#Spencer Reid x y/n | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reidmarieprentiss · 2 days ago

Text

UnLucky

Summary: Based on this request! Reader encourages Penelope to go on a date, which ends in tragedy. This event shakes the team, leading to conflict, particularly between reader and Spencer, who blames her for what happened. Alternate ending to Lucky …

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: angst

Warnings/Includes:

Word count: 15.4k

a/n: i do agree with the comments saying they wouldn't forgive him... so here ya go!

main masterlist

“So,” Derek says with that familiar smirk, “who’s the lucky guy?”

Penelope's eyes sparkle as she smiles, her fingers toying with a brightly colored pen on her desk. “His name is James. Just this sweet guy I met at the coffee shop. You know... normal, stable. No dark criminal past.” She tries to sound casual, but the happiness in her voice is unmistakable.

“Uh-huh...” Morgan leans in, tilting his head as if scrutinizing her every word. “And you’re sure you want to go out with him?”

A slight defensiveness takes over as Penelope puts her hands on her hips, feigning indignation. “Yes! Why not? Am I not allowed to date now, Derek Morgan?”

Morgan's grin widens, and he shakes his head, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say that. Just... be careful, alright?”

Rolling her eyes with a dramatic sigh, Penelope can’t help but huff. “Yes, Dad,” she quips, wondering why Derek is being so weird about this.

But then Morgan’s expression shifts, softening into something deeper, more earnest. “No, seriously.” His voice drops, gentle but firm. “Just... be careful, Baby Girl. Don’t give away your heart to some guy who hasn’t earned it.”

Penelope hardens slightly, feeling slightly hurt that Derek feels the need to lecture her. “I know, Derek. But... he seems nice. Really.”

Morgan nods slowly and walks away, still caught in the cloud of his concern and overprotectiveness. She lets out a soft sigh, looking down at the pile of case files on her desk, feeling a little bit deflated despite her earlier excitement. She loves that Derek cares, but sometimes he can be a bit... much. She starts to drum her fingers nervously against her desk, mulling over their conversation.

That's when you come in. You'd been passing by and couldn't help but notice the tense exchange. Taking a quick survey of Penelope's expression—anxiousness and longing—you decide to step in, offering a soft but encouraging smile.

"Hey, Pen," you say gently, leaning against the edge of her desk, careful not to crowd her. "You doing okay? I saw the little showdown with Morgan. He can be a bit... intense sometimes, huh?"

Penelope chuckles softly, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You could say that. I mean, I know he means well, but... I just want to do normal things, like go out with a guy. And James... he seems so sweet, you know?”

“James?” you say, a teasing grin spreading across your face as you lean a bit closer. “Who is this James?”

Penelope's eyes dart to yours, and for a moment, she looks like a deer caught in headlights, her surprise quickly melting into a flustered smile. “Oh, he’s... just this guy,” she says, her voice rising in pitch as she tries to sound nonchalant. “Met him at the coffee shop. He's sweet, you know... normal.”

Your grin widens, clearly unconvinced by her attempt to play it cool. “Normal, huh? And when exactly were you planning on telling me about this ‘normal’ guy?”

Penelope tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting out a playful huff. “Oh, come on. It’s just a date... no big deal.” But the glint in her eyes says otherwise, and you know it’s a big deal to her. And that’s exactly why you’re going to keep teasing.

“Well, it’s still a deal!” you exclaim, leaning forward in your seat, eyes wide with excitement. “Tell me all about it!”

Penelope laughs, the warmth of your enthusiasm easing away the hesitation she’s been holding onto. She fidgets with the edge of her sweater, a shy smile creeping onto her face as she starts to talk. “So... I was at my usual coffee shop, you know, the one with the really good chai lattes,” she begins, her voice picking up speed as she gets lost in the memory. “And then, out of nowhere, this ridiculously attractive man just... walks up to me, like he’s in some kind of rom-com or something. And he... he asked me out.”

You lean back, eyes wide, soaking in every detail of her story. “No way,” you whisper, your excitement infectious. “What did you do? What did you say?”

“Well, I said yes, obviously!” she chuckles, though there's an underlying nervousness. “But... I felt so... I don't know. Conflicted. This just doesn’t happen to girls like me.”

