#Spencer reid x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darkmatilda · 1 day ago

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𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your first solo, undercover mission unexpectedly spirals out of control when a real heist begins at the scene.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x newbaumember!femalereader, robbery, the reader becomes a hostage, is beaten by the attacker (quite severely), killing of hostages, shooting, inspired by s1e9 where spencer saves elle on a train (the plot is very similar but set in a different scenery), spencer's pov, the attackers are definitely not the gentle type, reader is wearing a skirt (her whole outfit is described), glasses reid propaganda

𝐚/𝐧: merry christmas guys <3 fasten your seatbealts and get ready for this rollercoaster.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14.8 k

"Why do I get the feeling that neither of you is even half as stressed as I am? Actually, scratch that—neither of you is even one-tenth as stressed as me?”

The question left your lips accompanied by a kind of sigh, an attempt to expel the air poisoned with anxiety and replace it with something fresh, clean.

"Because we know you’re going to do brilliantly, sweetheart," Penelope replied without hesitation, sparing you only a fleeting glance as she momentarily tore her eyes away from her computer screen. One of many screens.

Her office was filled with an uncountable number of them, all glowing brightly and lighting up the small, dimly lit space, which was also packed with her colorful accessories—pom-pom-topped pencils and flowerless plants in tiny pots, most adorned with smiling faces or hearts.

"Or rather," Reid interjected, spinning in a circle on his swivel chair, "because we both doubt you’ll even be remotely useful out there." A white box of Chinese takeout rested on his lap.

You shot him a grimace.

"Next time you try to undermine my self-confidence, make sure I’m not holding anything sharp," you warned, pointing one of your chopsticks at him. Yes, less than an hour before your first solo assignment, you were all happily indulging in junk food from the closest restaurant to the office, ignoring the looming possibility of digestive regrets. "Or you’ll lose an eye."

"Aren’t you tired of trying to kill me yet? First, you gave me a concussion…"

"You didn’t get a concussion, Reid. Stop exaggerating…"

"And now, you’re openly admitting that you plan to cause me permanent damage by depriving me of my sense of sight—which, as it is," he said, tapping the frame of his glasses, "is already in less-than-stellar condition."

"You two are just adorable when you argue with each other like an old, bitter married couple," Penelope commented with a small smile on her pink-lipsticked lips.

You first looked at each other, then at her, eyebrows raised, and in a synchronized moment, you both let out a huff. Unfazed, she continued.

"But now we really need to get to work. The exhibit starts in an hour, and you should get there with him. Have you ever used that microphone? It’s the latest model we’re testing, gosh, I’m so excited…"

"You’re adorable when you act like a typical nerd," you shot back, mimicking her little smile and tone of voice.

"A nerd I proudly am! Just like this guy here," she nodded toward Reid, who pouted slightly, looking offended. "You’re surrounded by nerds, sweetheart. Soon enough, you’ll become one too."

"Dear God, forgive me my sins and watch over me…" you whispered, staring at the ceiling.

The mysterious he that Garcia mentioned was named Christopher Allen, and he was surprisingly young for a neurotechnology engineer. He worked on issues surrounding the human brain and developed devices designed to have a broad range of effects on it. But why were you supposed to go with him to some exhibit? Equipped with a spy microphone? And why was it stressing you out so much that for the past ten minutes, you had only been picking at your Chinese takeout instead of eating it?

Well, it's hard to decide where to start explaining from.

You were summoned before Hotch yesterday, who informed you that an opportunity had arisen for you to prove yourself in the field. Alone, undercover, for the first time in your—let’s be honest—tragically short career at the FBI. On top of that, this was meant to test all the new equipment your team had received, the kind that Penelope had been so enthusiastic about. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the main reason you’d been assigned this task. Someone had to check the effectiveness of the gear, and at the same time, you, the rookie, needed to gain more experience. Allen’s case was like killing two birds with one stone.

This scientist had worked with the FBI multiple times, and that’s why when danger started looming over him, he was quickly assigned protection. The threat came from threatening letters and even a direct attack at his own home, which fortunately didn’t end in tragedy. Allen was descending into paranoia and was afraid to even attend public events, even ones with full protection, like the tech exhibition—taking place in one of the modest local museums—designed to showcase the latest advancements in neurotechnology and more.

He was probably afraid that during the event, someone would simply rush at him with fists and try to murder him in front of dozens of random technology and brain enthusiasts. Or something like that. Your task was to pretend to be his assistant, never leaving his side and carefully observing the surroundings. And that was it. Nothing too demanding was expected of you, unless things started to go south. However, that seemed highly unlikely, as everyone made it clear to you.

Still, you couldn’t shake the fear—whether justified or not—that something would go wrong. And it would be your fault.

“Reid, clip the microphone on her,” Penelope interrupted your train of thought with the order. “You’ve never used one of these before, have you, sweetheart?”

You nodded in confirmation, watching as Reid set aside his box of Chinese takeout to take the tiny device from her. He stopped a step in front of you, perched on the edge of one of the desks, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the small black microphone in his hand and you.

“Where… where can I…?” he asked, trailing off as he made a vague gesture with his hand, surprisingly loaded with awkwardness.

“Oh,” you let out a confused sigh, beginning to consider where it might be best to place it. The sleeve? Shouldn’t it be closer to your face to capture even your quietest whispers?

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” you said, starting to unbutton your white shirt, revealing a significant portion of your neckline. “Here?” you asked.

“Yeah… I think so,” he replied hesitantly but didn’t move.

It wasn’t until a moment later that he swallowed and, with a slow, deliberate motion, reached for a section of your shirt near your cleavage. His actions were careful—almost excessively so—like his top priority was ensuring he didn’t accidentally brush against your skin.

The microphone’s clip was quite small, though, and attaching it to your clothing required him to take another step closer and lower his head near your chest.

Even as your breathing slowed, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Penelope shaking her head in amused disbelief.

You preferred to look straight ahead rather than at his fingers, working with such careful focus, though you couldn’t help but let your gaze flicker to them repeatedly. Just for fractions of a second—it was difficult to pull your eyes away once they landed there.

Only when he finished, his hands dropping quickly to his sides as he stepped back, did you realize you’d been holding your breath for quite some time. You became acutely aware of how stifling Penelope’s little office was—how did she even manage in the summer?

"That's not all," the woman on the screen broke the silence, one you hadn't even realized had fallen. "There's also a transmitter you'll need to keep on you somewhere. Securely, so it doesn't fall out. Are you planning to go dressed like that?"

You glanced down at your outfit. A simple black skirt and white shirt—the first thing that came to mind then you learned you'd be posing as an assistant.

"Inappropriate?" you asked, searching for an answer first on Garcia's face, then on Reid's. The latter gave the barest shrug, barely even looking at you.

"You look amazing. Absolutely stunning, darling. I wish I could have an assistant like you," Penelope reassured you. "But in this economy, I can only dream about it. Anyway, my point is, you don't have any pockets. Where are you planning to keep the transmitter and your gun?"

"I was thinking of just tucking it into my skirt. At the back."

"I don’t think that’s the best idea," Reid interjected doubtfully. He hadn’t reclaimed his spot on the swivel chair and stood instead, arms crossed over his chest. The embarrassment you’d managed to put him in (quite adorable, really) was slowly dissipating, leaving only a faint blush on his cheeks. The corner of your mouth twitched when you noticed it. "I mean, it could fall out, or start sticking out, which could lead to questions like why an assistant is walking around with a gun..."

"Okay, I get it," you sighed. You could’ve thought this through a bit better. "Maybe I’ll have time to swing by home and grab, I don’t know, a blazer or something..."

"You won’t," Penelope declared after glancing at the time. "But you can always borrow my jacket."

You looked at the garment draped over the back of her chair—a bright pink leather jacket. You didn’t even bother responding; you simply stared at it, letting the expression on your face do the talking.

"Alright, I admit it, I didn’t think this proposal through. So, it looks like we’ll have to..." She trailed off, her gaze landing on Reid’s figure. Surprised by the attention, he pointed at himself.

You also directed your attention at him. He was wearing a simple brown blazer, which would go well with your unremarkable outfit.

"Take it off," you instructed.

He was silent for a moment, though there was no visible protest on his face—just doubt.

"It’s gonna be too big," he remarked, his hands gently grasping the edges of the jacket as if unsure whether to take it off.

"Apparently, oversized is coming back into fashion."

"Okay, fine," he sighed, removing the jacket. Underneath, he wore a shirt and a black vest, from which a matching tie peeked out. Initially, he seemed hesitant about the idea, but handed it to you with some urgency. "Here you go."

You sent him a brief, grateful smile.

"You’re saving my mission, Reid. I’ll mention you in the report. And I’ll frame your name with a little heart, drawn with one of Penelope’s glitter pens," you declared.

He returned the gesture, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he gave a small nod. You noticed his gaze was almost fixed on your face, as if some invisible force were forbidding him to look away, down or sideways.

You didn't think too much about what it meant, you didn't really have time. You put on the blazer, which was indeed a little too long, and hid the transmitter in the inside pocket. You placed the weapon at your hip, concealing it with your clothes. As you were about to leave, you said talk to you later because the two of them were going to communicate with you through the earpiece the entire time. They wished you good luck, and you were just about to leave the desk when Reid, suddenly as if unable to stop himself, said your name one last time.

You looked at him questioningly. Instead of responding, he made an uncertain gesture near his chest. Confused, you looked down.

For the entire time, half of the buttons on your shirt were still undone.

You had never met him in person, but you recognized his face from snippets of interviews that occasionally appeared online, or perhaps he had even been on the news a few times. He was in his thirties, give or take five years, hard to tell. His entire persona seemed to be built around the carefree nature of a young eccentric with a sharp mind and an unrestrained tongue, constantly refining his thoughts and conclusions, often controversial, causing an uproar among the public. Without a doubt, he was one of those people often called a genius. Which, not always, was a compliment.

Allen seemed deeply displeased by your presence. He looked… tired. His red hair contrasted with his very pale complexion, as if made of glass, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. He wasn’t shockingly tall, about your height, but with broad shoulders.

"The FBI was supposed to provide me with protection because some psycho is literally trying to kill me, and they send you?" he asked, bitterly, exchanging a brief handshake with you before getting into the car.

You both sat in the back, the driver at the wheel. You were supposed to arrive at the exhibition together. His reaction caught you off guard, his open anger sparking the same feeling in you.

"What's your problem?" you asked. His insulting tone irritated you the most, especially since he hadn’t even had the chance to get to know you.

For a moment, the man sat staring out the window. His body was tense, almost stiff, as if stressed. His elegant attire, with a shirt half-tucked into his pants and too many buttons undone, suggested that he usually dressed more casually.

He let out a heavy sigh, as if furious, then hastily wiped his face with his hand.

"Just..." he began coolly and cautiously, as if holding back some cruel words. "I get the feeling that everyone is downplaying the seriousness of this situation."

"We're all approaching this with the necessary commitment," you replied, though it wasn't entirely true. Allen had every right to fear for his life, but each of you honestly doubted anything would happen to him during this exhibition. If the threat had been real... Hotch probably wouldn't have sent you. "Believe me, we understand the gravity of the situation..."

"Really? Even the letters I've been getting? The content of them?"

You knew about the threats sent by an unknown sender, but you hadn't delved into what exactly they contained. Seeing you hesitate to answer, Allen scoffed.

"You're fucking great at your job, no doubt. So let me fill you in. They come every day. Every fucking day. And I read every single one of them. You know, I've even started seeing a pattern. First, they beg me. Then they threaten to fucking kill me. Smash my face into the ground, beat me to death with a metal rod, rip out my ribs, douse me in gasoline, and set me on fire..." He paused, dramatically scratching his chin. "Oh, almost forgot. They're going to peel the skin off my back. Then there's a day off. No letter comes. The next day, they apologize. I don’t know if this psycho has some extreme split personality or... or... I have no fucking idea. The cops said, get this, it's normal. 'Cause I’m a public figure."

"They brushed it off?" you asked, slightly shaken.

No matter how famous he was, threats were still threats.

He shrugged. He was trying to speak with a voice full of dismissive irony, but it wasn’t working. He stumbled, taking breaks to swallow. Though he had treated you like a complete jerk earlier, you were starting to understand.

“First off, until someone broke into my house and tried to drag me out of bed and take me…God knows where. Probably if I hadn’t had a dog…” he trailed off, glancing back out the window. You’d arrived at the museum, where the exhibition was to be held, but Allen hesitated to get out of the car. “This guy is nuts, whoever he is. I don’t know what to expect from him. He wants to kill me, kidnap me, torture me? Or maybe he’ll just settle for shooting me from a distance like I’m some goddamn Kennedy?”

“That doesn’t really sound like him,” you said in a calming tone. “He tried to kidnap you from your house, why would he suddenly attack you in a public place…”

“My fiancée is pregnant,” he suddenly blurted out.

You blinked, unsure how to respond to the sudden confession.

“Congratulations?”

“For her safety, I sent her very, very far away, somewhere she shouldn’t be in any danger,” he continued, completely ignoring your words. “And though her and the baby’s well-being is my top priority… I also need to take care of myself. I need to make it to their birth…and longer, of course. But that’s why I’m afraid to even go out to the damn store for milk, and that’s why I was so pissed off when I found out they assigned me a woman who, no offense, looks like she wouldn’t know how to hold a gun.”

You instinctively scoffed at his last comment, though it was hard to stay particularly mad at him, knowing everything he was going through. An awkward silence fell between you, heavy and laden, during which the two of you simply stared at each other. It hit you that you were responsible not only for his safety but also for ensuring that someone’s fiancé and future father would make it home.

“We should get going,” you said, nodding toward the museum. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a certain tension at the thought of leaving the car. You shook your head slightly, trying to dispel it. “And just so we’re clear, I do know how to handle a gun—more than you’d think. But for your sake, you better hope we don’t have to put that to the test.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Well then, onward, assistant. Tell me, how much do you know about neurotechnology?"

Well, by the end of this day, you were definitely going to know a lot more. Together with Allen, you crossed the threshold of the museum. Its decor clashed with the theme of the exhibition, but apparently, they hadn’t managed to secure a better location.

The interior layout was harmonious—rounded arches were supported by symmetrically arranged marble columns, and the dominant shades were gold and royal red.

Your destination was the exhibition hall, circular in shape, where mahogany tables served as display stations for various prototypes in the fields of medicine, neurobiology, and informatics. In other parts of the building, there were tall, arched windows, but this particular room had none. No natural light entered; all illumination was generated by lamps that, to their credit, mimicked the natural diffusion of sunlight quite effectively.

Among the displays were an interactive brain map and various projects still in development but aimed at assisting people with disabilities.

You observed all of this with interest while simultaneously listening to your companion’s impromptu lecture on the human brain (apparently, talking helped him calm down). At the same time, you were closely monitoring the crowd around you.

True multitasking.

The exhibition was open to everyone; no one was checking who entered the venue. Although you counted three security guards in the room—dressed in simple black suits and mostly tasked with ensuring that no one tried to steal anything—there was a subtle air of unease hanging in the atmosphere. If Allen’s suspicions were correct, the person intent on ending his life could be one of these faces. To your surprise, however, he suddenly seemed far less concerned about it than you were.

“You don’t have to follow me around like a shadow,” he said, leaning toward you to make himself heard over the murmur of surrounding conversations. A familiar face with a loud, bright red tie waved at him and began making their way over. “Just don’t take your eyes off me, no matter what. And keep an eye out for anyone suspicious—whatever that means to you. Hey, man!”

He greeted his acquaintance with a friendly handshake. Following his instructions, you took a small step back, deciding to take a short stroll among the exhibits. But after barely two steps, your finger went to the discreet earpiece hidden under your hair.

“Are you there, my lovely nerds?” you asked with a playful smile, knowing they couldn’t see it but imagining their reactions.

“At your service!” Garcia responded enthusiastically, and you could almost picture her saluting on the other end.

“And what about Mr. Smartass? Did he get bored and wander off to study the reproductive habits of ants?”

“I heard that!” he replied, summoned by his new nickname. “Such gratitude for letting you borrow my jacket.”

“Speaking of the jacket,” you continued, “I found a candy in the pocket. How thoughtful of you to leave me a little sweet treat.” You weren’t joking; there really was a candy inside. You inspected the wrapper and frowned. “Marzipan? Ugh. Do you have the taste buds of my grandma?”

"To what I know, I haven't had a taste bud transplant. Especially not from anyone's grandmother," he replied nonchalantly. "And as for those ants..."

"Sorry to interrupt, my darlings, but I have a few questions about the sound quality of these new microphones..."

True to her word, Garcia began asking you how well you could hear them and instructed you to lower your voice to a whisper and then raise it sharply. Some sort of test or whatever. You did it all patiently while staring at the red-haired mop at the station across from you. Allen seemed pretty relaxed now, probably realizing nothing was going to happen to him.

"Okay, now do the sound like a chicken. I mean the noise."

"What?"

"You know, cluck."

"Pen, is this really necessary?"

"Yes, sweetie. I need to check something else. Last thing, I swear. Scout’s honor."

You sighed, looking around at the people nearby. Few were paying attention to you, you were just one face in the crowd. God, for something like this, you could ask for a raise.

"Exactly, honey. Just louder," Garcia asked.

You rolled your eyes and tried again to make the chicken sound. An older couple glanced at you, their eyes wide with horror.

"Alright, enough," you muttered, embarrassed, into the earpiece, quickly moving to a different spot.

And then you heard the pair on the other side literally choking with laughter.

"I fucking hate you guys," you said. "I hate you. Especially you, Penelope. Give me Reid on the mic, from now on I'm only talking to him."

Another burst of laughter from the woman. You clenched your jaw. And as if that weren’t enough…

"Did you want to hear me, little chick?" Reid asked politely.

