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Y/N felt a cold wave of fear wash over her, chilling her to the bone. She turned to look at the cornfield, its tall, dense rows seeming to stretch on forever, hiding whatever secrets lay within.

"Alone?" She asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. The thought of Spencer out there, by himself, searching for a killer without being used to confront one on the field, made her stomach twist into knots. "Why didn’t you go with him?"

JJ looked down, guilt flashing across her face.

"He insisted. Said he could handle it. I... I should have gone with him. I should have..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head, visibly struggling to keep her composure. "I’m sorry, Y/N."

Morgan didn’t waste a second. He bolted for the door, his determination radiating off of him in waves. Y/N started to follow, not even looking at JJ again, her feet moving before her mind could catch up, but Emily reached out, grabbing her arm.

"Y/N, wait!" Emily said, her grip firm. "Why don't you help me search for some clues around here? Morgan can do it, okay?"

Y/N’s heart screamed at her to go with Morgan, to find Spencer, but she knew Emily was right. She had to be logical, had to stay focused. They needed to understand what they were dealing with if they were going to help Spencer. She nodded reluctantly, pulling herself together.

"Okay." She said, her voice tight.

It didn't take too long, and soon, the whole scene was covered by ambulances and local police cars. JJ was already being checked by paramedics, her face still pale, her hands trembling. Y/N felt a pang of sympathy, but she couldn’t focus on that now. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of Spencer, with the fear that she wouldn’t find him in time.

The sound of steps interrupted her train of thoughts, catching hers and Emily's attention. Morgan finally reappeared, his face grim, his eyes shadowed with worry, and Y/N could feel her heart instantly dropping. She knew the answer before he even spoke, the tightness in his shoulders, the way he avoided her gaze.

"He’s not there." Morgan said, his voice low and rough. "Reid’s gone."

The world seemed to tilt around Y/N, her vision narrowing, her breath catching in her throat. The reality of his words slammed into her like a freight train, the implication of Spencer’s absence echoing through her mind. She had known it in her gut and had felt the terror creeping in, but hearing it spoken aloud made it all too real.

She staggered back, her hand finding the rough surface of the barn wall to steady herself. Spencer was missing. Tobias Hankel had him, and God only knew what he was doing to him. The thought was a knife to her heart, twisting and tearing, leaving her gasping for air.

"You can't find him?" JJ's voice echoed closer to them, her figure involved by a thin blanket that disguised her exhausted form.

Y/N kept her eyes on the ground, her eyes widened while her mind ate her alive, not noticing how Emily shook her head negatively or how JJ approached her hesitantly, her face etched with worry.

"Y/N." She said softly, trying to reach through the haze of sadness and worry that surrounded her friend. "We will do everything we can to find him. I promise."

Y/N whirled around, her eyes blazing with a fury so intense it made JJ take an involuntary step back, her hands clutching tightly around the blanket.

"Everything we can?" She spat, her voice cracking with the weight of her emotion. "If it weren't for you, we wouldn't need to do anything at all! You should never have left him alone. You were supposed to be with him, JJ! He was with you!"

JJ’s face paled, guilt flickering across her features.

"I- We thought it would be faster if we split up. We didn’t know-"

"You didn’t know?!" Y/N’s voice rose, sharp and accusatory. Her tears blurred her vision, but she didn't bother wiping them away. "You let him go off on his own! You let him-" Her voice broke, and she took a shuddering breath, trying to hold herself together. "And now he’s..." She gestured helplessly at the corn field as if pointing to nothing and everything at the same time. They didn't know where he was.

JJ’s eyes filled with tears, but she tried to hold her ground.

"I know you’re angry, Y/N, but I was just trying to do my job. I thought he’d be safe-"

"You thought?!" Y/N cut her off again, her voice laced with venom. "How could you think he’d be safe? We’re dealing with a killer, JJ! A crazy sadistic psychopath! And you thought it was okay to let Spencer out of your sight? He’s not like us! He’s not... he’s not..." Her words faltered as a sob tore from her throat, her anger giving way to the raw, unfiltered terror that gripped her heart.

"Hey, hey..." Emily got in between them, her eyes going from Y/N to JJ. "Y/N, I know you’re scared. We all are. But lashing out isn’t going to help find Spencer."