“Girls like you?” Your expression shifts from curiosity to confusion, brow furrowing as you try to make sense of her words. “Penelope Garcia, you are one of the most beautiful, kind-hearted, brilliant people I have ever met in my life.” You lean in, your voice gentle but insistent, making sure she understands every word. “ ‘Girls like you’ deserve the world and more. Don’t you dare think otherwise for a second.”

Penelope’s eyes widen, your words hitting her like a warm, unexpected wave. Her smile softens, and she blinks a few times, trying to brush off the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “You really think so?” she whispers, her voice almost breaking with vulnerability.

“Are you kidding?” you say, a grin spreading across your face as you reach out to squeeze her hand. “James is the lucky one here, Penelope. Trust me on that.”

She squeezes your hand back, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she ducks her head a little. “So, you’re saying I should go on this date?” she asks, the nervousness wavering just slightly in her voice. “Because... Derek didn’t seem so sure.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. “Derek is a man, and men are weird,” you say with a knowing smirk. “I bet he’s got some strange alpha-male possessive thing going on. It’s like, in his DNA or something, to protect his pack. Don’t listen to him. You should absolutely go on this date.”

Penelope’s smile widens, and she lets out a soft, relieved laugh. “Well, when you put it like that... maybe you’re right. I mean, he is just one guy. And he did buy me a coffee...”

“Exactly!” you exclaim, nodding fervently. “You’ve got a very attractive guy who bought you coffee and wants to spend time with you. And, Penelope, you deserve to have fun. So don’t overthink it, okay? Go on the date, be your amazing self, and if Derek has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

She chuckles at that, the tension finally leaving her shoulders, and the smile that spreads across her face is brighter than ever. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go on the date.”

“Good!” you say, beaming. “And when he inevitably falls head over heels for you, I expect a full play-by-play report.”

“Deal,” Penelope says, grinning, the confidence returning to her eyes as she envisions a night filled with possibilities.

When you walked out of Penelope’s office, a spring in your step from the lighthearted conversation, you made your way back to your desk in the bullpen. As you approached your workspace, something immediately caught your eye — a fresh mug of hot coffee sitting on your desk, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps. A secret smile spread across your face as you set your things down and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug, the scent of your favorite brew filling the air.

You didn’t need to guess who’d placed it there. Glancing up, your eyes found Spencer across the bullpen, and sure enough, he was looking at you with that sweet, soft smile that always made your heart skip a beat. The quiet gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes about the thoughtful, caring man he was.

You mouthed a silent “thank you,” lifting the mug slightly as a toast of gratitude, and playfully blew him a kiss. Spencer’s cheeks flushed that adorable shade of pink that always surfaced whenever you flirted with him, and he shyly ducked his head for a moment before glancing back up to meet your eyes. With a wink and a barely contained grin, he turned back to his work, trying — and failing — to hide just how pleased he was to have made your morning a little brighter.

The sweetness of the morning, with its light teasing and the comfort of Spencer’s coffee, was short-lived. The moment Hotch called everyone into the conference room, a palpable shift in energy settled over the team. You quickly gathered your things and followed the others into the room, the coffee that had moments ago been a small joy now forgotten as you braced yourself for the case that awaited.

On the screen in the conference room was the face of a young woman — a bright, smiling 19-year-old with curly brown hair and freckles that dotted her cheeks. The smile in her photo seemed hauntingly out of place for what followed. Abby Connors, the name beneath the picture read. Hotch stepped forward, his face grave, and began the briefing.

“Abby Connors was a 19-year-old freshman at the University of Florida,” he explained. “She left home a little over a week ago to move into her dorm, but she never made it back. Her parents reported her missing, and after three days of searching, joggers found her body near a park in the Everglades, near an area the locals refer to as 'Alligator Alley.'”

A murmur rippled through the room as the next image appeared — a crime scene photo, one that showed just half of Abby’s body. You instinctively held your breath as you took in the gruesome details: everything beneath her waist was missing, consumed by the predators that roamed the swampy area. But it was the condition of the remaining part of her body that made the room go eerily silent.

“She was found with an inverted pentagram carved into her chest,” Hotch continued grimly, pointing to the markings on her torso. “Her fingers were all cut off at the second knuckle, and her throat was slit cleanly.”

You exchanged uneasy glances with your teammates, the horrifying nature of the crime setting in as you processed each detail. “So what are we dealing with?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some kind of satanic cult?”

Rossi, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, shook his head. “It's not as simple as that. The idea of satanic cults operating as organized serial killer groups has been widely debunked.” He sat up, his expression thoughtful but firm. “The satanic panic of the ‘80s and ‘90s sensationalized a lot of things, but ritualistic killings like this? They don’t happen often in the way people think.”