“I should’ve gouged your eye out with a chopstick when I had the chance,” you hissed into the phone, a little too loudly, drawing a few curious glances. You were supposed to be watching for suspicious people, but it turned out you were acting the most suspicious of all…

“Did you catch what she said?” Reid addressed Penelope. “I only heard clucking.”

“Ha-ha,” you rolled your eyes.

For fifteen minutes, you had to endure such jokes. You seriously began to worry that they’d never get tired of it, but finally, after a quarter of an hour of psychological torture, they fell silent. You kept a sharp eye on your surroundings.

“By the way,” you began, still a bit offended by the chicken joke. “You guys should regret not being here to see these inventions. Perfect for you, nerds.”

“Well, actually, we can see them,” Reid’s voice came through the earpiece, sounding very clear, clearly taking the whole mic for himself. “Garcia grabbed footage from the cameras inside the room.”

“So you can see me? This whole time?”

“Yep. And we saw that terrified couple who ran as far away from you as they could as soon as you started clucking like a chicken. Poor souls.”

You ignored the comment and began scanning the room for the cameras. When you found them, you scratched your forehead with your middle finger.

“Can you see this too?”

“I can see how much fun you’re having,” he scoffed. “Are you going to include that in your report?”

“Exactly. Right under your name, framed with a glittery little heart. Any other requests?” Not waiting for his response, you added, “By the way, how do I look in your jacket? Does it fit me well?”

"I think so. I mean, the blazer is incredibly well-tailored. And of good quality. It’s impossible for it to look bad on anyone." He paused for a moment, and his voice grew more serious. "How’s it going? Have you noticed anything suspicious? Still feeling stressed?"

"Not anymore," you admitted, speaking the truth. Even though the exhibition had just started and was supposed to last about another hour, you felt like you had passed some milestone where nothing could go wrong anymore. "But of course, I’m still keeping an eye out. I had a little chat with Allen…"

"I heard," Reid acknowledged. "Very interesting lecture on the human brain, I must admit."

You let out a small laugh.

"I talked to Allen earlier. Still in the car. After what he told me, I don’t think he's a paranoiac. The guy is just really worried about his safety. And not just his.”

A moment of silence fell on both sides.

"Speaking of Allen, he's heading your way," he informed you, likely watching the feed from the cameras. "I guess I'll hear from you later then. I mean, I’ll be hearing you the whole time, just not the other way around. Unless you want me to constantly broadcast about ant reproduction?"

"Sorry, Reid, but I’ll pass. Maybe some other time," you chuckled, noticing the engineer approaching. As he walked, he bumped into a man in the crowd and exchanged a quick apology. You used that moment to add something else, a bit impulsively. "And what about this? Do you see this?"

You pressed the inside of your hand to your lips before unfolding it, sending a kiss toward one of the cameras. Reid was silent as Allen drew closer.

"I see it," he finally admitted, quieter. You regretted not being able to see his expression, it was unusually hard for you to picture it at that particular moment. Was he smiling? "And I like it a lot more than what you showed me earlier."

You turned your back to the camera so he wouldn’t see you smile. It only hit you afterward that he probably saw it anyway, just from a different angle.

"I see you're enjoying the exhibition," Allen said, standing in front of you with his hands in his pockets. He had stopped pretending to be the classy guy and fully embraced his more laid-back side. "So, uh, sorry, but I think I'd rather head out now."

Worried, you discreetly glanced around.

"Did something happen? Did someone stare at you weirdly, do something...?"

He shook his head, a negative gesture.

"Nothing like that. I just saw what I needed to see. Check it off the list, I’m ready to leave..."

After his words, an absolute darkness fell.

Absolute darkness, in the truest sense of the word. The exhibition hall had no windows. When the lights went out, it felt as if someone had tied a cloth tightly over your eyes. Yet, like a fool, you kept looking around, as if moving your head could somehow tear through the blackness enveloping you, freeing you from the growing panic that was slowly flooding your senses.

“Garcia, what’s up with the cameras?” Reid’s voice sounded in your ear. He was confused, not yet frightened. He didn’t know what was happening yet. None of you did.

The people around you, of course, were also surprised by the sudden blackout. A few muffled gasps echoed, one or two squeals, a smattering of curses. But there were no screams, no one tearing at their throats or blindly bolting forward, trampling others in the process. That came later.

Exactly four seconds after the first gunshot rang out.

Before, the world seemed to freeze in place; everyone’s breaths were trapped in their lungs, unwilling to escape, even out of curiosity. Your body lunged forward as if trying to flee, but it quickly dawned on you that there was nowhere to run. Where had the shot come from? Who had fired it? Was someone hurt?

Something—or rather, someone’s hand—clamped painfully around your wrist. Instinctively, you tried to pull free, letting out a sound somewhere between a growl and a garbled cry.

“It’s me,” Allen choked out, his voice trembling. You couldn’t see his silhouette, but you knew the blood had drained from his face. “What the fuck... what the fuck is happen—”

The second shot rang out, closer and sharper than the first. Chaos erupted in the room. Screams, so hysterical they drowned out the voices coming through your earpiece, filled the air. Something struck you hard, sending you stumbling as pain radiated through your shoulder. It was an empty kind of pain—something you felt and yet didn’t. You realized it must have been one of the panicked people charging blindly through the dark.

“Here,” you commanded, your mind snapping briefly into clarity. In your mind’s eye, you pictured the layout of the room before the lights went out. The corner of the hall, the wooden table behind you, where one of the prototypes had been displayed.

You slipped under the table, dragging Allen with you. He groaned as his head hit the underside of the furniture.

You were so utterly disoriented that it felt as though your own name was echoing on a loop inside your head. It took you a moment to realize it wasn’t just your mind playing tricks—it was someone’s voice, growing more familiar with each passing second.

The third gunshot.

Allen choked on his breath, his hand still gripping your wrist so tightly you feared it might snap—yet you didn’t register it as pain, merely as a sensation. The two of you crouched beneath the table, facing each other, teetering on the edge of succumbing to the abyss of panic.

Reid spoke your name again, faintly, as though he were far too close to the microphone. As though leaning in would somehow make you hear him better—make you respond.

“I’m here,” you managed to stammer, the first thing that came to your mind.

"Thank God, I thought..." he sighed, suddenly stopping, as if realizing it wasn't yet time for relief. "Are you... are you hurt?"

"My arm."

You didn't know why those words escaped your lips. Maybe because, although your mind was too occupied with trying to figure out the situation to focus on something like pain, your body couldn’t ignore the fact that it felt it. Against your will, you let out a hiss and finally pulled your hand out of Allen's grip.

"You've been shot? We... we can't see anything, do you have anything to stop the bleeding, maybe use my jacket..."

"I don't know what's happening, we've completely lost access to the camera feed, someone must have turned them all off, just like the power... Reid, immediately notify Hotch, he needs to know something's wrong..."

On the other side, chaos erupted, comparable to the one surrounding you. Penelope was aggressively pressing the keyboard keys, Reid was rushing between a phone conversation with Hotch and throwing random phrases at you like stay where you are or how's your arm?

But was staying put the right decision? Wasn't it just waiting for the person responsible for starting this... massacre to come for you? On the other hand, how were you supposed to escape? In complete darkness? You had a weapon... but what good was it if you couldn't see anything? A sound of resigned sobbing escaped you.

And then, suddenly, right before your eyes, Allen’s red hair materialized, his fingers pressed into his skull as if he wanted to tear it apart himself. You both looked into each other's eyes. Visibility returned.

“We have light,” you said, though it didn’t loosen the grip on your chest.

“What?” Penelope sputtered, confused. “We still can’t see anything, the cameras are still…”

Allen let out a choked cry. You followed his gaze. Just before your hiding spot, a pair of leather shoes stopped.

“Get out,” commanded a male voice. You lifted your head. Above you stood a man with dark facial hair and a submachine gun, looking like an extension of his broad shoulder. You immediately noticed, besides the weapon, he was also carrying a black sports bag slung over his shoulder. Both of you were too disoriented and terrified to follow the order. “I said, fuckin’ get out and against the wall, I won’t repeat myself.”

Like animals herded into a pen, you followed his instructions to the designated spot. The entire crowd inside gathered against one of the blood-red walls of the room, some pressing their backs against it as if that embrace would ensure their safety...

“What’s going on there now?” Reid asked. “We still don’t have a feed... I can hear you breathing,” he blurted out unexpectedly.

You realized that your breath had indeed become heavy and loud. It dawned on you that you hadn’t gone through any extensive training on how to handle a situation like this; you were useless...

“Just...damn it, I know it’s easier for me to say, but try not to panic, okay? Whatever’s going on... panic will only make it worse. You need to focus, please. Can you do that? Breathe? Slowly, like I’m doing now?”

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his jacket, feeling it under your fingers. Closing your eyes, you could almost imagine him standing right in front of you, in this very building, speaking those words. It helped calm you down, at least enough for your mind to stay somewhat communicative...

“Good. Very...very good. Now, can you describe what’s happening over there?”

You knew that every piece of information you passed on would be worth its weight in gold. You tightened your grip on the fabric of Reid's jacket and began scanning your surroundings.

“One shooter. He’s herding us... all of us, against one of the walls and... stuffing prototypes into the bag, every one he can get his hands on,” you reported, describing everything you’d seen. “It looks like a robbery.”

“Just one?” Reid asked. “What were those shots? Someone... got hurt?”

You were about to deny it when your attention was drawn to a bloodstain spreading across the marble floor at the opposite corner of the room. Allen nudged you, pointing to something else—a body lying motionless.

“Guards. He... he killed all the guards,” you recognized them by their uniforms, the words barely escaping your throat. So, he hadn’t hesitated to kill, not one of those inexperienced types with any moral inhibitions. Trying to make sense of everything happening around you, you pressed your hand to your forehead. “But... but how could he see them in this darkness...”

“Night vision,” Allen interrupted suddenly, his previously hunched figure straightening as he realized it.

You found the man busy with the theft and controlling the area. He was quite solidly built, you could compare him to Derek. And, as the engineer had observed, around his neck hung a device for seeing in the dark.

“The police have arrived outside the museum, but they won’t go inside as long as you’re trapped with him. They don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Penelope informed you, then let out a soft, wheezing breath, as if she was trying to calm herself down. “Sweetheart, the whole team is on their way too. From now on, you’re our informant…”

“Is Christopher Allen among you?” A commanding voice suddenly cut through the sheet of panic blanketing the room, drawing everyone’s attention. It belonged to a truly imposing man with a shaved head and a forehead lined with wrinkles that seemed to stem more from exhaustion than age. But by far, the most significant detail about him was the submachine gun he held in his hands.

Two. There were two shooters.

Your focus shifted to the man standing right in front of you, as if delivering some kind of speech. At first, you didn’t even register what he’d asked. He repeated the question quickly and impatiently, and you froze. Not that you’d been particularly active before, but in that moment, all your bodily functions seemed to shut down completely. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Allen—not even for a fleeting glance.

“Christopher Allen. Biotech engineer. He should be here,” the man continued, scanning the faces in front of him almost desperately, searching for the one he needed. He sounded almost... distraught? That broken expression, teetering on the edge of tears and madness, starkly contrasted with his militaristic physique.

Suddenly, his accomplice appeared, tugging at his arm.

“Jesus, give it a rest. We need to get out of here. The car’s waiting for us, remember?”

He shoved the smaller man with a force befitting his build, sending him staggering backward.

“I’m not leaving until I talk to him!” he declared with furious determination. “Christopher Allen…”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me…”

“Allen…”

His eyes scanned the surroundings until they landed on the two of you. You felt someone lightly wrap their fingers around your forearm, gripping it almost instinctively. It wasn’t a strong or painful hold, but rather one born of genuine fear, seeking protection. Protection that, from the start, had been your responsibility to provide. Yet now, standing face to face with two armed assailants, with lifeless bodies lying in pools of blood in the same room…you felt the crushing weight of an obligation you were physically incapable of fulfilling, creating a storm of chaos within your mind.

Allen must have been fooling himself into thinking he could blend into the crowd and remain unnoticed. Even as everyone’s gaze began to focus on him, urgently and with some unspoken hope, he stubbornly stood still. Or was he simply paralyzed by fear?

For the first time since he was called out, you looked at him. His eyes conveyed one thing: a simple message. It was him. The man who had been sending him threats, the one who had broken into his house. You furrowed your brows, this whole situation was becoming incomprehensible. He cared so much about kidnapping the engineer that he had organized the heist at the exhibition where he was supposed to be?

“Come here. I need to talk to you, you… you need to do something for me.”

Once again, in your ears, you heard the description of the tortures that were mentioned in the letter.

"You have to do this," you said very softly, almost a whisper. "We can't let him get angry. Do you hear me?"

It seemed like your words weren’t reaching him at all. You nervously glanced at the gunmen, hoping that the command you had given hadn’t raised any suspicion or made them think you were trying to outsmart them, deceive them in some way. Slowly, but with deep remorse, you loosened Allen’s grip on your forearm. His chest wasn’t rising, as if he weren’t breathing. But then his gaze shifted, not to you, but to the people around you, to the ones standing in fear, waiting for his reaction. Something in his face shifted, then he took a step forward.

“Slowly,” you instructed.

It seemed like the best solution. Unsub knew that the person he was looking for was among you, he had identified him without any difficulty. Allen couldn’t hide or escape, all that was left for him was to comply with the orders, for his own sake and for everyone else's. It was also important that he stalled for time. You hoped that as soon as your team arrived, they’d be able to come up with something. Maybe they were already there, working to make contact with the shooters and free you all, alive and unharmed.

At the same time, someone called your name.

"Report in."

It was Hotch. At the sound of his stoic voice, a fleeting wave of relief washed over you. You even parted your lips to answer when you realized the second gunman was staring at you. The room fell into absolute silence as Allen slowly approached them. You shouldn’t reveal that you were with the FBI or any other agency—that was a basic rule…

"Listen to me carefully now," the unsub spat, placing one of his massive hands on Allen's shoulder, causing him to almost buckle under the forceful touch. Someone behind you let out a muffled cry. "You need to remove it from me, do you understand?"

"Shit," his partner muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He was holding a bag with the stolen equipment, constantly glancing toward the exit. You wondered if he had anything to do with the threats sent to Allen. "Shit, we need to get the hell out of here before the cops completely block our escape. We don't have time for your fucking delusions!"

“Remove…?” the baffled engineer repeated, completely thrown off.

“The chip. The one inside me. Right here, on the back of my neck.” The man jabbed a finger at the spot. “Someone has to cut it out of me. You work with brains—you must know how to do it. He’s controlling me, watching my thoughts… I saw an interview with you once. I know you’re the only one who can do this…”

The man’s words devolved into a stream of incoherent rambling. Allen had no idea how to respond, and silence stretched on the other end of the phone. Meanwhile, the second gunman tried once again to persuade his partner to escape, but this only triggered an explosive burst of rage that made everyone around them shrink in fear.

“Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off too!” the man shouted. “I’ve waited too long for this. I don’t give a damn about all that crap you stole. I don’t care if they catch me. He’s going to cut out that chip!”

“What chip?” Allen finally managed to stammer. “I don’t understand…”

“The chip the government implanted in me to control me! That’s why no hospital will remove it—they’re all under government control! Only you can do it!”

“The unsub is delusional, that much is clear,” Reid’s voice suddenly crackled in your earpiece, catching you by surprise. He must have made it from Penelope’s office to the museum—where he joined Hotch and the rest of the team—at an impressive speed. “The reality he’s constructed is starting to blur with actual reality, which makes him extremely dangerous. Just from the tone of his speech, you can tell he’s emotionally unbalanced and on the brink of a breakdown. Unfortunately, this means his actions could be erratic and violent, with a strong tendency toward escalation.”

"What can I do?" you whispered as quietly as possible, taking advantage of the commotion in the center of the room.

"Are you there? Can you speak safely?" he asked, exhaling a breath of trapped air. "I mean... What you can do, first and foremost, is stay cautious. Don’t say or do anything that could provoke him further," he instructed, his tone turning focused and determined to provide you with as much guidance as possible. You nodded almost imperceptibly as you listened, as if he could see you. At some point, your fingers began nervously clutching the fabric of his blazer again, a small, unconscious tic.

"Don’t confront his delusions—or rather, don’t outright deny them. Try not to introduce any new elements either, to avoid deepening his paranoia, alright? That could put you in even greater danger..."

"Above all, try to redirect his anger away from Allen and the other hostages," Hotch cut in. "We’re working on a way to get inside. You just need to buy us some time."

Buy some time, it was easy for him to say, you thought with sudden frustration. What exactly could you do? It was incredibly hard to make any decisions when you were fully aware that their consequences could result in the death of an innocent person—or people.

Allen was still in front of the unsub, gripped tightly by the gun-wielding man, slightly shaking his head from side to side, clearly overwhelmed by the situation.

"But... but how am I supposed to get the chip out, do you really believe the government..."

"He doesn’t have the right tools," you interrupted, taking a step forward to draw the shooters’ attention to you. You raised your hands in a gesture of surrender as soon as you found yourself in the second man’s line of sight. You were scared of the direction Allen was heading in—after all, Reid had told you not to deny his delusions. Though you weren’t sure it was the right approach, you tried to make eye contact with the unsub. You had a feeling that he might only fully understand what you were trying to convey if you did.

Everyone was looking at you now. Nervously, you swallowed before speaking again.

"If you want him to remove the chip from your body... you’ll need at least a scalpel. Well, and if it was implanted by the government... that might not be enough?"

To your surprise, the second attacker spoke up.

"She's right, Erick, we don't have anything like that. Leave him, we need to get out of here... though fuck, it probably doesn't matter anymore, I wonder if the police have already caught our driver..."