Y/N's shoulders fell, a mix of a sob and a deep breath escaping through her throat before she shook her head.

"I can't even look at you right now."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The quiet that had settled over the old house was deceptive. Every member of the team could feel it: the heavy, expectant tension pressing down on their shoulders, tightening their throats, and making their hearts beat just a bit too fast.

The house reeked of rot and disrepair, the moldy walls and peeling wallpaper a bleak reminder of the darkness that had taken root here long before Tobias Hankel had become who he is now. But it wasn’t the squalid condition of the house that held the team captive, nor was it the videos from the past victim that they were analyzing with a scrutinizing eye. It was the video footage being streamed live on a grainy, unstable feed.

Spencer Reid - her lover, her husband, her everything - was on the screen, and he was in agony.

Y/N stood before the makeshift command center. Every muscle in her body tensed to the breaking point. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the flickering image of Spencer, bound to a chair, blood streaming down the side of his face, his eyes wide with fear. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, nails digging painfully into her palms. She barely registered the sharp sting, her gaze locked on Spencer’s face, every detail of his pain etched into her mind.

"Y/N." Emily said quietly, her voice breaking through the fog of her thoughts. She stood a few feet away, her expression a mask of professional calm, though Y/N could see the concern in her eyes. "Do you want me to bring you to the hotel?"

"No, thank you." She answered in a beat, not tearing her gaze from the screen. "I need to see this."

"Y/N-"

"I said no!" Y/N snapped.

"Hey, calm down." Hotch quickly intervened, noticing her demeanor changing drastically. "We’re all doing our best here. There's no need for that."

Y/N rounded on him, her eyes flashing with a dangerous fire.

"Don’t tell me to be calm, Hotch!" She muttered, her voice raw with pain. "My husband is out there, alone, being tortured for hours, and you want me to be calm? How am I supposed to be calm? How am I supposed to just stand here and watch while he’s suffering?"

Her chest heaved with each breath, her heart hammering against her ribcage. She felt like she was drowning, like the walls were closing in on her, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her mind was a whirlwind of images of Spencer’s bloodied face, his desperate eyes.

"Do you have any idea what he’s going through?" She demanded, her voice breaking. "Do any of you know what it’s like to watch the person you love more than anything in this world being hurt and not be able to do anything to stop it?"

Hotch’s expression softened, but he stood his ground, his voice gentle but unyielding.

"We’re going to find him, Y/N. But we need you to stay focused. We need you to keep your head clear. If you don't, I will send you to the hotel until this investigation ends."

Y/N shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Hotch... he’s all I have." She whispered, her voice breaking. "He’s everything to me." Her voice dissolved into sobs, her body shaking with the force of her grief.

"We will bring him back, Y/L/N. That's a promise." Gideon’s voice echoed closer to her, his hand squeezing her shoulder for a moment, trying to send any type of comfort to her.

Her blurred eyes got back to the computers, breathing heavily. The video feed flickered for a second, distorting the image for a moment, and she felt a flash of panic, her breath catching in her throat. When the image stabilized, showing Spencer still alive, still struggling, she let out a shuddering breath.

"Please, God." She whispered, the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them. "Just bring him back to me."

She could feel her heart pounding a relentless, painful rhythm against her ribcage. Each beat felt like a countdown, ticking away the seconds she had to save him. Her chest tightened, and each inhale felt like she was dragging razor blades into her lungs.

But it all stopped abruptly when her eyes caught Tobias appearing in the frame again.

"This ends now." Hankel's deep voice echoed from the cheap microphone, echoing around the room. "Confess your sins."

He raised his hand, and Y/N felt her blood turn to ice. Her body tensed instinctively, her muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. She could see Spencer’s fear, see the way his eyes darted towards Tobias's face, wide and pleading, searching for some shred of mercy. But she knew there would be none. Tobias was too far gone, too lost in the labyrinth of his own madness.

The slap echoed through the small room, amplified by the crackling speakers, a sharp, vicious sound that reverberated in Y/N’s skull. It was as if she had been struck herself, the force of it radiating through her bones.

"Oh my God." She gasped, a strangled, broken sound, her hand flying to her mouth as she watched Spencer’s head snap to the side, a fresh streak of blood painting the side of his face. His eyes closed for a brief, agonizing moment, his face twisted in pain.