“So, not a cult,” JJ mused aloud. “But this is still a ritualistic killing, right? The pentagram, the mutilation... it’s not random.”

“Absolutely ritualistic,” Spencer added, nodding in agreement. “The precision of the throat slitting, the removal of the fingers, the inverted pentagram... they all suggest that this was premeditated, and that the unsub wanted to send a specific message with Abby’s murder.”

“This type of ritualistic behavior can escalate,” Derek said, leaning over the table, a serious look in his eyes. “It’s got all the hallmarks of a kill that’s part of a larger motive. If we don’t catch this guy, he’s likely to do it again.”

“Which means we’re looking at a potential serial killer in the making,” Emily concluded, her voice grim. “Someone with a specific set of rituals and a willingness to mutilate and kill.”

Rossi cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him as he spoke with an almost reverent gravity. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” he quoted in a low voice, his Italian rolling off his tongue smoothly. Seeing the questioning looks on some of your faces, he translated: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

A silence fell over the room as the weight of those words hung in the air. You knew, as did everyone else in the room, that this case was going to be dark, disturbing, and an all-consuming race to catch a killer who seemed to find something meaningful — perhaps even sacred — in the brutality of his crimes.

And with that, the team set into motion, knowing that every second mattered if they were going to save another girl from meeting the same fate as Abby Connors.

—

After the team closes the case, the team sits in relative silence on the jet, each member deep in thought, processing the horrors. The soft hum of the plane’s engine provides a strange comfort, and the tension of the day slowly begins to ease. Morgan sits across from Rossi, resting his elbows on his knees, staring off into the distance. Rossi watches him for a moment before speaking up.

“You did good work out there,” Rossi says, his voice steady and calm, the kind of voice that always has a way of grounding everyone.

Morgan looks up, giving a half-smile, but there’s a heaviness behind his eyes. “Yeah... but you know how it is, man. No matter how many of these cases we close, it never feels like it’s enough.” He shakes his head, running a hand over his face as if to brush away the exhaustion. “I just keep thinking about Abby’s family. They’ll never be the same.”

Rossi leans back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yeah, it’s tough. But we gave them answers. And sometimes, that’s all we can do. You know as well as I do, it’s not about winning every battle. It’s about making sure we fight it.”

Morgan nods, his jaw tightening as he absorbs Rossi’s words. “I know,” he says, voice a little softer now. “It’s just... there’s so much darkness out there. And some days, it feels like it’s winning.”

Rossi’s expression shifts into something more reflective, a small, wise smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Maybe it feels like that,” he admits, “but the fact that it bothers you — the fact that it bothers all of us — that’s what makes the difference, Morgan. It means we’re still out there, shining a light in the darkness.”

Morgan's shoulders relax a little, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I guess you’re right. Just gotta keep fighting, right?”

Rossi raises a glass of bourbon from his side table, offering a silent toast. “To fighting the good fight.”

Morgan grins, and they clink glasses in a quiet, shared moment of understanding. The jet continues its journey through the night, a small point of light against the vast expanse of sky.

—

Meanwhile, Penelope walks arm-in-arm with James, her laughter bright and infectious as it echoes down the sidewalk. They reach the front steps of her apartment building, and she turns to face him. “Well, this was... really nice,” she says, giving him a genuine smile.

James grins back at her, and for a second, he leans in as if he’s about to kiss her. But at the last second, he pulls back, laughing playfully. “Sorry,” he says, scratching his head sheepishly. “Didn’t want to be too forward.”

Garcia giggles, shaking her head at his little fake-out. “You almost had me there,” she teases, turning to fish for her keys in her bag. “Well, goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Penelope,” he says, stepping back and starting to walk away, giving her one last wave.

As she turns to unlock her door, James suddenly stops, a strange stillness in the way he holds himself. He calls out to her over his shoulder, voice casual but loud enough to make her pause. “Hey, Garcia?”

Penelope looks up, smiling as she begins to open her door. “Yeah?”

James turns fully toward her, the smile gone from his face, replaced with an unsettling calm. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all night,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket.

Before Garcia can even process what’s happening, James pulls out a gun, his movements quick and fluid. The world seems to slow down around her — her eyes widen, her mouth opens to scream, but the sound never comes.