You hoped that the team had heard this and started looking for suspicious vehicles in the area. Erick, or rather the unsub, began to stare intensely at you, analyzing what you'd said.

"Keep it up," Reid said. "It looks like you’ve planted some doubt in his mind about his own plan. You can keep going in that direction, just please, please, be careful..."

"Reid," Hotch admonished him.

You took a deep breath, your mind was working so fast that it was starting to go blank. You had to say something more before it consumed you entirely.

"But... but I'm sure that if you had met under different circumstances, outside the museum, he would have been able to extract the chip..."

"No! I've waited too long, I can't stand having this crap under my skin for another minute! He'll take it out now, or he won't leave here!"

Allen's raised hands trembled at those words.

"How can we communicate with the police? Is there a phone here?" he asked his companion.

"Are you fucking out of your mind..."

"They'll bring us the equipment. A scalpel. They won't have a choice, or I'll shoot them all, one by one."

"We should focus on how to get out of here..."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT!" the unsub roared at him. Fueled by this outburst, he shoved Allen away so forcefully that the man fell to the floor. The startled man took a step back, unable to hide his fear. It was clear who had the final say in this duo. Erick was not only physically larger, most likely more ruthless, but above all, incredibly unpredictable. Without looking at you, he issued an order.

"Everyone sit against the wall, you too." Allen awkwardly got to his feet and almost ran to the indicated spot.

You didn't want to sit, to put yourself in an even more vulnerable position. But when a man with a submachine gun and a completely deranged gleam in his eyes is standing in front of you, you don't have much of a choice. Slowly, you sat down on the floor, surrounded by all these terrified people.

You studied the faces of everyone around you—scientists and random people who had ended up here simply because they were intrigued by the exhibit's theme. And that innocent curiosity had led them into such a hopeless situation, where each breath, drawn into trembling lungs, could prove to be the final one. What terrified you was the fact that the only thing distinguishing you from them was the tiny microphone pinned to your clothes and the earpiece in your ear.

The woman sitting next to you, so close that your elbows were touching, looked as though she was about to faint. Without hesitation, you offered her your hand, which she took with no resistance. In situations like that, the escape from fear was desperately sought wherever it could be found—even among strangers.

“What’s happening in there now?” Hotch asked.

You explained the situation to him as clearly and logically as possible, correcting anything they might have missed due to their lack of actual insight into what was happening inside the museum. The woman beside you looked at you strangely, smudged mascara around her eyes.

“Please don’t worry,” you whispered, making sure none of the attackers could hear you. Though maybe you shouldn’t have, you felt you needed to reveal yourself to her, to help her survive the nightmare she had found herself in. “I’m... a federal agent. I have contact with the team outside, they’re working on how to get us out of here.”

You didn’t know if those words had particularly soothed her fear—just as you spoke them, Allen practically pressed himself against you, trying to whisper something into your ear.

“Give me your gun,” he practically ordered.

You looked at him with your eyebrows raised in shock. No words were needed. Your face clearly expressed one big what?

He looked like one of those people going on and on about a newly invented device they had been working on for years, staying up every night. In his eyes was a comparable crazy but incredibly self-assured gleam.

“I know you have it, but you won’t use it. Because you're scared. And I don’t blame you!” he quickly added, moving slightly away from you. Still, your faces were tilted toward each other in a conspiratorial whisper.

“But listen to me. He cares about me, right? Or rather, he cares that I get the nonexistent chip from him. He won’t hurt me when I get closer, he’s too desperate, in his eyes, I’m his only chance…”

“You must have lost your mind,” you said through clenched teeth. Was he really willing to take such a risk and play the hero when he and his fiancée were expecting a child? “And what about the other guy, huh? Do you think he’ll just stand there calmly when...?”

“Then I’ll shoot him first. I used to go to the shooting range, I was pretty good at it. The other one will be too scared to hurt me, and then I...”

“Absolutely not,” Reid interjected.

You snorted.

“As if I would even consider it…” you muttered. Looking at Allen, you tapped your forehead. “No way. You’re not risking your life on such a stupid plan where everything could go wrong…”

“Do you think I’m asking for your opinion?” he hissed, clutching his head in desperation. “The answer is no. I’m just saying, give me your gun. Where is it?”

As he said this, he grabbed the fabric of your blazer, searching under it for what he so desperately wanted. You tried to catch his hand, but he trapped it in his grip, digging through the layers of your clothes, under your skirt. You jerked your whole body in an attempt to break free.

“Leave me alone, they’ll notice us soon…”

“What’s he doing?” Reid asked sharply. Although he couldn’t see what was happening, his voice was not only confused, but also clearly worried, maybe even angry.

“Just give it to me, what the hell does it hurt…”

His hand, despite your resistance, finally reached the grip of your gun, slightly sliding it out from beneath your skirt. You shot a quick glance toward the attackers, still engrossed in their conversation—or rather, argument. Terrified by the thought that they might notice what Allen was pulling from under your clothing, you instinctively swung at his face, causing his head to snap back with a muffled cry of pain.

“What language do I need to speak for you to understand? What you’re planning is idiotic,” you said, your words flowing together with a surprisingly calm yet furious ease. You struggled to keep your voice low, feeling as though shouting might make him grasp it faster. But that wasn’t an option. “You’d risk not only your life but everyone else’s,” you said, gesturing toward what you now had no choice but to call the hostages. “And no one wants to die because of some brainless idiot with a hero complex.”

After you hit him, Allen backed away to a distance that no longer invaded your personal space. With your breath quickened, you adjusted the position of the gun, suddenly panicked that it might fall out during his attempt to grab it against your will. Despite yourself, a strange feeling overcame you. Out of everyone—of all the people trapped in the museum—you were the only one with even minimal knowledge of what to do in this situation, the only one with outside communication to the police, and, most importantly... a weapon. And yet, with that arsenal at your disposal, you were doing embarrassingly little to improve the situation.

Your jaw tightened at the thought, your fists clutching the fabric of your blazer so hard that your knuckles turned white. It was astonishing how much that small action helped you regain your composure. Not just the feel of the fabric but also... the scent. You could almost imagine you weren’t entirely alone in this. And though you wouldn’t trade places with Reid or anyone else from the team for anything, you couldn’t shake the feeling they would handle this far better than you were.

And speaking of Reid...

"Are you okay?" he asked again, his tone much softer than before.

"I'm fine," you tried to give your voice a casual, almost dismissive tone, though you doubted you fully succeeded in masking the tension. You let out a helpless scoff in an attempt to lighten it. "I mean, fine as much as one can be fine in this situation..."

You trailed off, and he hesitated before replying.

"Hang in there, okay?" he said, so quietly you thought you might have misheard. It made you wonder if it was because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear what he was saying into the mic. If that were the case, was it because he didn’t want anyone accusing him of chatting with you when he should be doing something more important? Or maybe, he just didn’t want this simple yet anxious message to reach unwelcome ears and lose its sense of privacy. You heard him swallow. "We’ll get you all out of there soon. Garcia got the phone number of one of the attackers, the delusional one—his name’s Erick Larson, by the way. If he has it on him..."

As if on cue, the sound of an incoming call rang out. They stopped talking, and the surprised man reached into his pocket.

"What are you going to do? Negotiate?" you asked.

"Hotch is going to talk to him. The main goal is to get the hostages released."

The word hostage sounded so strange to you; you couldn’t connect it to your situation. A hostage didn’t have a gun tucked under their clothing or communicate with an FBI team through an earpiece. Those people, holding each other's hands in fear and huddled on the floor, were the hostages. Not you.

"Can you stay on the line?" the words slipped out before you could stop them. "Just, I don’t know... tell me how it really is with those ants or something." You squeezed your eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment crashed over you. You were acting like a scared child who needed a bedtime story to forget the monster under the bed. "Forget it, that’s stupid. You’ve probably got your hands full. Focus on helping us, on the negotiations."

"I'm still on the line," he reassured you, even before the echo of your last words faded. "And I’ll stay on it the whole time. And since talking to you might help you not lose your mind in there... well, I guess that counts as helping all of you. The information you’ve given us, everything you’ve told us... you’re playing a crucial role in all of this."

"I don’t think so. I could be doing so much more."

"Like what, something that idiot was planning?" he asked, stressing the word idiot. "Please, don’t even think about it. You’re doing exactly what’s needed. You’re not sticking your neck out, you’re staying in contact with us. You’re calming the others down, like that woman. That... that’s heroism, not blindly rushing at two armed men."

Moved by his words, you weakly smiled. You’d forgotten again that he couldn’t see you, or maybe it was just automatic.

"Stop, I’m going to blush. But... but thank you, Reid."

"You don’t need to thank me. Oh, he picked up..."

And indeed, Erik pressed the phone to his ear, probably realizing that it was the police trying to make contact. You fixed your gaze on him.

A completely new stage of the robbery was beginning, one on which everything depended—negotiations.

Spencer had never had a particular obsession with control.

In the vast majority of crisis situations, all he needed was a deep understanding of the causes and course of events. A thorough analysis of what had happened so far, drawing conclusions based on that, and then coming up with possible solutions, each with its pros and cons, which he also had to consider.

It involved emotionally distancing himself from the situation and relying on advice from his trusty friend—logic. And when he was guided by that cold logic, he didn’t feel the need to actively participate in what was happening around him or take any direct control. But in that particular moment—ever since he had heard the first shot coming from inside the museum, shortly after losing access to the cameras—he was almost losing his mind over how little he could do. Powerlessness was the first blow, the fact that her life, and others', depended on a man with probable schizophrenia, driven by dangerous delusions, the second, much stronger one.

As with every hostage situation, a makeshift operations camp was set up outside the building, where all necessary units gathered. Garcia stayed at her post, but he saw no other option but to go there personally. The rest of the team quickly gathered, and Hotch arrived so fast it seemed like he lived just around the corner. After all, there was a member of his team inside, the one he had sent there, never expecting such a turn of events. The two perpetrators, who were working together, seemed to have two completely different goals. One, apparently, was persuaded to go along with a simple robbery and escape. The second, Erick, however, had a different, more complicated desire from the start. He wanted Allen, who was supposed to extract a non-existent chip from his body, allegedly implanted by the government.

Allen. He spoke that name with an incomprehensible bitterness and disdain. He was disgusted by his thoughtlessness, pure stupidity. Though he was familiar with his achievements in the field of neurotechnology, he couldn't call him a scientist, really not anything other than an idiot. And it was all because he had nearly put her and everyone else in danger, because he pressured her so much that she had to defend herself by striking him in the face. He remembered how once they had slept in the same bed, so small that they almost fell off it and were forced to lie literally on top of each other. By accident, he had jabbed her with his elbow in the ribs, and before he could even whisper an apology, she hit him with such force that he lost his breath. He hoped Allen had taken an even harder blow.

He forced himself back to reality, as everyone gathered around Hotch, who was leaning over the phone. The unsub had answered, and the discussion began.

"We'll deliver what you need. All the equipment. But first, you must release the innocent people inside and promise you won't hurt anyone else. Not Allen, or anyone."

They argued, a lot. Of course, they wanted him to let everyone go, which was, realistically, impossible. Eventually, the number sixteen was agreed upon, a little more than half of the people present.

Through the microphone clipped to her clothes, they could hear him pointing at the people who were to be released. The second perpetrator seemed to have completely given in to his paranoid companion, and stopped trying to convince him to escape. He must have realized it was already too late for that.

“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said, his words very clear, suggesting he was standing very close to her, pointing at her.

Spencer straightened up, a sudden rush of premature relief washing over him. Premature—that was the key word.

“No,” she protested sharply. “No, let her go instead of me. She’s older and not feeling well. I should stay…”

He pressed the microphone to his mouth, trying to talk her out of it.

“Do what they say, resisting might make him angry…”

“No, Reid, she’s right,” Hotch interrupted him. Spencer looked at his boss in surprise, shaking his head in confusion. Instead of explaining his decision to him, Hotch turned to her.

“You have to do everything you can to stay inside. You’re our only source of information, our access to what’s happening in there.”

“Hotch…”

Someone, JJ, placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from protesting further. It dawned on him that they were right, but... it was hard for him to accept. It was true that, as an FBI agent, part of her duty sometimes meant risking her life for the greater good. Still, this decision made his hands ball into fists, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Suddenly, it struck him that if an unfamiliar agent, not a member of the BAU, not his friend, and someone who hadn’t shared a bed with him when his fear of the dark grew stronger, were in the same situation... he would have agreed with Hotch without hesitation.

“I told you to leave, so you leave. There’s gotta be sixteen people, or they won’t bring it to me, goddammit.”

“So let someone else go…” She cut off abruptly, a rustling sound echoing through the air, as if— as if he tugged at her clothes. Spencer almost spoke again but stopped herself. The same thought had crossed Hotch’s face, he saw it.

“Seriously, this will be better. I... I can help with removing the chip...”

“Allen has to do it.”

“Yes, but…” her voice grew more desperate, trying to come up with something more, an excuse to fulfill her duty.

“Oh, what don’t you understand, you stupid bitch…”

Spencer anticipated the sudden outburst of aggression, he had felt it building for a while. Though the unsub was unpredictable, his anger rose and fell within mere seconds, Spencer knew it was all heading in that direction. So, he squeezed his eyes shut just before the horrible, dull thud rang out, followed by a muffled cry of pain. Then the sound was drowned out by a rush, something like a thud, and he could only guess that she had fallen to the floor.

He didn't open his eyes, but something pricked at his chest. He knew that if he looked at Hotch, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giving him a big, i told you so. It wasn’t even about being right—he didn’t care about that, not at that moment. What mattered to him was that nothing happened to her, and that was exactly what had just happened.

No one from the team said a word, though Derek turned his gaze away from the speaker, his expression one of discomfort, like someone averting their eyes from an unpleasant scene. Hotch stared at some fixed point ahead, his face unreadable, before leaning into the microphone just as—

“What the hell is this?!” the unsub suddenly screamed. “A gun? Why the hell does she have a gun on her?!”

Reid’s eyes shot open as he nearly dropped to his knees by the microphone, as if somehow that could help. The weapon must have slipped out when she fell, sliding free from where it had been concealed beneath her clothes…

He noticed Elle nervously biting her thumb, her face pale as a sheet. He read the same grim, terrified realization on her face that had already taken root in everyone’s minds. She was burned. Her cover as the assistant was completely blown.

“He can’t find out she’s FBI,” Gideon declared, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. “He’s a paranoid maniac who thinks the government is after him. If he realizes a federal agent has been in there the entire time…”

“Wait!” the second attacker spoke up. He had long since given up and was now quietly following his partner’s orders. “I heard the hostages talking... something about there being someone from the FBI among them, someone who’s in contact with the cops. I thought they were just talking crap, but...”

“How does he know that?” JJ asked, her lips slightly parted in shock.

“She told one of the women,” Spencer blurted out, though it felt like the words came from someone else. Some part of him—still detached from the full realization of what her exposure meant—clung to the fragments of logic not yet consumed by his nerves. “To calm her down... but that woman must have passed it on to someone else.”

“FBI?” the unsub repeated, almost in a daze. “Fucking FBI?”

The sound of something slamming echoed sharply—an explosion of frustration and shock. Every pained whimper, every labored breath she took, reached Spencer with cruel clarity, amplified by that damned new microphone clipped to her chest, capturing every sound in merciless detail.

He wanted to cover his ears, to block it out, but he couldn’t. His lower lip trembled, caught between screaming or vomiting the moment he opened his mouth.

Covering his ears would have been a selfish gesture, one that would only bring relief to him. She didn’t have that option; all that was left for her was to endure, as he assumed, the next kicks...

He lowered his head, not looking at the others, not wanting to see their equally helpless expressions. And although he hated himself for even thinking about it, he took two steps to move away. To escape from this place, from these sounds. Because he simply couldn’t bear them.

However, he didn’t get far; he staggered as if drunk and had to grab the table tightly to keep from falling. JJ, in some protective impulse that she probably wasn’t even aware of, reached out her hand, wanting to touch his shoulder, but he pushed her away.

“I’m calling him,” Hotch announced, immediately moving into action. “Maybe that’ll stop him…”

“Check if she has a microphone on her. If she’s with the FBI, she could have been spying on us the whole time,” suggested the second attacker, in a strangely satisfied tone. He was probably some sadistic bastard who enjoyed this turn of events.

This caused Erik to stop his attack. He completely ignored the incoming call. She took a breath, inhaling deeply, though it clearly caused her pain.

“She has…”

The unsub’s voice became very clear, he must have located the microphone and then disconnected it from her clothing, carefully watching him.

“We need to go in, we have to do something,” Elle said desperately, but it didn’t stir anyone else.

Yes, they needed to do something, but... what? Going in meant putting the hostages at risk, and their survival was the priority.

"I knew the government was spying on me," Erick muttered to himself, the microphone had probably slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground. "Not just with the chip, but they also sent that fucking..." He kicked her. "...agent."

"Give it to me," Spencer requested, exhaling with a resigned hiss. He was, of course, referring to the microphone. She still had the earpiece in; she could hear him. He didn’t yet know what he intended to say. Maybe he’d ask her to stay strong? Assure her that it would all be over soon? Would that even count as a lie if he had no real certainty they could take any action to save her? Or was this one of those morally gray situations where a lie was better than the truth?

Without protest, someone handed the microphone to him, practically shoving it into his hands.

But then they lost the connection.

The unsub must have destroyed it, stomping the microphone underfoot.

And before it happened—before the static filled the line—a gunshot rang out.

Spence found himself sitting on a chair. Not that he’d blacked out in the literal sense, but one moment he was standing upright, and the next he was slumped onto the seat—probably the only chair in their makeshift camp across from the museum. It was one of those folding chairs made of black metal and unbelievably uncomfortable. For some reason, their look always reminded him of golf courses in the blazing sun. Sometimes they’d be there… wait, why the hell was he thinking about chairs?