Y/N felt her own cheeks burn with the phantom pain of that slap, as if Tobias had reached through the screen to strike her too.

The helplessness she felt at that exact moment was suffocating. She was supposed to be his shield, his protector, and yet here she was, miles away, separated by a screen, powerless to stop the horror unfolding in front of her. It was torture of a different kind. Every inch of her body screamed to leap through the screen, to place herself between Spencer and Tobias, to take the blows herself if it meant sparing him.

How could I let this happen? How could I have been so blind?

She replayed the events leading up to this moment, searching for the misstep, the overlooked detail that had led them here.

When Spencer’s eyes opened again, glassy and unfocused, her vision blurred with tears that were never really gone. His pain was a tangible thing, a living, breathing entity that clawed at her heart, ripping it to shreds. She felt a sob rising in her throat, thick and choking, but she swallowed it down.

"Garcia, please..." She whispered, her voice a broken plea. "You couldn't find anything yet? Anything at all?"

The sound of her own voice brought a fresh wave of agony crashing over her. Spencer couldn’t hear her. He didn’t know she was there, didn’t know she was watching, didn’t know she was tearing herself apart with every second that passed.

"I'm sorry, Y/N..."

When Tobias struck his face again, the sound seemed to echo endlessly in her mind, each repetition a fresh cut to her soul. Spencer’s cry of pain, raw and involuntary, cut through her like a knife.

"Reid." Gideon said softly, his voice cutting through the haze of her anguish. His hands gripped her shoulders, turning her back to the screens and lowering his upper body in a way that he could look inside her eyes. "Why don't we step back for a moment?"

She shook her head violently, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand, smearing them across her cheek.

"I can’t leave him, Gideon." She choked out, her voice cracking with the weight of her emotion. "I have to stay with him. I have to-" Her words dissolved into a sob, and she clamped her hand over her heart, trying to hold herself together.

"Oh my, he's killing him." Penelope's words made her go into complete shock, her head turning to the computers so fast that she could feel the pain radiating from her neck.

The sound of the impact of the chair against the ground was sickening, Spencer’s body hitting the hard floor with a thud that reverberated through the barn, and that Y/N was sure she would have nightmares with it for the rest of her life.

"No!" Y/N’s scream tore from her throat, raw and anguished, her hands flying to her hair, pulling at her strands, ignoring the pain that washed over her head, her eyes widening in horror.

On the screen, Spencer’s body jerked violently, his limbs thrashing, his back arching off the ground as his muscles spasmed uncontrollably. Foam bubbled at his mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head, his face contorted in a rictus of pain.

Y/N stumbled back, her legs giving out beneath her, her hand reaching out to catch herself on the edge of the table. The world spun around her, her vision blurring with tears, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Spencer was convulsing, his body seizing, and she couldn’t do anything.

Until it all stopped.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and anguished, as she turned away from the screen. Her fist connected with the doorframe behind them, the wood splintering under the force of her blow. Pain shot through her hand, sharp and electric, but she welcomed it. It was a distraction from the pain that was tearing her apart from the inside.

"Y/N!" Morgan’s voice cut through the haze of agony, his figure reappearing from the room he escaped to minutes before, his hands grabbing her shoulders, pulling her away from the door. "What the hell are you doing?"

She struggled against him, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking with sobs she couldn’t control.

"He’s dead." She choked out, her voice broken. "He’s dead, Derek! He's dead..."

"He- what?" Morgan turned to Gideon, searching for any trace that told him that Y/N's was lying, but there was none.

"I should have been with him. I should have been there to protect him. How could I let him come here? How could I be so stupid?"

Hotch stepped forward, his expression as hard as steel.

"This isn’t your fault, Y/N. None of us could have predicted this. We’re dealing with a monster, and we’re doing everything we can to stop him-"

"It wasn't enough." Y/N shook her head, lowering her eyes to the ground, her heart feeling a kind of pain that she never thought she would have to feel.

"Guys." Garcia's voice was a shaky whisper, gaining their attention. "Guys, you should see this."

Y/N’s head snapped up, her heart lurching in her chest. She couldn't take any more scares.

On the screen, the image had changed. Tobias was leaning over Spencer now, his hands pressing rhythmically on Spencer’s chest, his face contorted with concentration. The sight was surreal, a twisted juxtaposition to the violence they had just witnessed.