And then, in an instant, the gun fires. The crack of the shot echoes through the empty street, and Penelope’s body jerks back, eyes wide with shock and pain as she collapses to the ground, her keys scattering across the pavement.

James stands there for a moment, the smoke from the barrel of his gun curling into the night air. He watches as she gasps for breath, a cruel smile curling on his lips before he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving Penelope lying there, her life slipping away on the cold, unforgiving ground.

—

Back on the jet, you lean back in your seat, facing Spencer with a thoughtful look. “You know, I keep wondering what Penelope’s date is like,” you muse aloud, spinning your half-empty cup of coffee between your hands. “I hope she’s having fun. She deserves it.”

Spencer’s brows knit in mild surprise, his mouth opening to respond, but before he can even utter a word, Derek’s voice cuts across the cabin. “Wait — hold up.” He’s leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide and brimming with concern. “Garcia actually went on that date?”

“Yeah, she did.” You nod, meeting his incredulous stare with a small smile. “I told her to go for it. She’s gotta put herself out there, right? No reason for her to hold back just because you’re all... alpha about it.”

“Alpha?” Derek echoes, looking around at the others as if searching for an ally. “I’m not... okay, look, I just want to make sure she’s safe. And how do you even know if this guy’s legit? Did you see him? Talk to him?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “No, but she deserves to have fun, Derek. She seemed excited, and it’s not like she doesn’t have a good head on her shoulders. I think it’s great that she’s taking a chance on something new.”

Emily nods along in agreement, leaning back with a relaxed smile. “I think it’s sweet. And Penelope isn’t some naïve kid — she’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.”

JJ chimes in with a bright smile, “Yeah, and besides, it’s not like she’s going to let someone walk all over her. She’ll know if something’s up. And if he treats her right, then it’s all the better for her. Maybe it’ll turn into something special.”

Rossi, watching the whole exchange with an amused smirk, adds, “Sometimes people surprise you. And sometimes that surprise is exactly what someone needs to get out of their comfort zone. Our girl deserves someone to treat her well.”

Derek’s shoulders stay tense, and he shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “I get that, but... I just want to make sure she’s happy. That’s all. You know Garcia — she’s got a big heart, and I don’t want some guy messing with it.”

You reach over and pat Derek on the shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. “I get it, really. But maybe you should trust her on this. Penelope’s stronger than you think, and she’s allowed to take some risks. It’s not always about protecting her, Derek — sometimes it’s about letting her live.”

Spencer, who’s been listening quietly, finally speaks up. “She’ll be fine, Derek. And she’s lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do. But I think what she really needs right now is support... and maybe for us to just be happy for her.”

Derek looks around at everyone, the tension in his expression easing as he sees the genuine support in the eyes of his teammates. He lets out a reluctant chuckle, running a hand over his shaved head. “Alright, alright. I guess I’m just overprotective.”

“Just a bit,” you tease with a playful nudge.

“Fine,” Derek relents, lifting his hands in surrender. “But if this guy hurts her...”

“Then we’ll all be there to kick his ass,” Emily assures with a wink, and the team laughs, the conversation flowing into lighter banter, the tension dissipating as they talk about how much they hope Penelope enjoys her date — all of them unknowingly letting go of their worry while the truth of the night's events remains just out of reach.

You leaned into Spencer, feeling that familiar warmth spread through you as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer until your head rested comfortably against him. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, a silent show of support and affection.

The chatter of your teammates surrounded you, playful jokes about first-date jitters and guesses about how Penelope’s night might be going. It was one of those rare lighthearted moments that made the job feel less heavy. And as you closed your eyes for just a moment, feeling the calm of Spencer’s presence, everything felt okay.

The jet touched down smoothly, and you straightened up, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Spencer’s side as everyone prepared to disembark. But as soon as the wheels hit the ground, Hotch’s phone buzzed loudly against the table. He picked it up immediately, his expression going from relaxed to steely in an instant as he answered.

“Hotchner,” he said, his voice flat and professional.

The team began to gather their things, their attention still mostly on wrapping up the casual conversation, until Hotch’s face went stark white, his eyes narrowing as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line. His mouth opened slightly, and you saw the shock in his eyes before he steeled himself again.

“What happened?” he demanded, his tone shifting from its usual calm to something far more urgent. He stood up abruptly, stepping away from the team, but you could all still hear him as the rest of the plane went silent, each of you glancing at one another with rising concern. Spencer’s hand instinctively found yours, and you squeezed it, anxiety blooming in your chest.