Disoriented, he lifted his gaze. Derek was pacing back and forth, his hands on his head, while Elle and JJ were nowhere in sight. Hotch stood in front of him, turned slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the ground, a phone pressed to his ear. His rolled-up sleeves exposed tense veins on his forearms, his hands clenched into fists.

“You killed a hostage,” Hotch said the moment the attacker picked up. Hearing the words spoken aloud, the gunshot echoed again in Spencer’s mind. He flinched, though he hadn’t the first time it happened for real.

It really happened. This wasn’t some hysterical thought creeping into your mind when someone you care about is late to a meeting and doesn’t pick up their phone, the kind of thought where your brain starts whispering that something terrible must have happened. It wasn’t a dream either, nor a nightmare blending with reality. And it wasn’t some devastating novel, a climactic moment designed to shatter the reader’s heart into pieces.

This

really

happened.

"I’ll remind you of the terms of our agreement," Hotch continued. His tone was usually sharp, leaving no room for argument. But now, having just lost a member of his team and addressing the person responsible for it, his words didn’t just cut—they sliced. Spencer fixed his gaze on him, unable to comprehend how Hotch could remain so composed in the moment. He himself…

“You don’t harm anyone else, and in return, we provide you with the necessary tools. Shooting that innocent person…”

How did it come to this—that the person who, just that morning, ordered Chinese food with him to calm her nerves; who had teasingly told him to clip the microphone onto her, leaving him flustered; whose sweet scent of hair lingered so strongly in his senses that he had to hold his breath just to focus; who, one moment, could make him laugh until tears blurred his vision, and the next, worry so deeply about her that he felt feverish with concern; who listened, truly listened, even when he had grown tired of his own voice; who helped him discover pieces of himself he hadn’t known were there; who revealed, day after day, some new and enchanting fragment of her soul; and whose laughter made him want to capture its melody, bottle it, and keep it for eternity—was now reduced to the cold, detached phrase an innocent person shot dead?

He realized his mind had become entirely consumed with replaying those moments. Thanks to his eidetic memory, each recollection was painfully vivid, yet at the same time—perhaps due to the awareness of what came next—filled with a paralyzing void. Detached from reality, he wasn’t even listening to the ongoing negotiations, only snapping back when the shadow of someone’s figure fell over him.

“Spencer,” Gideon called his name, alternating between looking at him with concern and averting his gaze, as if unable to bear the shattered expression on his face. “Did you hear what Hotch said?”

He couldn’t bring himself to shake his head, though he doubted it was necessary. Rarely did something fail to interest him, especially something Hotch had said, but whatever it was, it had landed firmly in that narrow category. After all, what could Hotch possibly have said? That he’d reached an agreement with the murderer, who would now release eighteen hostages instead of sixteen? Or perhaps, in an act of twisted mercy, he’d declared that once they brought the requested items, the killer would allow one person to go inside and retrieve her body?

He had seen many bodies with gunshot wounds to the head in his life. A vision of her with similar injuries haunted him, so vivid and detailed that he closed his eyes in an attempt to escape it. But the moment he did, the image only grew stronger, searing itself into his mind with unbearable clarity.

"He wants you to go inside pretending to be a surgeon. That’s what the unsub is asking for in exchange for the hostages. Your task would be to fake removing a chip from his body, pulling off one of your magic tricks," Gideon explained matter-of-factly, though his expression betrayed a certain doubt about the plan. He suddenly fell silent, hesitation creeping into his voice. "If you can’t do it… this isn’t an order, kid. No one will blame you if you say no."

“We didn’t know it would be such a terrible mistake,” Gideon said quietly.

“Well, that’s the thing about mistakes,” he scoffed bitterly. “You don’t usually realize you’re making them. But you should be able to predict them, especially when someone’s…” His voice broke, and he looked away, his anger momentarily crumbling into something rawer.

Even though he had lashed out at Gideon, the older man didn’t react with anger. Instead, he stared at Spencer with a calm, almost sorrowful expression. When Spencer stood, he felt the weight of Gideon’s hand resting on his numb shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” he declared after a moment.

There was no fear in his voice, no visible sign of stress. Under different circumstances, he’d likely have been unraveling, nerves fraying at the thought of entering the building with the task of saving her. But now…now all he wanted was to stand face-to-face with the man inside. More specifically, next to his neck. With a scalpel in hand.

There was no time to waste. He practiced his sleight of hand trick—making the chip suddenly appear in his palm—a few times. It had been a while since he’d done it, but even so, it came off flawlessly every time. He clenched the small device tightly in his hand and, before he knew it, found himself standing at the foot of the museum steps.

The doors opened, and the first hostages began to emerge. Their reactions followed the same pattern. First came the shock—the struggle to process that they were truly stepping outside again, alive. Then, as they began to accept it, their terrified, hesitant steps turned into a relieved jog, and their eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude.

Spencer stopped, his gaze fixed on the faces of random strangers as they rushed past. Somewhere, deep down, he held onto a foolish, fleeting hope that she might appear in those doors as well. She didn’t, of course.

But if she had… he thought, his chest tightening at the mere idea. If she had, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop being thankful. Not necessarily to God, but to everything—every twist of fate—that had brought her back.

He had seen the interior of the building on the camera footage and had managed to memorize it. He knew exactly where to head to meet the unsub. The unsub was standing right in the center of the room. Spencer knew there had to be a second shooter somewhere, but he was afraid to look around. If his gaze happened to land on her, not only would his chip trick fail, but he was also certain he’d never be able to shake the image from his mind. It would embed itself in every cell of his brain, one after the other.

He focused all his attention on him, on Erik. He turned to him trustingly, showing the spot on his neck where he believed the chip was located. Everything about his posture radiated the peak of madness. His voice and expression oscillated between hope, desperation, paranoia, and much more that could be listed.

Spencer tried to concentrate on the chip in his hand, not on the scalpel in his other hand. He knew it would be incredibly foolish, but as he was so close to this man's throat, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He realized that the only thing holding him back was the awareness that the second shooter was likely keeping him in their sights. It was almost certain; he didn’t need to look around to know that. But as soon as the blade touched the man’s skin at the back of his neck, his gaze, against his will, began searching. He looked at the wall where the remaining hostages were gathered, the ones who hadn’t made it into the lucky sixteen. He didn’t find the shooter.

But he found her. If he weren’t wearing his glasses, he might have assumed he’d mistaken her for some other woman. He could only blame his brain and possible hallucinations... but before he could entertain those thoughts, one simple sentence took over his mind.

She was there. Blood dripping from her nose, clothes torn, curled up on the ground among the rest of the hostages, but she was there. She was there, alive.

When you stood up for that woman, a brief struggle broke out between you and the unsub. He ordered you to go outside, but the voice in your ear told you to stay inside at all costs. Unsure of what to do, you started mumbling excuses and explanations, leading to an argument... during which he swung his weapon at you, aiming for your face.

As you fell, your weapon—clumsily shoved into your clothing after an argument with Allen—slipped out. And then things escalated rapidly.

Upon learning you were with the FBI, the unsub went into his usual paranoid frenzy. He dropped the microphone he had taken from you, and the heavy kicks of his leather boots landed on your body, on your ribs, on your back. You could barely keep up with protecting yourself, as the blows kept coming faster and faster.

And in that moment, something happened that probably saved your life. But at the same time, it cost another man and his family everything.

Allen sprang at the second attacker, who was almost hypnotized by the injuries being inflicted on you. He seized the moment of distraction, yanking the weapon from his hand and turning it against its owner. You remembered the fleeting look of triumph on his face as he aimed it at Erik. And then, the look of confusion when he was overtaken and the bullets tore through his body.

Somewhere in that moment, your microphone must have been destroyed, leaving you without contact with the team. And without it... you were just like any other hostage. Beaten, forced to stem the blood running from your nose with your blazer. You remembered glancing at it, running your finger over the fabric soaked in crimson, and thinking you'd have to wash it before returning it to Reid. Then, the hopeless realization hit you that maybe you wouldn’t get the chance to do that, and helpless tears filled your eyes for the first time.

It was strange that the unsub decided to spare you. Was it the incoming phone call that distracted him? Or perhaps the death of Allen? Was he the reason for this whole attack? You weren’t sure, maybe both at once. But you managed to return to your spot against the wall, where the other hostages had moved as far away as they could from the two lifeless bodies lying in a pool of blood.

Behind your back, the unsub was arguing with the police, probably Hotch. You weren’t paying attention to their negotiations, instead kneeling beside Allen. Completely staining your clothes, you reached for his hand. His eyes were wide open, his chest... maybe rising slightly, or maybe it was just your perception. In any case, you didn’t grab him to check his pulse, to see if there was anything that could be done to save him. You knew there wasn’t. You took his hand in a gesture of gratitude for everything, filled with sincere and deep compassion, despite everything that had happened between you. Maybe he turned out to be a jerk in that one, crisis situation where it’s normal for people to lose their minds. But what mattered was what kind of man he was in everyday, calm conditions. What kind of friend, fiancé, father he was.

You froze in place, staring at his face, his messy red hair. You snapped back to reality only when you realized the unsub was releasing the hostages. You weren’t part of that group. He didn’t look at you, or Allen, or his dead accomplice, as if you didn’t exist. The people were let out of the building, and then…

You nearly jumped to your feet at the sight of Reid, but the sharp pain in your ribs stopped you. Instead, you stared at him, confused as to why he’d gotten himself into such a messed-up situation alone. No one was with him, and you couldn’t even tell if he was carrying a weapon. Why was he taking such a risk? Couldn’t they have sent someone else?

Although your gaze bored into him, asking without words, he stubbornly avoided looking at you. It took a while, but then it hit you—he’d probably been told to hide the fact that you knew each other. He was pretending to be a surgeon, you realized.

You watched in shock as the unsub dropped his weapon and turned his back to Reid, begging him quietly to remove the chip from his body.

Before Reid touched the scalpel to his neck, he looked straight at you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face, but you knew there was a lot going on. It was a long moment of eye contact, which he broke to get to work. Focused, brow furrowed.

You shook your head in disbelief when he really pulled the tiny device from his body. Wait, so what? It had really been there all along? The unsub wasn’t a paranoid delusional?

At the sight of the chip, Erik staggered with a mix of hysterical joy and relief, and after a moment, he literally collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His body was shaken by sobs as he muttered his thanks. He was... absolutely harmless. The hostages took advantage of his vulnerability, using the opportunity to silently leave the museum. You found yourself among them, even helping those who, due to shock, struggled to move. How? With your injuries? You had no idea.

You pointed one woman toward the ambulance waiting outside the building, ready to take any injured hostages. Around you, sounds echoed, people were running in all directions. A sense of disconnection and disbelief washed over you, as if you couldn’t quite grasp that it was all over.

You turned around, sensing someone's presence behind you.

The first thing you noticed was that Spencer was still wearing his blue rubber gloves. Strange, but the first thing that came to your mind was to focus on that detail. You even opened your mouth to speak, but stopped when he gently cupped your face in both of his hands. As if you were a fragile relic, he tilted his head slightly from side to side, almost as though he was trying to deny the fact that you were standing before him.

"As if you saw a ghost," you whispered, a faint smile appearing on your face.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was leaning toward you, you pressed your forehead against his. With your eyes still open, you saw his eyelids tremble. When he closed them, you caught sight of that single tear beginning to form beneath them.

"Reid," you said, as he and the rest of the team were heading towards the exit. All heads turned in your direction, but you only cared about that one. "Can we talk?"

He opened his mouth, seemingly surprised by the request, but then swallowed and nodded.

"Sure. If... just, sure."

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. Since your rib injuries were numerous, you had to be taken to the hospital for an X-ray. Your face wasn’t looking too good either. Only a few hours had passed since everything happened, and all your wounds were fresh and painful. After taking a decent amount of painkillers, you felt a bit like you were floating. You were sitting on the hospital bed, your legs resting on the floor as if on a bench. You made space beside you, and although he hesitated for a moment, he sat right next to you, so close your shoulders almost touched.

What you wanted to say, everything you felt, was hard to put into words. So you spent a few minutes in silence, during which you concluded that the simpler, the better.

"Thank you, Reid."

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head dismissively.

"Thank you? For what? I should be thanking you."

You knew this would happen. That he would downplay what he did, and it would be incredibly hard for you to express all the gratitude you felt towards him.

"For what? For everything," you stated briefly. He was preparing a response, but you beat him to it. You even raised a finger decisively, signaling for a moment of silence. You had a lot to say. "Not just for pretending to be a surgeon and getting into that museum. And don't shrug it off like it was a small thing! You saved those people."

"Maybe a little, but…"

"But that's not all. You were… you were with me the whole time. You kept talking to me the entire time…"

"Just like everyone else…"

"Everyone else gave me orders. Told me what to do to survive and what not to do. And of course, I'm incredibly grateful to them—if it weren't for them, I would have probably pissed off that unsub after less than fifteen minutes and we'd all be dead by now."

Reid flinched when you said that. Maybe you should hold off on such words, while the whole situation was still so fresh.

"You... you kept asking how I was feeling, talking to me, just... your voice, the fact that I had you on the other end, it helped me not panic. When, at the very beginning, you asked me to breathe with you..."

You shook your head, holding back the involuntary recollection of that moment, that memory when you were still trapped in that building with two armed men. Helpless and lost, clutching his jacket with all your strength.

You realized with growing difficulty that you were holding back tears.

Reid had been listening to you quietly the whole time, but suddenly, he lowered his gaze. His hand found yours, hesitated for a moment, then gently grasped it. You immediately squeezed it tightly. Something came to your mind.

"And what did you want to thank me for?" you asked, referring to when he interrupted you the first time.

"It's not... I don't have as much to say as you do," he confessed, circling the topic more than addressing it directly. He still hadn't let go of your hand, and as he thought, his thumb seemed to absentmindedly stroke its surface.

"Wow," you murmured. "I never expected Spencer Reid to say something like that in my presence, but here we are. So?"

He smiled for a moment at your comment. However, that expression quickly gave way to a more serious one, carrying with it the unburied remnants of the horror you had both endured just a few hours ago.

"Just for you being alive," he said. Your brows furrowed slightly when you heard that. It wasn't what you expected. "For a while... when you were still inside, and your mic was destroyed..." With a sigh, he tilted his head back, holding back from returning to that moment. It couldn't have been easy for him, referring to exactly the moment that caused him pain. "We heard a gunshot. Everyone thought it was you. That's why... that's why I just wanted to thank you for that."

Given that you had absolutely no control over it, those were the strangest thanks anyone had ever given you. But still, they squeezed your heart like no others ever had.

You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek.

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#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #spence reid #spencer reid angst #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you

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enderlovez · 2 days ago

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Trivia Night

Spencer Reid x BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 791

Summary: Garcia should've known it was a bad idea to put you and Spencer on opposing teams at trivia night, and now she's stuck with two very competitive people who will stop at nothing to win.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Garcia should have known better. Really, she should have.

The idea of a BAU trivia night seemed innocent enough—a fun team-bonding activity after a particularly grueling case. Drinks and snacks and a little friendly competition, what could possibly go wrong?

Apparently everything, when she made the critical error of placing you and Spencer on opposing teams.

"Alright, everybody!" Garcia chirps, standing at the front of the room with her clipboard. "Trivia night rules are simple: answer correctly, earn points; answer incorrectly, face public humiliation—kidding, sort of. Now, let's keep it light and friendly, okay?"

Spencer casts you a sly look from across the room, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Light and friendly," he echoes. "Got it."

You meet his gaze with an arched brow. "Sure, as long as you don't cry when you lose, Doctor Reid."

A ripple of laughter goes through the team, but Garcia sighs, already regretting her decision. "Why did I think this was a good idea?" she mutters to herself, scribbling a quick note to never pair you two against each other again.

The first few rounds go smoothly enough. Questions about geography and pop culture and history fly by, each team racking up points. You nd Spencer trade victories, but the air between you grows increasingly charged with every answer.

"You didn't even buzz in for that one!" you accuse after Spencer correctly answers a particularly obscure literature question.

"Because the answer was obvious," he replies smugly, leaning back in his chair.

"Oh, it's on," you mutter, cracking your knuckles dramatically, much to the amusement of the rest of them.

By the time the final round rolls around, the room is split between two factions: Team Spencer and Team You. Everyone else has resigned themselves to the sidelines, content to watch the show. Even Garcia has given up trying to referee, instead leaning against the bar with a drink in hand.

"This question," she announces, "is for the win."

You sit up straighter, your focus narrowing. Across the table, Spencer mirrors your intensity. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened—classic signs of a man in deep competition mode.

"What is the capital of Bhutan?" Garcia asks, her eyes flicking between the two of you.

Your hand slams down on the buzzer half a second before Spencer's. "Thimphu!" you shout triumphantly.

Garcia checks her clipboard, nodding slowly. "Correct."

You throw your hands up in victory, earning cheers from your teammates. Spencer, however, is already leaning forward, his expression incredulous.

"That was a reflex," he argues. "She didn't even think about it."

You smirk, holding your hand up for a high-five from Morgan. "Or maybe I'm just faster and smarter than you, genius."

Spencer narrows his eyes. "Faster, maybe. Smarter? That's debatable."

The room erupts into laughter as you two go back and forth, your playful banter quickly escalating into a full-blown debate over split-second reaction times and the nuances of trivia strategy.

"Alright, alright!" Garcia finally intervenes, clapping her hands to get your attention. "We're calling it there before this turns into a break up. Trivia night is supposed to be fun, remember?"