Spencer’s body was still, his face pale and lifeless. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she watched Tobias count under his breath, his hands moving with a practiced precision. For a moment, it seemed like nothing would change, like Spencer was gone for good. But then, there was a small, almost imperceptible twitch of Spencer’s fingers. His head rose suddenly, his body jerking as he took a ragged breath, coughing loudly, his eyes flying open.

"He’s alive." Y/N breathed, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and disbelief. Her fingers found the golden ring that decorated her left hand, ignoring her hurting knuckles, her eyes wide as she watched Spencer cough and gasp for air. For a brief, shining moment, hope flared in her chest. Spencer was alive.

They still had time. They could save him.

But the moment was shattered when Tobias’s got away from Spencer's body, his face twisted, his eyes darkening as the cruel, sadistic personality took over again. His expression shifted from concern to cold satisfaction as he stared down at Spencer, his lips curling into a smile.

"You came back to life." Tobias muttered, his voice a low, eerie whisper that sent a chill down Y/N’s spine.

"Raphael." Spencer gulped, breathing heavily, the not so pleasing experience from dying and coming back to life taking a toll on him.

Y/N’s hands found Garcia's shoulder, trembling violently while gripping her covered skin, trying to ground herself.

"There can be only one of two reasons." Tobias - or Raphael - voice echoed again from the computer, cutting into their conversation.

"I was given CPR." Reid muttered, his face twisting in pain. His obvious answer would make Y/N laugh if it was on another occasion.

"There are no accidents... How many members are on your team?" Tobias's question brought confusion to the team's head. Why would he ask that in the middle of his own chaos?

Spencer’s breathing was shallow, his voice weak as he responded.

"Seven."

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Emily, who stood beside her, her brow furrowing.

"Seven?" She repeated, confusion knitting her features. "But there’s eight of us..."

"He took himself out of the count." Emily realized, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Spencer didn’t include himself."

Before anyone could react, Tobias began to talk again, his voice low and ominous.

"Seven. And the seven angels that had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound. The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were thrown to earth."

A horrified understanding dawned in Hotch’s eyes.

"He thinks we’re the seven angels of death." He said, his voice grim. "He believes we’re here to bring about the apocalypse. The seven archangels versus the seven angels of death."

The room fell silent, everyone’s eyes glued to the screen as Tobias lifted Spencer’s chair, setting it upright again. Spencer winced, his body still weak, his breathing ragged. Tobias moved around to stand in front of Reid, his expression a twisted mask of anticipation.

"Tell me who you serve."

"Son of a bitch." Y/N whispered, her voice wavering as her free hand brushed roughly against her cheeks, trying to wipe the tears that never seemed to end.

"I serve you."

"Then choose one to die." Tobias commanded, his voice harsh and unyielding.

"What?" The sound of Spencer’s voice mixed with Morgan's one as both asked the same question.

"Your team members... Choose one to die."

Y/N felt a hand searching for hers desperately, Garcia's touch meeting her own above her shoulders, squeezing her fingers.

Spencer shook his head weakly, his eyes filled with pain and desperation.

"No... I won’t... I can’t..."

Tobias’s face darkened in a way that wasn't like Tobias or Raphael, his jaw clenching. He took a gun from behind his back, raising it with an expressionless face, pointing it directly at Spencer’s forehead, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Oh, but you can." He hissed. "And you will. Or I start with you right now."

Y/N’s left hand balled into a fist at her side, squeezing her marriage ring between her fingers.

Spencer’s voice broke through the silence, choked and desperate.

"Please... don’t make me... please..."

Tobias's eyes hardened, the barrel of his gun almost digging into Spencer’s skin.

"Choose and prove you'll do God's will."

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she watched Spencer struggle with his decision. She could see the conflict in his eyes every time Tobias pressed the trigger, the fear and the resolve battling within him. For a moment, it seemed like he might refuse again, that he might find a way to resist. But then, his eyes closed, his face going still, as if he had made a decision.

When Spencer opened his eyes, his gaze was steady, his voice calm as he spoke.

"I choose... Y/N Reid."

The room went deathly quiet, everyone seeming to stop breathing, the words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. All eyes turned to Y/N, her face a mask of shock and confusion. Her heart stopped, her breath catching in her throat as Spencer’s words echoed in her mind.