“Where was she?” Hotch’s voice was clipped, a mixture of alarm and anger. “When?”

You exchanged quick glances with your teammates. It wasn’t normal to see Hotch like this, and that fear in his voice made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Is she...?” Hotch stopped, and there was a pause, a terrible pause that seemed to stretch on forever. You held your breath, waiting, every second feeling like a lifetime.

“Understood. We’re on our way.” Hotch’s voice was low, tight with a struggle to maintain control. He hung up without another word, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his muscles.

He turned back to the team, his expression grim, and you knew, you just knew, that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s voice was like ice, cutting through the stunned silence of the jet as he delivered the news that seemed impossible to process: “Garcia’s been shot. She’s in the hospital, in surgery.”

The world seemed to tilt, a rush of chaos and confusion drowning out everything else. In an instant, you and the rest of the team scrambled to grab your bags, shock and fear flashing in everyone’s eyes. It was like all at once, the air was sucked out of the room, and before anyone could fully understand what was happening, you were rushing down the steps of the jet. The roar of the engines and the slap of your feet against the tarmac seemed distant, muffled, as adrenaline took over.

Within seconds, you piled into the SUVs, slamming the doors shut as the engines roared to life, and the cars sped off toward the hospital. The journey felt agonizingly long, despite the breakneck speed. No one spoke, but the tension in the car was palpable — every breath was shallow, every heartbeat loud in your ears. Your hand was clasped tightly in Spencer’s, and he held on as if anchoring you to reality, but all you could think about was Garcia and the thought of losing her.

When you finally pulled up to the hospital, everyone practically flew out of the cars, running toward the entrance. The white lights of the waiting room were harsh and sterile, amplifying the dread that hung over the team. Hotch was the first to speak to the receptionist, his voice firm and demanding answers, but the only thing they knew was that Penelope was in surgery — no word on her condition, no updates, and, most importantly, no word on who had done this to her.

And so you waited.

The team paced, hands running through hair, fists clenching and unclenching as they tried to contain the storm of emotions within. The minutes stretched into hours, and the silence felt heavy, like a weight pressing down on each of you. Spencer held you close, one arm wrapped tightly around you as you buried your face into his chest, tears streaming down your face. He murmured gentle reassurances, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, but his own eyes were red-rimmed and his voice strained, betraying his fear.

Across the room, Derek’s frustration finally boiled over, and he lashed out, yelling at a nurse who could provide no new information. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know anything? That’s our friend in there! You have to know something!” His voice was raw, the anger masking his pain, but before he could cause more of a scene, Hotch intervened, gripping his shoulder firmly and steering him outside.

The tension in the room didn't lessen, only growing heavier in Derek’s absence. Emily sat with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the ground as if willing time to move faster. Rossi paced back and forth, his jaw tight, not a word leaving his mouth, but the anger and sorrow on his face spoke volumes. JJ stood near you, hugging her arms to her chest, eyes fixed on the swinging doors that led to the surgery wing, willing them to open with some kind of good news.

Hours passed in that awful purgatory, time stretching and distorting until it seemed like you’d been waiting an eternity. And then, finally, a nurse came out and told you that one person could go back to see her. As a unit, the decision was made for Hotch to go — Garcia had named him her emergency contact, and he was the steady hand, the one who would be able to bring back the information without being overwhelmed by the storm of emotions all of you were feeling.

The waiting resumed, and all you could do was cling to Spencer tighter, the fear and worry seeming to squeeze the breath from your lungs.

When Hotch emerged from behind the doors some time later, his face was unreadable, a mask of professionalism over whatever emotions he was truly feeling. The rest of you gathered around him quickly, every muscle tensed as you waited for him to say something, anything, about Garcia.

“Garcia’s going to make it,” he said, his voice low but firm. You let out a shuddering breath of relief, and the room seemed to collectively exhale. “She’s stable, but...” He paused, glancing at each of you, and in his eyes, you saw a darkness that made your stomach drop.

“It was her date who shot her,” he said quietly. “James. But his real name... is Jason Clark Battle.”

The name seemed to hang in the air like a curse, and it took a moment for the shock to register. And when it did, Derek’s expression twisted with a rage so violent it was almost frightening. “No,” he said, shaking his head as if refusing to believe it. “No, no, no—” His voice rose to a shout, and before anyone could react, he lunged toward you, face twisted with anger and pain. “You told her to go! You told her to go with him!”