You glance at Spencer, who's still staring at you like you've personally insulted his entire academic career. Despite his faux-annoyance, there's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Truce?" you offer, extending your hand towards him.

He considers it for a moment before shaking it. "Truce. But don't think this means I'm letting you win next time."

"Next time, you'll have to try harder," you reply with a wink.

As the room starts to clear now, you linger by the bar, waiting for Spencer to join you. When he does, he's holding two drinks—one for each of you.

"Good game," he says, handing you the glass.

"You're not mad I beat you?" you tease, taking a sip.

"Mad? No," he replies, leaning against the counter. "Impressed? Maybe. I didn't think you'd know the capital of Bhutan."

You grin, nudging him playfully. "I'm full of surprises."

Spencer chuckles, his gaze softening as he looks at you. "You know, Garcia's probably ever going to let us be on opposing teams again."

"Probably not," you agree. "But it was fun while it lasted."

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the earlier competitiveness melting away. Despite the antics, it's moments like these—when you're teasing each other, laughing, and completely at ease—that make everything worth it.

"By the way," Spencer says after a moment, his tone casual but laced with mischief, "you buzzed in half a second early. Technically, you cheated."

You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn't fade. "Technically, I still won."

"Technically," he echoes, his lips quirking into a small smile.

And just like that, the competition starts all over again.

#spencer reid x girlfriend reader #spencer reid x bau reader #spencer reid oneshot #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #enderlovez

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bohemianblasphemy · 2 days ago

Text

Please.

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Contains: Friends to lovers, a lil angsty?, Getting injured on a case, him bandaging your wound and being upset (but only cuz he’s In love with u), subbish(?) Reid, smutty smut smut, fluffy ending

“It was a stupid decision, Y/N. You could’ve been seriously injured.”

Spencer muttered as he gently cleaned your wound with antiseptic solution, hearing you wince at the sting on your gash on your collarbone- your button up, blood stained shirt hanging off your shoulders.

“Spencer I’m okay, I swear…” you gritted your teeth as he swiped the cloth over your injury.

The job was always going to be risky- going after prolific serial killers always came with it, and tonight was no exception.

Garcia had managed to locate the unsub, pinging his last known location to an abandoned farm house where he had his latest victim held captive.

You had snuck in around the back of the farm house to sneak upon the unsub, as Hotch and Emily had their aim on him as they attempted to get him to back down, to put down the hunting knife and surrender.

You had the opportunity to disarm him from behind, but the unsub had clocked that he was surrounded, his senses causing him to swing his knife behind him and slice across your collar causing you to cry out in pain, falling to the ground to avoid any further injury- Morgan taking the opportunity to disarm and take him down.

Spencer had run in- having heard your cry and immediately kneeled to your side. You looked okay, but your shirt had a wet stain of red splashed across it.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you.” He said softly, his face neutral as he pulled your shirt gently to the side to look at your skin, looking at the result of the unsubs actions. His face turned into a frustrated expression, which was unusual for him- especially when it came to you.

“Wound is bleeding but it’s not that deep- I’ll help you with it.” His tone was different this time - he was pissed. Before you could get a word in he helped you up, taking you out of the farm house.

You wanted to protest, but he was having none of it as he excused you both from the scene.

Now you were both in the bathroom of his apartment, you sat upon the counter as the smell of the cleaning solution invaded your senses.

“You should’ve stay back further from him.” He was blunt as he repeated his frustration. “This could have been a lot worse. Y-you- you could’ve-“

“Spencer, again- I’m okay. I’ve had worse injuries on the scene you know this.” You couldn’t keep repeating yourself- trying to reassure and somewhat comfort him, but his stubbornness was not budging.

Spencer shook his head, muttering something about staying behind as he carefully pressed a bandage to your wound, smoothing it out so it sat neatly on you.

His fingers grazed against your skin, sending light shocks through your spine.

“I can handle it, Spencer - I’m more than capable of taking these people down…” you told him quietly, his eyes flicking down to yours as he stood tall in front of you from patching you up.

“I know you can.” He was firm in his words. “But- dammit if anything ever were to happen to you I wouldn’t know what to do-“ he continued to ramble, his words becoming somewhat scrambled as he spoke, which was unusual for him as he was always articulate.

“I care about you- so much.” He whispered, his long fingers tracing your biceps so delicately.

“Spence, I care about you too.” You copied his volume, his touch once again making you tremble.

“No- no I mean… more than I should. More than just… friends.” Spencer closed his eyes, preparing himself for the possibility of rejection.

He couldn’t help it- the feelings he had tried so desperately to keep shoved deep down in his heart, convincing himself that you could never feel that way about him; that he didn’t deserve to have someone like you love him had bubbled to the surface.

His words ran through you like a train; trying to process his confession. You had always felt something for him- god it was hard not to with those gorgeous hazel eyes and curls, his shy personality and his intellect- he was just the pinnacle of perfection.

“I didn’t know you felt that way…” your fingers traced his jaw, seeing his eyes flicker open with a hitch of his breath. “But god I feel it for you too.”

Spencer let out a jagged sigh, full of relief as you shared the same infatuation.

“I-I tried to keep it professional… b-but you make it so. Damn. Hard.” Spencer breathed out, pressing his forehead against yours- he was drawn to you like a magnet.

“I can’t hold it back anymore…”

“Then let’s stop pretending.” You whispered, your lips ghosting over his, resulting in Spencer letting out an almost whiney sound.

Spencer didn’t miss a beat as he pressed his lips on yours, soft and gentle.

Your hands went to his cheeks, rubbing your thumbs along his sculpted face in your passionate embrace, pulling him closer so he stood between your legs as you still sat on the counter.

The heat between you both was palpable, your kiss growing stronger and heated. Spencer’s hands gently caressed your bare sides, creating a strangle whine at how soft you felt under his finger tips.

He pulled away, his breathing laboured as he gazed at you with glassy eyes.

“Please…” he whispered, the need in his voice clear as day. “Tell me what you want baby…” you muttered, your fingers tracing the sides of his throat.

“I-I wanna touch you… please let me love you.” His lips were parted, soft pants falling from them.

You nodded slowly, moving your hips down off the counter to plant your feet to the ground. “Cmon…” you whispered, taking his hand to lead him toward his bedroom.

You lead him to the edge of his bed letting him sit on the edge as you slowly removed your shirt off your shoulders, throwing it to the side. Spencer kept his eyes on you as you removed your bra, seeing you wince a little as the sting of your injury hit you as you moved your arms but soon move your fingers to the fastening of your trousers.

Spencer was borderline breathless, seeing more and more of your skin being exposed to him like a present.

He slowly unbuttoned his own shirt, fiddling with the fastening and pulling it off his torso before moving to his briefs and pants, lifting his hips to have his garments fall to the ground.

He watched as you pulled your underwear down your thighs, letting out a small moan at your bare figure.

“So beautiful…” he whispered, reaching out to pull you closer by your hips- his finger delicately moving along your skin.

You observed him, slowly moving to plant your knees on either side of him and straddling his lap.

His arousal was clear, his hardened cock pressed against your core. “Already so hard for me… and we haven’t even started.” You teased him, pressing a soft kiss under his ear, softly moving your hips against him.

Spencer let out a whiney gasp, his need for you overpowering his being. His hands touched your chest and stomach, trailing up around your back and down your hips and ass.

His hands then fell down to your thighs, squeezing your flesh before tracing to your soaked cunt, feeling along your silken folds. You let out a shuddered sigh, feeling his digits trace circles around your clit. Your mouth fell open, gasping his name as you buried your face in his neck.

“I can’t- I need to feel you, please...” he was desperate, not wanting to waste anymore time of not having you.

Pulling back, you looked at his pleading eyes- the need mirrored in your expression. “Lay back for me…” you whispered as you sat up slightly, watching as he obeyed your words and scooted up the bed and lay on his back for you.

You crawled over him, straddling his hips once again as you observed him below you - his flushed cheeks and blown pupils full of want for you.

Your hand snaked down to his cock, holding it gently in your hand as you dragged it along your slit. “God Spence…” you breathed, before sinking down on him.

It was as if he was made for you; filling your pussy up deliciously as he twitched slightly inside you.

“F-fuck…” he threw his head back, his hips bucking up into yours slightly.

“Spence…” you groaned, slowly swiveling your hips along his. His length hit your spot every time, causing you both to let out pleasured moans that echoed off the walls.

He whined as you bounced on his cock, one hand gripping your hip and the other rubbing your throbbing nub, your orgasm rising within you.

“O-oh Spence- I’m gonna cum, fuck…” you threw your head back, calling his name again. He watched In awe of you as you came all over him, the feeling of your cunt clenching around him sent him over the edge as he let himself go deep within you.

He was panting, moaning softly as he came down from his high- pulling you down to press a bruising kiss to your lips.

“Y-you are… ethereal.” He praised as he pulled away slightly, looking at your hazy eyes- your cheeks blushing further as you pushed his curls away from his forehead. “As are you…” you replied, still breathless.

“I don’t want this to be… it.” He whispered. “I want to give you everything and anything, if you would be mine…” he proclaimed, making your heart flutter.

“I wanna be yours, Spencer- and I want you to be mine.” The words were so damn cheesy, but that’s all that you could say- it was all you both needed in that moment.

Being each others person, it just all felt… right.

#Spencer Reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds x you #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut

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banditoloves2mucj · 3 days ago

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This was so good oh my god! “you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it.” That line killed me dead.

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you.

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid.

God, he loves you.

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear.

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping.

“Hm?”

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch.

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest.

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience.

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand.

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers.

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion.

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath.

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them.

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine.

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual.

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes.

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours.

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back.

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation.

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak.

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape.

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing.

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back.

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening.

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh.

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response.

He loves it when you do that.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds smut

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reidmarieprentiss · 1 day ago

Text

Call Me Dad

Summary: You take Spencer home for Christmas.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, comfort

Warnings/Includes: use of Y/N, you have a mom and a dad, airplane

Word count: 8.7k

a/n: i literally wrote this dinner the summer and just remembered it lmaooo NOT PROOF READ

Spencer and you have been dating for six blissful months. You are his first girlfriend at 25 years old, and while he is still anxious he could do something wrong, you prove time and time again that he has nothing to worry about. You've already told him you love him, and he treasures the way you feel. He hasn't returned the sentiment yet, but you're not upset about it. You understand that he needs his time, and you're more than willing to give it to him.

With Christmas approaching, you ask him to come home with you for the holidays. His mom is on a Caribbean cruise with her residents and caretakers, and you can't stand the idea of him being alone during this special time of year. Spencer hesitates at first. Memories of his dad leaving him when he was young, combined with his mom not often being in a state to parent, have left him unsure of how to navigate familial interactions.

Despite his nerves, Spencer accepts your invitation, knowing how much this means to you and wanting to be a part of your world. He's never been good around parents, but he knows this is a chance to experience something he's always wanted: a warm, loving holiday with someone who truly cares for him.

Spencer's anxiety was at an all-time high as the two of you made your way through the bustling airport. You could feel the tension radiating off him, his shoulders hunched and eyes darting around as if he were expecting something catastrophic to happen at any moment. His usual calm demeanor had all but disappeared, replaced by a bundle of nerves that made him appear more like a skittish cat than the brilliant profiler he was.

Recognizing his unease, you took the lead, gently guiding him through the labyrinthine halls and throngs of people. Your hand wrapped securely around his, you navigated the chaos of the airport with practiced ease. Spencer was content to let you take charge, grateful for your steady presence beside him.

Once you reached security, Spencer fumbled with his belongings, his fingers trembling slightly as he removed his shoes and placed them into the plastic bins. The noise and commotion seemed to blur together, creating a cacophony that only heightened his nerves.

"It's okay," you whispered reassuringly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. "Just breathe. We'll be through this in no time."

He nodded, taking a deep breath and doing his best to focus on your calming words rather than the endless line of travelers. With you by his side, he managed to get through security and baggage checks without too much trouble, though he was visibly relieved when the ordeal was over.

As you settled into your seats on the plane, Spencer finally seemed to relax, even if just a little. The roar of the engines and the hum of people boarding around you faded into the background as he focused on the comfort of your presence. He clasped your hand tightly, resting it in his lap as if it were a security blanket.

Despite his well-documented aversion to germs, Spencer was willing to overlook the potential contamination of the airplane seat if it meant keeping you close. In truth, he needed something tangible to hold onto—something that reminded him he wasn't alone in this unfamiliar and slightly terrifying journey.

"I'll definitely need a hot shower once we arrive at the hotel," Spencer muttered with a half-smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

You chuckled softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Well, if that’s the price of getting to spend Christmas together, I think it's worth it. Besides, the hotel has great water pressure."

Spencer managed a genuine smile at that, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as the plane began to taxi down the runway. The steady thrum of the engines provided a soothing background noise, and he found himself focusing on the rhythmic sound of your breathing instead of the clamorous thoughts still circling in his mind.

As the plane ascended into the sky, Spencer gave your hand a gentle squeeze. He felt a warmth spreading through his chest, grateful for your unwavering support and the way you always seemed to know exactly what he needed.

The steady hum of the airplane engine and the gentle warmth of the cabin worked their magic on Spencer, lulling him into a deep sleep shortly after takeoff. The tension that had gripped him so tightly began to ebb away as his eyelids grew heavy, and soon he was slipping into a much-needed rest. His head rested comfortably against your shoulder, a soft snore escaping his lips as his breathing evened out. You watched him with a fond smile, glad to see him finally relax.

—

The flight seemed to pass in the blink of an eye as Spencer remained blissfully unaware of the turbulence or the occasional announcements crackling over the intercom. When the plane finally touched down, the jolt barely registered in his sleepy daze.

You gently nudged him awake, whispering, "Hey, sleepyhead. We've landed." He blinked groggily, trying to shake off the remnants of his nap as he stretched and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.

"Mmm," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "We're here already?"

You chuckled softly, helping him gather his belongings. "Yes, we are. Come on, let's get through the airport."

In his post-nap haze, Spencer moved almost on autopilot, following your lead as you navigated the bustling terminal. The world around him felt surreal, the bustling crowds and overhead announcements fading into a distant hum. He kept a firm hold on your hand, trusting you to guide him through the maze of travelers and luggage carts.

Picking up the rental car was a blur. Spencer watched as you handled the paperwork, his mind still foggy from sleep. He leaned against the counter, blinking slowly as if trying to process everything happening around him. Once the keys were in hand, you led him to the car, and he gratefully sank into the passenger seat.

"Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit while I drive us to the hotel?" you suggested, glancing over at him with a smile.

Spencer nodded, resting his head against the window. The rhythmic motion of the car soon lulled him back into a state of semi-consciousness, where he drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of the passing scenery.

When you finally arrived at the hotel, Spencer was roused once more, his sleepy daze still clinging to him as you checked in and made your way to your room. He stretched as he stood in the elevator, trying to shake off the last vestiges of slumber.

Once inside the hotel room, Spencer looked around with bleary eyes, taking in the cozy atmosphere. "This looks nice," he mumbled, a hint of appreciation in his voice.

"It does," you agreed, dropping your bags and heading toward the bathroom. "Why don't you take that shower you were looking forward to? I'll unpack while you do."

Spencer nodded, grateful for the suggestion. The promise of a hot shower was too enticing to resist, and he quickly gathered his toiletries and a fresh change of clothes. As he stepped into the bathroom, the sound of the rushing water immediately filled the space, creating a soothing ambiance.

He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped under the showerhead, the water smoothing over him with an invigorating force that seemed to wash away the last remnants of travel fatigue. The hotel, as promised, had excellent water pressure, and Spencer couldn't help but revel in the sensation. He closed his eyes, letting the steam envelop him as he began to feel truly awake for the first time since they boarded the plane.

With a renewed sense of calm, Spencer finished his shower and emerged from the bathroom, feeling refreshed and ready to embrace whatever came next. He found you unpacking and couldn’t help but smile, appreciating the small but significant act of settling into this new space together.

"All clean?" you asked, glancing up from the suitcase with a knowing grin.

"Yes," Spencer replied, running a towel through his hair. "And you were right. The water pressure is fantastic."

You chuckled, walking over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Told you so. Now, are you ready to explore? I figured we could take a walk, get some fresh air, and maybe grab something to eat."

Spencer nodded, feeling more at ease than he had all day. "That sounds perfect," he said, slipping his hand into yours as you both headed out into the world beyond the hotel, eager to make the most of this special time together.

—

That night, Spencer found himself lying wide awake in the darkened hotel room, his mind racing with thoughts that refused to quiet down. The shadows danced across the ceiling, and the gentle hum of the air conditioning did little to soothe the anxious thrum of his heart. His anxieties swirled relentlessly, fueled by the thought of meeting your family for the first time.

He couldn't help but wonder what they would think of him. The prospect of meeting your parents was daunting enough, but what about your siblings? Did they have partners? How many people would he have to interact with? Spencer's mind spun with hypothetical scenarios, each one more nerve-wracking than the last. He feared making a poor impression or saying something that would betray his social awkwardness. Would they see him as the socially awkward genius he often felt like, or would they recognize the man you loved?

He turned slightly, glancing over at your sleeping form beside him. The moonlight filtering through the curtains cast a soft glow on your peaceful face, and Spencer felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. You looked so serene, so completely at ease, and he envied your ability to find rest so effortlessly. He couldn't help but feel a deep appreciation for your invitation to join him for the holidays. It was a significant gesture, a sign of trust and affection that meant more to him than he could easily express.

As he watched you sleep, he couldn't shake the guilt that crept in alongside his fears. You had been nothing but supportive and understanding since the day you met, always knowing how to ease his worries with a kind word or a gentle touch. And yet, here he was, plagued by doubts and insecurities. It felt unfair, especially when he knew how excited you were to introduce him to your family.