He had chosen her. Why?

Spencer’s voice was steady, almost detached as he continued, his words cutting through Y/N like a knife.

"She thinks she’s stronger and better than everyone else. That she can do anything she wants, and no one can stop her. Not even God."

Y/N’s eyes widened, the words stinging like a slap. She felt her eyes burn more than before, her hands trembling. She knew Spencer didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it. But hearing those words from his lips, feeling the weight of his condemnation, was more than she could bear.

The others were staring at her, their eyes filled with shock and concern, but Y/N barely noticed. Her focus was entirely on Spencer, on the pain and sorrow etched into his features.

Spencer’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he began to recite.

"Mark 5:3-4. This man lived in the tombs, and no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain. For he had often been chained hand and foot, but he tore the chains apart and broke the irons on his feet. No one was strong enough to subdue him."

Tobias’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight. He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a dark smile, a different one. The kind of smile Spencer had only seen in Tobias’s father's face.

"Reid?" He repeated, drawing out the name mockingly. "Now that sounds familiar." He glanced down at Spencer’s left hand, the faint glint of metal catching his eye. "Is she the reason for this ring on your finger?"

Spencer’s eyes darted down to his hand without moving his head, the simple gold band that had become a symbol of their love, their commitment to each other. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I... I don’t know what you’re talking about." He lied, his voice wavering.

Tobias's face stiffened, his brows furrowing instantly.

"Lie is a sin. And she's a sinner, like you, and she will be punished for that. I'm honored to do what will make God proud."

Rage flared in Spencer’s eyes, and he struggled against his restraints, his voice rising in desperation.

"Shut up! Shut up!" His voice cracked with the force of his emotion, the words torn from his throat.

The smile across Tobias face widened, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. He leaned closer, his voice a low, taunting whisper.

"I hope you kissed Mrs. Reid goodbye and told her how much you love her before you came here, because you won’t get the chance to do it ever again."

His fingers tightened around the gun, and without a warning, he aimed upwards and fired, the gunshot echoing through the barn. The sound was like a detonator in Y/N’s mind, snapping something inside her.

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears, her thoughts a chaotic swirl. She had to understand. She had to believe that Spencer didn't say all of that for nothing. She had to figure out what he was trying to tell them. Without another thought, she turned and ran from the room, her footsteps echoing in the silence.

"Y/N!" Morgan called after her, his voice filled with worry. But Y/N didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. She needed to find the answer.

Her mind raced as she sprinted down the hallway, the words of the verse running through her head. Tombs. Chains. It was a clue. Spencer was trying to tell them where he was. He was giving them a way to find him.

She burst into the small library, her eyes scanning the shelves frantically. There had to be a Bible here. Tobias was religious, his entire psyche built around his warped interpretation of scripture.

Her fingers brushed against a worn leather cover, and she pulled the Bible from the shelf, flipping it open with trembling hands. She scanned the pages, her eyes darting over the lines until she found the passage Spencer had recited. Her breath caught as she read the words again, her heart pounding with realization.

"The tombs." Y/N whispered, her voice trembling. "He’s in a cemetery."

Behind her, the rest of the team had followed, their expressions a mix of concern and confusion.

"Y/N, you know he didn't... Wait, what?" Emily started, interrupting her train of thoughts after understanding what Y/N was saying.

Y/N turned to face them, her eyes wide, the Bible clutched in her hands.

"He’s in a cemetery." She repeated, her voice filled with certainty. "Spencer said tombs. He’s telling us he’s in a cemetery."

Hotch’s eyes shined with recognition, understanding dawning on his face. He turned to Penelope, who was already typing furiously at her laptop, her fingers flying over the keys.

"Garcia." He said sharply, his voice filled with command. "Search for cemeteries in the area. Any place that fits the description. We need to find him. Go."

Penelope nodded, her face set with determination.

"I’m on it." She replied, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes.

Y/N muted all of their talking after that, standing in the back of the room and looking at her feet, absorving the surge of hope that washed over her, her heart lifting for the first time since this nightmare had begun.

They were close. Spencer had given them a clue, a lifeline. They just had to find him before it was too late.

As the team kept trying to find the exact place, Y/N clutched the Bible to her chest, silently praying that they would reach Spencer in time.

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