His hands reached out to grab you, but before he could touch you, Rossi and Emily were on him, grabbing his arms and holding him back. “Derek, stop!” Rossi’s voice was sharp, his grip firm as he held Morgan in place. “This isn’t their fault!”

“Let go of me!” Derek struggled against their hold, his voice hoarse with fury, his eyes wild and filled with a grief that had no outlet. “I should’ve stopped her... I should’ve...”

Hotch stepped between you and Derek, his face set in a stern, controlled mask. “Enough,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “This is not how we handle this. We find this man, and we make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

It felt like everything around you was falling apart, the walls closing in as the weight of the world crashed down on you, pressing in from all sides. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned to the one person who could always make things feel right — Spencer. You reached out to him, seeking his comfort, his steady reassurance. But instead of the familiar warmth of his embrace, you were met with a coldness that hit you like a blow to the chest.

He stepped back, his eyes fixed on you with a look you’d never seen before — something between shock, hurt, and a kind of betrayal that cut deep. The warmth was gone, replaced by an expression that made your stomach drop.

“Spence?” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely more than a whimper. You felt your world spiraling, desperately trying to grasp onto something to steady yourself.

Spencer’s eyes darted to the floor for a moment, then back to you, and he shook his head, his expression clouded with confusion and anger. “You told her to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with pain. It wasn’t an accusation, not quite, but it felt like one all the same. He kept backing away from you, his face crumpling into an anguish you’d never seen before, like he was fighting to hold himself together. And then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the waiting room, his footsteps echoing.

“Spencer!” JJ called after him, her voice urgent, but he didn’t stop. Without hesitation, she rushed to follow him, leaving you standing there, frozen in place.

Your eyes welled up with tears as you tried to piece together what had just happened, a sob choking in your throat. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you, and you were falling, tumbling into a void. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging your own body, trying to stave off the cold emptiness that seemed to seep into your bones. You wanted to scream, to cry out and make sense of the look in Spencer’s eyes, the pain in his voice. But all that came out was a soft, broken whisper.

“Spencer...”

Rossi was there in an instant, a steadying hand on your shoulder, guiding you gently to a nearby chair as the reality of the situation crashed over you in relentless waves. Emily crouched down in front of you, her face tight with concern as she spoke softly, her words trying to break through the fog in your mind. But you could hardly hear her. The only thing echoing in your head were Spencer’s words — “You told her to go” — a statement that seemed to slice through your heart, over and over again.

—

You left the hospital soon after Spencer did. The cold night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but the chill did little to clear your head. Everything felt like a blur — Spencer’s words, the look on his face, Derek’s anger — it all played on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with sharper edges, digging deeper into your heart. You didn’t know how to feel, how to process the whirlwind of fear, guilt, and confusion. But one thing was clear: you had to find the man who hurt Penelope.

The next morning came all too quickly. The sun hadn’t even begun to rise when you arrived at the BAU. The bullpen was already a flurry of activity, the team moving with a frantic energy that matched your own desperate need to do something, anything, that could bring justice for Penelope. But as soon as you stepped inside, the adrenaline wasn’t enough to mask the raw pain that hit you when you saw Spencer.

He sat at his desk, fingers typing furiously at his keyboard, his face drawn tight with concentration. You stood there for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for him to look up — to give you some sign, any sign, that you could start to fix whatever had broken between you the night before. But Spencer wouldn’t look at you. It was as if you didn’t exist, like he’d built an invisible wall around himself, and you couldn’t break through. The red puffiness around your eyes was the only outward sign of the sleepless night you’d had, but the exhaustion in your soul ran much deeper.

When you walked past JJ’s desk, she reached out and touched your arm gently, her eyes full of concern, the pity unmistakable. “Hey,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort, but you shook your head, swallowing hard. The last thing you could bear right now was pity. Not when you had to keep it together for Penelope.

The rest of the team looked at you with the same expressions — sympathetic, worried, but no one knew what to say. And the truth was, neither did you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, feeling the familiar sting of guilt rise in your throat, and forced yourself to look away, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was time to work, and that was something you could still do. Something you could control.

Well, the whole team except for Derek.

Every time he walked by, you could feel his eyes burning into you, his anger practically crackling like static in the air between you. And he didn’t hold back, either. With each passing hour, he took every chance to let you know exactly what he thought, throwing thinly-veiled digs and outright accusations whenever he could.