"If this family raised you," he mused to himself, "they couldn't be all bad." The thought lingered, providing a small comfort amid the turmoil of his mind. After all, if they were responsible for shaping the incredible person you had become, surely they possessed qualities worth admiring.

Spencer let out a soft sigh, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling once more. He tried to focus on the positives—the fact that you wanted him there with you, that you believed in him enough to introduce him to the people who mattered most. It was a gesture of acceptance, a sign that he had become an integral part of your life, and that alone was enough to make him feel a little braver.

In the quiet stillness of the room, he closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing thoughts. He reminded himself that he was not alone in this. You were there, right beside him, and that was more reassuring than anything else. As he listened to the gentle rhythm of your breathing, he slowly began to relax, the warmth of your presence wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

—

The next morning, Spencer awoke to one of his favorite sights: you, comfortably nestled against the pillows, your hair tousled from sleep. The sun filtered gently through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You were sitting up with a book in your hands, your glasses slightly askew, an endearing nod to your dedication to the story that had captured your attention even this early in the day.

He watched you quietly for a moment, a soft smile spreading across his face as he took in the familiar scene. There was something immensely comforting about the way you immersed yourself in your book, completely absorbed in the world the author had crafted (he doesn’t know you’re reading smut). It was a reflection of the curiosity and passion that he admired so much in you, a trait that you both shared and often bonded over.

“Good morning,” he finally murmured, his voice still a bit husky from sleep.

You looked up from your book, your eyes brightening as they met his. “Morning, sunshine,” you replied with a playful grin. “I didn’t want to wake you. You seemed like you needed the rest.”

Spencer stretched, feeling the remnants of sleep ease out of his muscles. “I appreciate that,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow. “Didn’t sleep much at first, but I feel better now.”

You set your book aside, giving him your full attention. “Were you up worrying about today?”

He nodded, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “A little bit,” he admitted. “I couldn’t stop thinking about meeting your family. It’s kind of a big deal.”

You reached over, gently adjusting his hair, which had gone a bit wild during the night. “I get it. It is a big deal, but I promise it’s not as scary as it seems. They’re just people who love me, and they’ll love you too because of that.”

Spencer felt his heart swell at your words. Your unwavering confidence in him was like a balm to his nerves, calming the storm of anxiety that had plagued him. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably stay home and read all day,” you teased, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “But you’re here with me, and that’s what matters.”

Spencer chuckled, feeling some of the tension lift from his shoulders. “True. I’d much rather be here with you than anywhere else.”

“Oh, just a little fantasy novel,” you replied, holding the book to your chest with a private smile. “Faeries, creatures, magic, the lot.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, a look of genuine curiosity crossing his face. “Really? I didn’t know you were into fantasy.”

You shrugged playfully, a mischievous glint in your eye. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Doctor Reid. I have a soft spot for worlds where the impossible becomes possible.”

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “I suppose that makes sense. You’ve always had a knack for finding magic in the mundane.”

You leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “I think you’re the one who does that, Spencer. You make even the most ordinary things seem extraordinary.”

He felt a flush of warmth spread across his cheeks at your words. It was moments like these that reminded him of how lucky he was to have you in his life. Despite his initial hesitations, you had shown him a world full of wonder and possibility, much like the stories you loved to read.

As you both settled into the morning, Spencer felt a renewed sense of hope for the day ahead. He knew that with you by his side, he could face whatever challenges awaited him, including meeting your family. Your presence was a reminder that he was not alone in this journey, and that thought brought him more comfort than any reassurance ever could.

With a deep breath, Spencer pulled himself up to sit beside you, the two of you leaning against each other as you shared the quiet morning together. The world outside might have been bustling with holiday cheer, but inside this little bubble, it was just the two of you, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and understanding.

“Ready to start the day?” you asked, glancing over at him with a smile that made his heart flutter.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Spencer replied, feeling more confident than he had the night before. He was ready to embrace whatever the day had in store, knowing that he had you to guide him through it all.

And so, with a sense of excitement and a touch of nerves, Spencer prepared to meet your family, his heart full of hope and gratitude for the love that had brought him here.

—

As you turned onto your family's street, Spencer's fingers fidgeted nervously in his lap. The drive had been filled with light chatter and music from the radio, but now that you were only moments away from the meeting he had been anxiously anticipating, the familiar weight of worry began to settle back into his chest. He watched the rows of houses pass by, each one decorated with festive lights and wreaths that hinted at the warmth within.

When you pulled into the driveway of your childhood home, you noticed Spencer take a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the cozy-looking house adorned with strings of colorful Christmas lights. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand as you reached over to give it a reassuring squeeze.

Turning to him, you offered a soft smile, trying to ease his apprehension. "Spencer," you said gently, "are you sure you're ready for this? We can always take a few more minutes if you need to."

He met your gaze, the earnestness in your eyes helping to ground him. "I think so," he replied, though the edge of uncertainty in his voice was still present. "I mean, I've faced serial killers and the most dangerous criminals, but this... this is a different kind of pressure."

You chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "I promise my family isn't as scary as a room full of unsubs."

He laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension from his frame. "I know, but meeting the people who raised you... it's important. I just want to make a good impression."

"You will," you assured him, leaning over to brush a gentle kiss across his lips. "They'll love you just as much as I do. Besides, you've already made an amazing impression on me, and that's not an easy feat."

Spencer's smile widened, the warmth of your words settling comfortably around him. He took a moment to look at the house again, imagining the family inside who had shaped the person he cherished so deeply. The thought was daunting but also exciting in a way he hadn’t expected.

"Okay," he said with a renewed sense of determination, "let’s get inside."

"That's the spirit," you said, giving his hand one last squeeze before opening your door. Spencer followed suit, stepping out into the crisp morning air and taking in the sight of your family home, with its inviting front porch and the faint aroma of pine and cinnamon wafting from within.

Together, you made your way up the front steps, your fingers intertwined with his, a tangible reminder that he wasn't facing this moment alone. As you reached the door, you gave him a reassuring nod before ringing the bell, signaling the start of a holiday filled with new memories and possibilities.

The door swung open with a dramatic flair, revealing your sibling, Charlie, standing there with an expression of gleeful mischief painted across their face. "Y/N!" they exclaimed with a sing-song voice, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of having caught you red-handed. "I saw you kissing in the driveway!"

You sighed, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small smile at Charlie's antics. "Charlie! You had sex in Mom and Dad's bed! Are we even?"

Charlie feigned shock, clutching their chest with mock indignation. "Lips are sealed," they said with a smirk, clearly amused by the little exchange. Then, their gaze shifted past you to the man standing beside you. "Who is this beautiful man?"

You couldn't help but chuckle at Charlie's dramatic introduction to Spencer. "This is Doctor Spencer Reid," you said, gesturing to him with a flourish as if presenting a prize. "I found him on the corner. Only $20 an hour, can you believe that?"

Spencer, who had been standing there looking slightly bewildered by the sibling banter, let out a nervous laugh. He adjusted his glasses, clearly unsure how to respond to the unexpected introduction. "Well, technically, it’s a little more than that, considering inflation and all," he said with a small smile, his awkward charm instantly endearing.

Charlie burst out laughing, their eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, he's a keeper, Y/N! I mean, you found a guy who's both handsome and economically savvy? What more could you ask for?"

You and Spencer both laughed, the tension easing from the room as Charlie's infectious energy lightened the mood. It was moments like these that made you grateful for having such a lively and supportive sibling, someone who could turn any situation into a moment of joy and laughter.

As you walked deeper into the house, the familiar warmth and coziness enveloped you both. The comforting scent of home, mixed with the aroma of freshly baked cookies, filled the air. Spencer hesitated slightly as he stepped inside, taking in the comforting chaos of your family home, and the subtle charm that only a loving household could offer.

Charlie led the way, beckoning you both into the living room where the sound of a football game played on the TV. The announcer's voice carried through the house, mingling with the occasional cheer from the fans in the stadium. The room was filled with soft, golden light from the fireplace, casting a warm glow over everything.

As you rounded the corner, you found your mom and other sibling, Finley, lounging on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in their lap. Their attention was momentarily focused on the game, but they quickly looked up as you entered, a wide grin spreading across their face.

"Hey! Look who finally decided to show up!" Finley called out, putting the popcorn aside and standing up to greet you. They wrapped you in a quick hug, squeezing you tightly as if to make up for lost time. You could feel the warmth of their embrace, the familiar scent of home that always brought a sense of comfort and belonging.

"It's so good to see you, Fin," you said, pulling back slightly to look at them. "I've missed this place."

Finley grinned, giving you a playful nudge. "Well, it's about time you came back. We’ve got a lot to catch up on."

Then, Finley turned their attention to Spencer, their expression friendly and curious. "And you must be Spencer," they said, smiling with genuine enthusiasm. "I've heard a lot about you. All good things, I promise."

Spencer returned the smile, trying to channel his best impression of confidence. “It’s nice to meet you, Finley,” he replied, feeling a little more at ease thanks to Finley's welcoming demeanor. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you too.”

Finley chuckled, a twinkle of mischief in their eyes. “All good things, I hope,” they teased, shooting a knowing glance at you.

You rolled your eyes playfully, feeling the warmth of the familial atmosphere settle around you. “Mostly good,” you teased back, “but I might have left out the parts about your questionable taste in movies.”

Finley gasped in mock offense, clutching their chest dramatically. “Hey, my taste in movies is impeccable! It’s just...unique.”

Your mom, who had been quietly observing the exchange with a smile, finally chimed in. “Don’t mind Finley, Spencer. They love to exaggerate. We’re just really glad you could join us for the holidays.”

Her voice was warm and welcoming, instantly putting Spencer at ease. He nodded, grateful for the kindness being extended to him. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. L/N. It’s nice to be here.”

“Please, call me Sandy,” she insisted with a wave of her hand. “We’re all family here, after all.”

Spencer nodded, feeling a small weight lift from his shoulders. Your mother’s acceptance was a reassuring start, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful for how natural this all seemed.

As you settled into the living room, Coconut, your dog, padded over, sniffing curiously at the newcomer. The dog’s tail wagged enthusiastically, thumping against the floor with each swing.

Spencer knelt down to greet Coconut, his fingers gently scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Hello, Coconut,” he said softly, his touch unsure at first but growing more confident as Coconut leaned into him, clearly enjoying the attention.

You smiled, watching the interaction with a fondness that only grew as Coconut plopped down at Spencer’s feet, making himself comfortable. “I think Coconut likes you,” you observed, giving Spencer an encouraging nod. “That’s a pretty high honor.”

Spencer chuckled, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease further. “I suppose that’s a good sign,” he replied, continuing to pet the dog as Coconut rolled over, demanding belly rubs.

Your mom settled back onto the couch, a cup of coffee in hand, her attention shifting between the game and the scene unfolding before her. “So, Spencer, do you follow football?” she asked, glancing over with genuine interest.

“Not extensively,” Spencer admitted, “but I know a bit about it. The strategies can be quite fascinating.”

Your mom nodded, pleased with his response. “Finley here is the real football fanatic. They make sure we’re watching all the big games.”

“Guilty as charged,” Finley said with a grin, tossing a popcorn kernel into their mouth. “But don’t worry, we’re not too intense about it. It’s more about enjoying the day together.”

You reached over and gave Spencer’s hand a reassuring squeeze, sensing that he was beginning to relax. “We’re just happy to have you here, Spence. Family is about spending time together, not about impressing anyone.”

Spencer nodded, the warmth of your words resonating with him. As he settled back into the couch, he realized that this was exactly what he had always imagined a family gathering to be: relaxed, full of laughter, and surrounded by people who cared for one another.

As the game continued, you and Spencer joined in the lighthearted banter and conversations that filled the room. It wasn’t long before he found himself genuinely enjoying the company, the initial nerves giving way to a sense of belonging that he hadn’t anticipated.

With Coconut snuggled at his feet and your hand in his, Spencer began to see that maybe, just maybe, this Christmas would be as magical as the ones he’d read about in stories.

“Did I hear my favorite child is back?” your dad teased as he walked in from the kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder and a warm smile on his face. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and holiday spices trailed behind him, adding to the cozy atmosphere of the room.

"Dad!" you exclaimed, jumping up from the couch and hurrying over to give him a hug. "I've missed you!"

He enveloped you in a bear hug, squeezing tightly before holding you at arm’s length to get a good look at you. “You look great, kiddo. I was just thinking that the house feels complete now that you’re here.”

You laughed, feeling the genuine warmth of your dad's words. “It’s good to be home. And look, I even brought a guest!” You stepped aside to gesture toward Spencer, who was now standing a little uncertainly, unsure of what kind of greeting to expect.

Your dad turned his attention to Spencer, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Ah, you must be Spencer,” he said, striding over to shake his hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you, son. Welcome to the family.”

Spencer’s nerves eased slightly at the friendliness in your dad’s tone. He returned the handshake with a grateful nod. “Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you. And thank you for having me.”

Your dad waved off the formalities with a chuckle. “None of that ‘sir’ business. You can call me Bruce.” He turned to the rest of the room, saying, “Now that everyone’s here, we can finally get this holiday started right!”

"Already trying to win the Best Dad Award, huh?" Finley quipped, tossing a playful grin his way.

Your dad shrugged, feigning innocence. "Well, I’m just trying to stay ahead in the rankings. Gotta keep you kids on your toes."

“Don’t worry, Dad,” you said, shooting Finley a teasing glance. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ve always been my favorite.”

Spencer watched the exchange with a small smile, feeling a sense of warmth at the easy banter. The rapport you had with your family was evident, and it was a relief to see how effortlessly you slipped back into the rhythm of home.

As your dad settled into the armchair by the fireplace, he picked up a steaming mug of coffee from the side table, taking a satisfied sip. “So, Spencer, are you ready for the full holiday experience? We’ve got quite the lineup of activities planned.”

“Oh, um, yes. Looking forward to it,” Spencer replied, attempting to match your dad’s enthusiasm while simultaneously scanning his memory for any relevant data on traditional holiday festivities.

“Don’t worry, Spence. He’s teasing,” you assured him, a playful smile spreading across your face. “We don’t do too much. A quick present exchange, some of Dad’s famous cooking, and a lot of drinking.”

Spencer chuckled, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. “That sounds like something I can handle,” he said, relaxing further into the cozy atmosphere of the living room.

“Just be prepared,” Finley added, shooting your dad a mischievous grin. “Dad’s cooking is legendary. He’ll try to send you home with a week’s worth of leftovers if you’re not careful.”

Your dad feigned indignation, placing a hand over his heart. “Hey, I take pride in my culinary skills. Besides, isn’t that what the holidays are for? Making sure everyone leaves with full bellies and fond memories.”

“That, and making sure we all drink enough eggnog to last us till next year,” you teased, giving your dad a playful nudge.

Your dad chuckled, raising his mug in a mock toast. “To family traditions, then. May they never fade.”

Spencer smiled, feeling the warmth of your family’s love and joy seep into his bones. He realized that the dynamics in this household were vastly different from the ones he had grown up with, but in the best possible way. Here, there was a sense of ease and openness that made him feel welcome, despite being the newcomer.

—

You and Spencer walked back to the hotel room hand in hand, the crisp evening air wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. After a casual dinner with your family, filled with laughter and easy conversation around the football game, Spencer seemed more relaxed than he had been earlier in the day.

As you entered the room, you couldn't help but tease him, “So, how do you feel? Were they as scary as you thought?”

Spencer chuckled, shaking his head as he slipped off his shoes and hung up his coat. “Honestly? Not at all. I was so worried for nothing. Your family is wonderful. They were so welcoming, and it made me feel at ease.”

You smiled, feeling a sense of pride in your family's hospitality. “I told you they’d love you. But I understand why you were nervous; meeting a partner’s family is always a big step.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking thoughtful. “I think it was the idea of making a good impression. I just wanted everything to go smoothly, and it did. Your dad’s humor really helped break the ice. And Finley... well, I wasn’t expecting the football trivia quiz, but it was actually fun.”

You laughed, remembering the light-hearted trivia challenge Finley had orchestrated during halftime. “Finley does have a way of keeping things interesting. They were trying to see if you’d fit into our family banter, and it seems like you passed with flying colors.”

Spencer leaned back against the pillows, a content smile playing on his lips. “Your family dynamic is so different from what I’m used to, but in a really good way. There’s so much love and warmth in your home.”

You joined him on the bed, resting your head on his shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re here to experience it with us. I know it’s not easy to put yourself out there, but you did great. I couldn’t have asked for a better day.”

Spencer wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m happy I got to meet them, and it’s nice to be part of something so special. Plus, your dad’s cooking was definitely a highlight. I’m still thinking about those garlic mashed potatoes.”

You smiled, pleased to see how comfortable and at home he felt. “Dad does make a mean mashed potato. I’m glad you enjoyed it all.”

After a moment of silence, Spencer turned to look at you, his expression thoughtful. “You know, spending the day with your family made me realize something. I’ve always been a little afraid of getting too close to people, of letting them in. But being with you and your family... it feels different. It feels right.”

His words warmed your heart, and you met his gaze with a soft smile. “I’m glad to hear that, Spencer. You’re a part of my life now, and I want you to feel like you belong here, with us.”

Spencer nodded, feeling the sincerity in your words. “I do. And it’s because of you. You make everything feel less daunting, and I’m grateful for that.”

You leaned in to kiss him gently, feeling the connection between you deepen. “I’m grateful for you too, Spencer. This Christmas is already one of the best I’ve ever had, and it’s because you’re here.”

He returned the kiss, feeling a sense of peace and happiness that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Being with you, experiencing the warmth and love of your family, had opened his eyes to the possibilities of what life could be when shared with someone who truly cared.

As the night wore on, you and Spencer talked about everything and nothing, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence. The city outside was alive with the sounds of the holiday season, but inside the hotel room, it felt like time had slowed down, leaving just the two of you to savor the moment.

“Goodnight, Spencer. I love you,” you said softly, slipping under the covers and curling up beside him.

“Goodnight,” he replied, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. “Thank you for today.”

As sleep began to take hold, Spencer realized that he was no longer plagued by the anxieties that had haunted him the night before. Instead, he felt a deep sense of contentment and belonging, knowing that he was exactly where he was meant to be—with you.

—

The holidays had been a whirlwind of joy and laughter, each day unfolding with new experiences and moments of bonding that brought Spencer closer to your family. From playing with Coconut in the backyard to cozy evenings by the fire, the week had been a beautiful blend of warmth and happiness that Spencer had never quite experienced before.

On your last night at your family home, your dad approached Spencer with an unexpected invitation. "Hey, Spencer," he said with a friendly nod, "how about joining me for a drink on the back porch? It's a bit of a family tradition."

Spencer blinked in surprise, feeling both honored and slightly apprehensive. He had learned throughout the week that your dad was a man of deep wisdom and care, and being invited for a private conversation felt significant. As he followed your dad out to the back porch, Spencer couldn’t help but wonder if this was going to be the talk — the one where your dad would lay down the law about how he expected his daughter to be treated.

The night air was crisp and cool, stars twinkling overhead as Spencer and your dad settled into the comfortable chairs on the patio. Your dad handed Spencer a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light from the porch lamp.

"Thanks," Spencer said, taking the glass with a slight nod. He took a sip, feeling the warmth of the drink spread through him, doing little to ease the nerves bubbling in his stomach.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the quiet hum of the neighborhood providing a peaceful backdrop. Spencer braced himself, expecting the shovel talk that he’d often seen dramatized in movies.

Finally, your dad turned to him, a gentle smile on his face. “Spencer, I wanted to talk to you about something,” he began, his tone thoughtful yet reassuring.

Spencer looked over, curious and slightly terrified. “Oh?” he replied, unsure of what to expect.

Your dad chuckled softly, taking a sip from his glass. “I’ve seen how you are with Y/N these past few days. The love and care you have for her is plain as day. And I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate that.”

Spencer blinked, taken aback by the unexpected compliment. He felt his heart swell with emotion, a mixture of relief and gratitude washing over him.

“I know Y/N doesn’t need anyone to take care of her,” your dad continued, his voice steady and sincere. “She’s always been independent and strong, and I’ve never doubted her ability to stand on her own two feet. But it makes me happy to see that she has someone like you in her life—someone who clearly loves and respects her.”

Spencer was speechless, his mind racing to process the words. He had prepared himself for a stern lecture, but instead, he found himself enveloped in a warmth he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” Spencer finally managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. “That means a lot to me. More than I can express.”

Your dad nodded, his gaze steady and kind. “I know you didn’t have the best relationship with your own father,” he said, his tone gentle as he broached the sensitive subject. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, for advice or anything else, know that you can always come to me. You’re part of the family now.”

The offer left Spencer profoundly moved, a lump forming in his throat. He had never expected to find this kind of acceptance and support, especially from someone who barely knew him. The absence of a father figure in his life had always been a quiet ache, and here was an unexpected balm for that wound.

“I... I really appreciate that,” Spencer said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never had someone I could go to for that kind of support. It means more than I can say.”

Your dad reached over, giving Spencer’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “We’re glad to have you with us, Spencer. You make Y/N happy, and that’s all a parent can really ask for.”

Spencer nodded, feeling a sense of belonging that he hadn’t anticipated when he first arrived for the holidays. The conversation had taken a turn he hadn’t expected, filling him with a profound gratitude for the connection he was forming with your family.

They sat together for a while longer, exchanging stories and insights about life, relationships, and everything in between. As the evening deepened and the stars twinkled above, Spencer felt an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment.

Later, when he returned to the warmth of the house, he found you waiting in the living room, curiosity dancing in your eyes. “How was it?” you asked, a knowing smile tugging at your lips.

Spencer smiled, his heart full. “It was... wonderful,” he said simply. “Your dad is amazing. I feel really lucky to have met all of you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I knew they’d love you, Spence. And I’m so glad you’re part of my life.”

He held you close, feeling the truth of your words settle deep in his heart. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly at home, surrounded by love and acceptance in a way that he hadn’t thought possible.

—

Later that night, Spencer found himself lying awake in the hotel room. The day's events played over and over in his mind, the words from your dad echoing with a resonance he hadn’t fully anticipated.

You were already asleep beside him, your breath slow and steady, a comforting rhythm that usually soothed his racing thoughts. But tonight, Spencer felt a wave of emotion rising within him, a tide of feelings that he could no longer keep at bay.

He had been holding it together all day, trying to process the overwhelming acceptance he had found in your family, the kind of love and support he had rarely experienced growing up. Now, in the quiet darkness of the room, the dam finally broke.

Silent tears began to slip down his cheeks, tears of joy mixed with a deep, profound sense of healing. For the first time, Spencer allowed himself to feel the full weight of what he had been missing all these years—the absence of a father figure who cared, the lack of a family who embraced him fully and unconditionally.

His younger self, the boy who had longed for approval and a sense of belonging, seemed to stir within him. Memories of lonely holidays and awkward family gatherings resurfaced, but they were now met with the warm, soothing balm of the acceptance he had found with your family.

The tears continued to flow, and though they were born from happiness, they carried the weight of years of unspoken pain. Spencer turned slightly, trying to muffle his sobs against the pillow, not wanting to wake you. But the tears wouldn’t stop, and soon, the quiet sounds of his crying filled the room.

You stirred beside him, sensing his distress even in your sleep. Blinking sleepily, you turned to him, concern immediately etching across your features as you registered the tears glistening in his eyes.

“Spencer?” you whispered, your voice gentle and soothing as you reached out to touch his arm. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

He shook his head, trying to find the words to explain the cascade of emotions washing over him. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just... overwhelmed, I guess.”

You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a comforting embrace. “Hey, it’s okay,” you murmured, your voice soft and reassuring. “You don’t have to apologize. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Spencer took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself enough to explain. “It’s just... your dad, your family, everything,” he said, struggling to articulate the depth of his feelings. “I never expected to feel so accepted, so welcomed. It’s like... it’s like a part of me that’s been missing is finally starting to heal.”

Understanding dawned on you, and you held him tighter, your heart aching with empathy for the man you loved. “Oh, Spencer,” you whispered, feeling the weight of his words. “You deserve all of that and so much more. You’re part of our family now, and we love you for exactly who you are.”

He nodded, the tears flowing freely now as he allowed himself to fully embrace the reality of your words. The younger version of himself, the one who had always felt out of place, began to quiet, soothed by the knowledge that he was finally where he belonged.

As he held onto this newfound sense of peace, Spencer whispered something he hadn’t quite had the courage to say before. “I love you,” he murmured, the words slipping out like a gentle exhalation of truth.

You froze for a moment, not sure if you heard correctly. The quiet intensity in his voice seemed to linger in the air between you. “What was that?” you asked softly, wanting to be sure you had heard him right, a gentle smile starting to form on your lips.

Spencer met your eyes, his expression both tender and vulnerable. “I love you,” he repeated, a little louder this time, the conviction in his voice clear and unwavering. It was as though saying the words aloud had finally solidified them in his heart.

A warmth spread through you, a feeling of joy and completeness that you hadn’t realized you were longing for. You wrapped your arms around him tighter, your heart soaring at his heartfelt confession.

“I love you too, Spencer,” you replied, your voice filled with sincerity and happiness. “So much.”

He let out a breath he’d been holding, relief and joy mingling with the last traces of his tears. The weight of his past fears seemed to dissolve, leaving behind only the certainty of the moment and the bond you shared.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” Spencer admitted, his voice still a bit shaky from the emotional release. “But I was scared I wouldn’t be able to do it justice, to make you understand how much you mean to me.”

You reached up, gently cupping his face with your hand, your thumb brushing away the remnants of his tears. “You didn’t have to worry, Spencer. I’ve always known. Your actions speak louder than words, and I’ve felt your love in everything you do.”

He leaned into your touch, feeling a profound sense of gratitude and contentment. “You’ve changed my life in ways I never thought possible,” he said, his eyes locked onto yours with a sincerity that made your heart swell.

You smiled, feeling tears of your own threatening to spill over. “And you’ve changed mine,” you replied, your voice filled with emotion. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

Spencer let out a soft, shaky laugh, feeling lighter and more at peace than he had in years. He pulled you closer, reveling in the warmth and comfort of your embrace, knowing that this was where he was meant to be.

As the two of you lay together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you and the love that bound you. Spencer realized that he was no longer defined by the loneliness of his past but by the connection and happiness he had found with you.

In that moment, he knew that the future was bright, filled with endless possibilities and the promise of shared adventures. With you by his side, Spencer felt ready to face whatever came next, secure in the knowledge that he was loved and accepted for exactly who he was.

As the night deepened and sleep finally began to claim you both, Spencer held onto the truth of his feelings, knowing that he had finally found the home he had always been searching for—in you.

—

The next morning dawned crisp and bright, with the sky painted in shades of soft pastels. As you packed up your belongings and prepared to head back home, there was a bittersweet feeling in the air. The holiday had been a whirlwind of joy and connection, and neither you nor Spencer was quite ready to say goodbye to the warmth of your family.

As you made your way through the house, exchanging hugs and well-wishes, Spencer felt a familiar tug of anxiety mixed with gratitude. This time, however, the anxiety wasn’t accompanied by fear but by a deep appreciation for the acceptance he had found within your family.

When it came time to say goodbye to your dad, Spencer found himself standing on the front porch, the crisp winter air wrapping around him. Your dad approached with a warm smile, extending his hand for a farewell shake.

“It was great having you here, Spencer,” your dad said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. “You’re welcome back anytime.”

Spencer shook his hand, feeling the sincerity in your dad’s grip. “Thank you for everything, Bruce,” Spencer replied, his voice a little rough with emotion. “It’s been wonderful to be part of your family for the holidays.”

Your dad paused for a moment, then gave Spencer’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you don’t have to call me Bruce anymore. Just call me Dad.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, a fresh wave of emotion washing over him. He felt the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, his heart swelling with a mixture of gratitude and love. This simple gesture, this offer of familial connection, meant more to him than he could express.

“I... thank you, Dad,” Spencer managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “Goodbye, Dad.”

Your dad gave him a nod, the look in his eyes filled with understanding and acceptance. “Take care of yourself, Spencer. And remember, if you ever need anything, I’m just a phone call away.”

Spencer nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. “I will. Thank you.”

You watched the exchange with a full heart, knowing how much this meant to Spencer. As you wrapped up your goodbyes, you could see the mix of emotions playing across his face—the joy of being embraced by your family and the sadness of leaving it behind.

Once you were in the car, Spencer settled into the passenger seat, his mind still processing the weight of the morning’s farewell. He was quiet, lost in thought, and you could tell that he was holding back tears as he reflected on the kindness and acceptance he had been shown.

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching over to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Are you okay?”

Spencer nodded, though his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “Yeah, I just... I never expected any of this. It’s overwhelming, in a good way.”

You gave him a warm smile, understanding exactly what he meant. “Take your time. I’ll drive us to the airport.”

Spencer nodded gratefully, letting out a shaky breath as he tried to compose himself. You started the car and pulled out of the driveway, leaving the cozy warmth of your family home behind as you began the journey back to reality.

As you drove, Spencer gazed out the window, watching the landscape blur by. The silence in the car was comfortable, a space for him to gather his thoughts and emotions. He marveled at how much had changed in such a short time, feeling a deep sense of gratitude for the love and acceptance he had found.

He reached over, intertwining his fingers with yours, feeling the warmth of your touch grounding him. “I never knew I could feel so... at home. You’ve given me something I didn’t even know I was missing.”

As you both made your way through the airport, ready to embark on the next chapter of your journey together, Spencer knew that whatever lay ahead, he was no longer alone. He had you by his side, a family that embraced him, and a heart full of love that would guide him every step of the way.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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drowning-rabbit · 2 days ago

Text

a drawn-out lullaby: spencer reid x artist!reader

an extension of my artist!reader and spencer headcanons, found here

word count: 0.8k

summary: fluff; you gift spencer an early christmas present in the hopes that it will help him fall asleep

“i know you can’t sleep, spence.” your voice rang out into the silence of the pitch black bedroom. it had been the only sound for hours - other than violent shuffling from the other side of the bed.

spencer winced back at you, half-taken over by his exhausted body and half-cursed awake by his brilliant mind. he shifted every five minutes, unable to quiet the constant drone of thoughts. every time he shut his eyes, visions of past memories flowed through them like a motion-picture movie in high definition. so far, nothing could lighten the weight settled permanently on his chest. that was the unfortunate downside of his career choice. spencer can’t forget.

it was hard to quiet your own mind with the frosty air poking at every exposed piece of skin. it kept you awake. his apartment was older, so the single pane windows frosted over on the coldest days. the ache of seeing spencer restless didn’t help. you knew it got harder around the holidays, since he usually couldn’t make it back home to visit his mom. the nightmares would come more often, and spencer began to dread sleep. you placed a hand on his exposed shoulder to keep from startling him.

“can i give you a christmas present early? i think it’ll help,” you whispered in fear he did happen to fall asleep.

he hummed back in question, still drowsy. when you paused, he lifted his hand to cover yours and give it an affirming squeeze.

“can you roll over for me?” you asked softly and squeezed his hand back.

he turned to lay on his stomach as you rose from the bed, digging through the closet for a minute before triumphantly raising a grocery bag in the dark.

the rustling of plastic caught spencer’s attention. he opened his eyes as you poured three black markers out onto the nightstand.

“i thought i could try drawing, on your skin. you were talking about that study you read the other day, about the benefit of repetitive motion for falling asleep. like how adults have an easier time sleeping when they’re rocked to sleep like babies or something? and i looked into it so i thought maybe the motion of the felt tip on your skin would help you fall asleep? my mom used to trace on my back with her fingers when i was little, and i always loved that and if you don’t like it it’s okay, they’re skin safe and-“

he brought a finger to his lips to quiet your rambling before running the same hand through his messy hair. he was baffled by the fact that you had researched for his benefit, to help him sleep. every remedy he had found in studies for nightmares and insomnia was insufficient. he had given up, but you kept trying. it was only three markers, but he felt so seen and so loved.

“i love you.” he whispered, “so much that i will never be able to fully express it to you.”

“you think it will help? i love you too,”

“as long as you’re sure they’re body safe and nontoxic. i trust you and i adore you. and i think your research is sound and i’m quite exhausted so i’m willing to try anything.” spencer closed his eyes again in defeat, too tired to tell you all the things he normally would.

so you uncapped one of the markers and pulled the blanket down to his boxers. he shivered slightly from the icy december air. you ran one hand down his back a few times to calm him before beginning to draw.

the doodles came mindlessly. first a little star in the center of his shoulder blades, followed by the branches, needles, and trunk of a christmas tree.

spencer flinched the first few times the marker grazed his skin, but he kept to his word and trusted you as you continued. the tree received a little garland and a few ornaments as you tried to create a smooth rhythm.

when you finished the bow on the first present, you felt spencer’s breathing deepen. before long, an entire christmas tree marked the length of your boyfriend’s back. the image raised and lowered with every even breath he took.

“spence?” you spoke almost silently, but received no response. assured he was asleep, you finished the drawing with i love you scrawled beneath the wrapped gifts.

finally. spencer’s endless thoughts had been overtaken with his need to rest. his body had drifted into sleep, just as you thought it would when you spotted the markers in the store. you loved spencer with every inch of your body. you wanted him to feel safe with you the same way you did with him. if all it took was a few strokes of a marker, you’d happily spend the rest of your life recreating the louvre on his skin.

with the cap on the marker and the blankets pulled up over his back, you crawled into bed next to spencer. as you drifted into sleep, you felt him find your hand and lace his fingers through yours.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fluff

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nachrosas · 2 days ago

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CHRISTMAS SURPRISE | s.reid x reader

summary: in which spencer asks you an important question on christmas morning. pairing: spencer reid x reader content warnings: none, just pure fluff! word count: 849 a/n: night, night! posting this tonight because tomorrow i will be busy with work and christmas eve preparations! i had fun writing this one and i really hope you guys like it! feedback is always appreciated! also, my inbox is always open to chat (i love to talk and meet new people)! till the next one!

The pale light of Christmas morning flooded into the room through the slightly closed curtain gaps. The Christmas tree in the corner of the room blinked softly, each colorful twinkle reflecting off the delicate ornaments you had hung together weeks ago. The comforting scent of hot chocolate filled the air, mingling with the faint hint of cinnamon from the candles burning on the mantelpiece.

You were curled up on the sofa, a soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders, while Spencer was sitting next to you, legs crossed and a steaming mug between his hands. His glasses were a little crooked, and a messy lock of hair fell over his forehead, but he seemed oblivious, concentrating on something he was trying to hide behind his body.

“Is everything all right, Honey?” you asked, with a slight smile.

“It's just that you always look so beautiful in the morning,” he murmured with a shy smile, his eyes sparkling with something other than Christmas lights. Before you could reply, he bent down slightly to pick something up from the floor. “I have one last present for you.”

The way he held the small package wrapped in red and gold paper made your heart soar, but you tried to disguise your excitement, accepting the gift with slightly trembling hands.

“You'll like it, I think.” he said, looking away for a moment, but not before you noticed the blush that took over his cheeks.

You smiled suspiciously and began to undo the wrapping, just to tease him slowly. “Spencer Reid, what are you up to?”

He moved closer to you, trying to look relaxed. “Just… open it.” he mumbled, looking away again, but not without biting the corner of the underside.

When you removed the paper and opened the lid of the box, you found a small book, with a handmade cover and his unmistakable handwriting written in gold: Our Story. Your fingers gently brushed across the cover before opening the first page. A brief description accompanied by a photo of the first coffee you shared.

Each page was a journey through time — the first meeting, a lazy afternoon in the park, the trip that seemed to end in a huge disaster, but which turned out to be unforgettable. Some pages had little pressed flowers or funny notes next to the photos.

Your fingers slid along the edge of the last page of the book, curious to see how it would conclude the collection of memories that seemed so carefully crafted. When the page turned, the emptiness almost disconcerted you. There were no photos, just a single sentence written in his precise handwriting:

“Will you marry me?”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Your heart raced, and the words on the page began to jumble together, clouded by tears that you didn't even realize were there. When you finally managed to raise your eyes, Spencer was kneeling in front of you. The book still trembled slightly in his hands, but he looked like a statue of serenity. His eyes, however, betrayed his anxiety, shining with a mixture of nervousness and hope.

“I… didn't know how to say it perfectly.” he began, his voice low and charged with emotion. “So I thought the best way was to show you how much you mean to me, how every moment with you is a story I want to keep forever.”

He opened the small box he was holding, revealing a ring that glowed softly under the colored lights. “So, here I am. Do you want to be my next story? Will you marry me?”

You couldn't contain your emotional laughter, a sob escaping at the same time as a huge smile formed on your face. The book slipped from your hands onto the sofa as you leaned over to hug it, the words finally finding their way out.

“Yes.” you said, your voice laced with emotion. “Yes, Spencer, I want to marry you.”

His heart seemed to beat so loudly that you were sure he could hear it. Spencer was still kneeling in front of you, the ring gleaming on his trembling hand, and your eyes met his - hopeful, nervous, full of love. His fingers on yours were gentle, but you could feel the slight tremor as he made sure the ring fitted perfectly.

When your eyes returned to him, Spencer was already getting up, pulling you close to him. “I still can't believe you said yes,” he murmured, a nervous smile forming on his lips.

“How could I say no?” you replied, before leaning in to kiss him.

The kiss was soft, sweet, and full of unspoken promises. The lights on the Christmas tree in front of you flashed, reflecting off the tears you hadn't yet wiped away and Spencer's eyes, which now shone as brightly as the ring on your hand.

When you separated, he leaned his forehead against yours, still holding your hands. “Merry Christmas, Sweetheart.” he whispered, his voice as soft as a secret.

“Merry Christmas,” you replied, smiling, knowing that this was the beginning of the best present of all.

#criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine

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ifwdominicfike · 2 days ago

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pinterest getting a little too real ….

#— avery talks ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱.ᐟ #spencer reid #mgg #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #girl blogger #realness

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pathologicalreid · 4 hours ago

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christmas (baby please come home) | s.r.

in which Spencer isn't home to put his kids to bed on Christmas Eve, but they wake up to a surprise on Christmas morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: spencer's first post prison christmas, frankensteined the plot of "surface tension", the same family as "here with me", crying, christmas word count: 3.19k a/n: merry christmas!! this is kinda like my gift to you, mostly since it's been sitting in my brain for forever!!!!!!! i love u all! also happy first day of hanukkah if you celebrate <33

“But Daddy’s not home,” your daughter whimpered as she shuffled under her covers, she looked up at you with wide, curious eyes.

You carefully smoothed out the top of her floral comforter, “I know, baby,” you whispered, reaching up to pinch her cheek affectionately. You’d let them stay up late to watch the Santa tracker, but eventually, Finn fell asleep on you, and Livvy’s yawns were enough to convince you that it was bedtime. “You still have to go to sleep. Santa will come whether Daddy’s home or not, and we’ll just do the gifts from Mommy and Daddy when he gets back.”

At three years old, Olivia was beginning to understand Spencer being gone the same way Eleanor did; she knew his absence was entirely out of her control, and that didn’t sit well with your middle child. You knew you had gotten incredibly lucky when Spencer had been home for Finn’s birthday and Livvy’s had fallen during his sabbatical, but you also knew that you were due for a missed holiday, you just wished it could’ve been Thanksgiving or New Year’s.

You kissed her forehead before leaving, making sure to leave the door open a crack so the monsters wouldn’t get her before you went to Nell’s room. “Hey, honey,” you whispered, closing your eldest’s door behind you before going to sit on the edge of her bed. She had her own Christmas tree set up in the corner of the room, the artificial purple tree providing the glow that her nightlight normally would. “Are you ready for bed?”

Nell was lying on top of her covers, staring at her still ceiling fan as she ignored your question. While Livvy was just starting to understand what it meant when Spencer was gone, Nell understood it best, and she had for years now. She’d understood when Spencer was in prison, and she understood that he was missing Christmas now.

Slowly, you laid down next to your daughter, propping your head up on the bed and smoothing her hair back. “It’s still Christmas,” you tried to reassure her, but part of you knew that it was a thankless effort, there was nothing you could tell her that would fix her father’s absence. “We can call Dad in the morning while we open presents,” you offered, hoping she’d appreciate you coming halfway. “If he’s not busy, maybe we can video chat, and you can show him everything Santa brought you.”

“It’s not the same,” she told you, furrowing her brows and turning away from you on the bed.

Sighing, you pressed a kiss to the back of her head, “I know, Nellie. I know it’s not fair that he doesn’t get to be here for Christmas, but Daddy will come back.” There was a sense of urgency in your voice; you were afraid that if your five-year-old lost the joy in Christmas, you’d somehow failed her as a mother. “He’ll be home for your birthday, I promise,” you whispered.

“You can’t promise,” she reminded you, knowing that you and Spencer were generally very specific about your promises, leaning toward the ‘I promise I’ll try’ variety.

You hummed in response, “I’d pinky promise you that. Dad will be home for your birthday.” You held up your pinky finger, waiting for her to roll over and reciprocate.

Eleanor rolled over, holding up her pinky finger while brown eyes watched you apprehensively, “Okay,” she breathed, hooking your fingers together and kissing them.

As soon as Spencer told you about the bureau’s contingency to him returning to the BAU, you’d done the math. Eleanor’s sixth birthday would fall near the beginning of his next sabbatical, so you didn’t hesitate to make this promise. “It’s time for bed, my girl,” you whispered, smiling at her softly as she pulled the sleeves of her Christmas pajamas over her hands. “Santa can’t come if you’re not asleep,” you reminded her, sitting up on the bed and getting up, tucking her purple comforter under her chin before you made your final stop of the night.

You’d brought Finn to his room before getting the girls settled, but now that you knew they were alright, you came back to his room. The white noise machine was going, and he was fast asleep in his crib. His pacifier, which you were trying to wean him off of, had fallen from his mouth and onto the sheets, so you set it to the side. To you, the second Christmas was always more exciting than the first, now that he was fourteen months old, he had the dexterity to help open presents.

Ruffling his hair, you kissed him goodnight, just like you’d done with the girls, and you left his room, closing the door so that no one would disturb the light-sleeping baby.

There was a late night ahead of you, but first, you settled yourself onto the couch in the living room and pulled out your phone. Upon opening your messages with Spencer, you couldn’t help but be disappointed to find that there was nothing unread. You thought about sending him a text telling him that you all miss him but eventually decided against it. You didn’t want to make him feel guilty. At least, no more guilty than he likely already did.

You turned on the TV, quietly playing a Christmas movie as you began the festivities. All of the gifts had been expertly hidden in the master bedroom, split between being shoved under your bed and in your closet, but a new playhouse for the girls had been dropped off earlier. It was too big for your room, so your parents had stored it in their basement in the interim.

That would be a struggle to bring in from the garage, so you decided to start small, pulling all of the kids’ stockings from their hooks and laying them out on the floor before going upstairs to get the stuffers.

With the movie playing, you filled the stockings with treats and little toys. A few times you imagined your phone buzzing, but each time there was nothing on the screen. The loneliness started to set in as you rehung the stockings, making sure the kids’ names faced forward above the fireplace.

This wasn’t your first Christmas alone, Spencer had been in Idaho for Olivia’s first Christmas, but neither of the girls remembered it.

They’d remember this one, you thought to yourself, walking back up the stairs to grab a load of boxes. Thankfully, they were already wrapped, but you did have to avoid getting ribbon in your mouth as you carried the armful of gifts down the stairs.

Masterfully, you adjusted them beneath the tree, trying to visualize where they’d all end up in the end as you heard something distantly, but you brushed it off as someone leaving your neighbor’s holiday party. You stood up, wiping your hands on your pajamas as you evaluated your handiwork, shrugging before you turned around for the next load, “Oh,” you breathed, watching the handle on the door from the garage turn.

The door opened slowly, revealing your husband on the other side, his black peacoat draped over his arm and purple scarf looped around his neck. He hooked his car keys on the key hook before he noticed you, brown eyes finding your pajama-clad figure. His lopsided smile was all-knowing as always, he knew he had surprised you. In fact, it had been his goal.

You remained exactly where you were, watching him from the den as he put his shoes away and hung up his outerwear. It was almost as if you’d convinced yourself he was a mirage, and any sudden movements would cause his visage to dissipate. “Hey,” Spencer said, cocking his head at you as if he were confused why you hadn’t come any closer to him. He peeked around you to look at the tree, “Did the kids get to bed okay?”

Instead of answering him, your body naturally responded to what seemed like the miraculous appearance of your husband by producing tears. At first, they just welled along your lash line, but as they started to fall, you buried your face in your hands.

Spencer was there, not only in the house but also taking the initiative to approach you, he wrapped his arms around your torso, taking your tearful form under his care, “Is everything alright?” He asked, slowly dragging his hand up and down your spine, humming as you reciprocated his embrace and pressed your face into his shirt, drying your eyes and taking in the moment.

“Everything is wonderful,” you responded, your voice muffled by his shirt. He smelled like stale dark roast and the jet, but you were too relieved by his arrival to truly mind.

Tightening his grip briefly, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, “Right, well. You’re crying, so I had to make sure,” he murmured, swaying gently to the music coming from the film.

You loosed a breath of relief, “I can’t believe you’re here. The kids were miserable at bedtime, Nell wouldn’t even talk to me until I told her you’ll be home for her birthday,” you informed him, keeping your arms wrapped firmly around him while you tipped your head back to see him.

Spencer nodded in understanding, reaching up a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “We made the arrest at eight and wrapped up around nine. Somehow, Emily convinced the pilot to leave in the middle of the night, and we were on the jet by ten. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve spent holidays in worse places, but I’d rather be here with you than in Milwaukee.”

“I will kiss Emily Prentiss on the mouth,” you told him candidly.

He raised his brows curiously, “Mhm, and what about me?”

Grinning, you pushed up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his, an amalgamation of a welcome home and a Merry Christmas kiss, but you pulled away before you could get carried away. “Merry Christmas, Spencer Reid, we have work to do,” you told him, taking on a mock seriousness as you nodded your head toward the Christmas tree, which only had a fraction of your kids’ gifts beneath it.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Spencer reciprocated, pressing one more kiss to your lips, “Let’s get started.”

Spinning out of his grip, you found you had much more pep in your step with his arrival, beaming as the two of you went through the house as quietly as possible, gathering the gifts for the kids without rousing any suspicion. Even grabbing the playhouse from the garage didn’t seem like as much of a task with him around.

You adjusted the stockings as it neared two in the morning, Spencer returned from upstairs with the last few gifts, having changed his clothes into pajamas that neatly matched yours—a family set that was a gift from your Penelope. “They look great,” Spencer assured you, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he stood back, admiring your handiwork.

Walking backward until your back was against your chest, you tilted your head to the side, appraising the mountain of gifts beneath the tree, “Do you think we went overboard this year?” Between the gifts from Santa and the gifts from the two of you, the heap was rather intimidating.

“No,” Spencer answered, “bigger kids, bigger gifts.” He put his arms around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head, “besides, they’re good kids.”

You hummed in response, leaning into him ever so slightly. Part of you felt like Spencer was still experiencing guilt surrounding the three months he spent away from you and the kids while he was in prison. No amount of time at home or therapy would ever absolve him of that guilt, but it never hurt to try, “Hey,” you whispered up to him, “I got you something.”

He frowned down at you, “I thought we said no gifts this year?”

Scoffing, you walked over to the home office, “We say that every year and neither of us ever stick to it, so go get whatever it is you got for me.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but even so, he made his way upstairs to where you knew a gift was hiding in his bedside table. Upon his return, he faltered at the large box you’d placed on the coffee table and held up the small box in his hands; you beamed at him as he eyed the behemoth of a present.

He handed you the smaller box, instinctively, you admired the wrapping before starting to open it, recognizing the jewelry box before you had even discarded your wrapping paper. “Oh, Spence,” you said, looking at the necklace in the box, a dainty chain with five small gemstones on it. His birthstone and yours, followed by Nell’s amethyst, Livvy’s sapphire, and Finn’s tourmaline all strung next to each other, “it’s perfect,” you told him, lightly touching the gems with your fingertips. You’d mentioned wishing you had an everyday necklace a few weeks ago while getting ready, and he must’ve been listening more attentively than you’d thought.

Finally, you had him open his gift, and he was entirely speechless as he opened the cardboard flaps. His mouth gaped as he lifted one of the books in his hand, the title and edition identical to one that had been previously ruined in your house. “Fuck,” he cursed, looking from you to the books and back again.

You shrugged, “It’s not all of them, but a pretty good amount of them. Some of those editions are proving difficult to recover, but I’ve—” You’re cut off, startled by Spencer pressing his lips to yours. “I’m still looking for some,” you said breathlessly once he pulled away.

Spencer seemed unsure of what to do with himself; you’d managed to find replacements for three-fourths of the books that had previously been burned by an accidental fire set earlier this year. The only time your marriage had ever been on the rocks was when Diana lived with you, but even then, you’d been planning this surprise. “You are…” Spencer started, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, “This is incredible,” he told you, shaking his head in disbelief, setting the book down in the box and nearly tackling you in a hug.

Laughing, you buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, “I love you,” you murmured to him, his body now next to yours on the couch.

“I love you too,” he said, looking at you with glassy eyes. “Wow,” he said, sniffling, “I need to get you something else. A necklace isn’t enough,” he told you, likely already thinking of options for addendums.

You shook your head, “Trust me when I tell you that your being here is worth all of the rare books in the world to me,” you reassured him, running your fingers through his hair. Humming, you adjusted your head on the pillow, “Are you gonna fall asleep like this?”

He nodded, “If you keep playing with my hair like that. How long do you think we have until they wake up?” He asked, keeping his eyes closed while you peeked over him to check the time.

Last year, Finn had woken up the whole house on Christmas Day at four in the morning, and seeing as it was nearing three, you wondered if it was worth sleeping at all. You continued combing through Spencer’s hair, “Do you want to go upstairs?”

“This is a really great couch,” he mumbled, already falling asleep on the couch, leading you to grab the blanket that was thrown over the back and haphazardly drape it over the two of you.

Unfortunately, it felt like you’d gotten no sleep at all when you heard the first stirring upstairs, “Mommy,” Olivia called out, which would likely wake up Finn and Nell.

You got up from the couch, waking up Spencer in the process. Your poor husband, who was probably already running on little sleep, got up and folded the blanket you had been using, returning it to its home while you went upstairs to get the kids.

Livvy’s eyes went wide when she saw you come from downstairs, “Did Santa come?” She asked you, nearly bouncing with excitement.

As you expected, the door to Eleanor’s room swung open, revealing your sleep-deprived five-year-old in her rumpled pajamas, “Yes, Santa brought gifts for everyone,” you answered, ruffling her hair before going into Finn’s room, hoping to wake him gently before the voices did a less delicate job. “Hi buddy,” you whispered, looking back to see the girls gathered at the door, completely unaware that their dad was waiting for them downstairs. “Merry Christmas,” you said softly, his scrunched face not processing what you were saying, but happy to see you, nonetheless.

You picked him up from the crib and herded the girls to the stairs, letting them lead the way down while you carried the baby. Right behind them, you watched the realization dawn on their faces as soon as they caught sight of Spencer, “Daddy!” Nell shouted, leading her little sister as they ran to him.

Laughing lightly, you let a squirming Finn down, running to Spencer in the same way the girls just had. From a distance, you watched as all three of your kids entirely bypassed the gifts under the tree and on the mantle and went straight to what was more important—their father was home for Christmas.

Spencer crouched down to get Finn, and at the same time, Livvy jumped in excitement, leaving Spencer falling backward and sitting on the ground while the kids formed a less-than-graceful dog pile on the floor. You took that as your cue to join in on the festivities, kneeling on the floor next to the familial pile, uncontrollable giggles emanated from everyone involved.

You wrangled the two littles in your arms, giving each of them dozens of kisses and receiving more laughter in return as Eleanor settled down. Your eldest took her moment of alone time and laid her head on Spencer’s chest, the grin on her face overtook the rest of her face, “Best Christmas ever,” she whispered before rolling off of him, Spencer instinctively lifting his hand so she doesn’t hit her head on the leg of the coffee table.

Nellie sat up giving you a toothy grin, sticking her tongue through where she was missing a front tooth. Everyone took notice of Olivia pointing at the tree, her mouth shaped like an “o” in awe, “Can we open that one?” She asked, pointing to the largest present in the stack—which, of course, had her name on it.

“Stockings first,” Spencer said, leading to a pout from your middle child, but it was quickly wiped away when he kissed the crown of her head. Your husband got up first, taking Finn from where he was tucked into your side, and set him on his hip, “Okay, who wants their stocking?”

Everyone’s hand went up—including yours.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #spencer reid dilf agenda

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