“This is your fault, you know,” he muttered under his breath when you passed each other in the hallway. “You’re the one who pushed her into going out with that psychopath. If she’d just listened to me, she’d be safe.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as his words stabbed into you like a knife, but you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. You just kept walking, heading back to your desk with that guilt clawing up your throat, making it hard to breathe. There was no time to argue, no room to let Derek’s words take over. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shut them out.

And then there were the moments when Derek couldn’t hold it in, when his anger boiled over and his voice rose loud enough for the whole team to hear. “You know that if she dies... if she dies, it’s on you,” he spat, his eyes burning with a fury so sharp it left you feeling gutted. “Her blood’s on your hands. Because you thought it was a good idea to let her go out with some random guy.”

You could feel the eyes of the rest of the team on you whenever it happened, the tension in the room growing thick and heavy as they tried to balance the grief for Penelope and the pain of watching their family fall apart. JJ would try to step in, her voice gentle but firm as she said, “Derek, now’s not the time—” or Hotch would give him a stern look, that unspoken command to drop it. But nothing seemed to get through to him, and each word he threw at you landed like a punch, his grief and fear bleeding out as anger directed at you.

You couldn’t argue with him. You didn’t know how to defend yourself. How could you, when deep down, a part of you agreed with every word he said?

So you did the only thing you could — you kept your head down and worked, staring at files until your eyes burned, listening to updates and following every lead until you were numb to everything except the hope that finding Jason Clark Battle would somehow make it right. You tried to drown out Derek’s voice, drown out the guilt, drown out the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, if you hadn’t encouraged Penelope, things wouldn’t have gone this way. But no matter how hard you tried to bury it, Derek’s words followed you, hanging over you like a dark shadow.

And the work continued, relentless and desperate, with everyone pushing forward to find the man who’d hurt Penelope. But the team was fractured, split between their grief and their anger, and the chasm between you and Derek seemed to widen with every word he threw your way.

Even as you worked, though, you could feel Spencer nearby — that familiar presence that you could always sense, whether you were looking at him or not. But this time, it felt different, like an ache just below the surface, a heavy, unspoken rift. He still wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t speak to you, even as you shared the same space, both working to the same goal. And no one pushed him. No one had the time or the energy to force him to talk through his emotions, not when there was a dangerous man on the loose and a life hanging in the balance.

But every time you heard Spencer’s voice — every rapid-fire observation, every note of urgency — it felt like a reminder of how things had changed in the space of a night. You worked side by side, but worlds apart, both desperate to save Garcia, but more than that, desperate to find your way back to each other.

And so, the hours wore on, a relentless, all-consuming search for Jason Clark Battle, with every member of the team driven by the same furious need to bring him to justice. Because in the midst of all the uncertainty and hurt, one thing was clear: no one was going to let him get away with what he’d done to Penelope. Not while any of you still had breath left to fight.

The team found Jason Clark Battle quickly, all things considered. The determination to bring him to justice — to make him pay for what he'd done to Penelope — fueled every moment, every step, every search through records and combing of evidence. But as the moment of his arrest neared, it became a new kind of challenge: keeping Derek Morgan away.

Hotch had to physically block him from joining the takedown, knowing all too well that if Derek got his hands on the man who shot Penelope, it wouldn’t end in an arrest. “Stand down, Morgan,” Hotch had ordered, his voice like a steel blade, cutting through the thick fog of Derek’s rage. It took Rossi and Emily to finally pull him back, their hands firm on his shoulders as Derek cursed and seethed, every inch of his body vibrating with the need to rip Battle apart. But they couldn't afford to lose two team members to the fallout, and Morgan was forced to stay back, simmering with fury as the rest of the team moved in.

When Jason Clark Battle was finally caught, subdued, and taken into custody, there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that the man who hurt Penelope would face justice. But the victory was bitter, the relief tainted by the damage left in the wake of what had happened. The case might have been closed, but for all of you, it didn’t feel like a win — not when someone you loved was still lying in a hospital bed, healing from wounds she never should have gotten.

Once the reports were turned in and the team was officially dismissed, you watched as everyone else gathered to visit Penelope. There was a sort of reverence in how they spoke of her, quiet smiles and gentle jokes exchanged as they planned to bring flowers, chocolate, and anything else that would bring a smile to her face. But you couldn't go. The thought of stepping into that hospital room, of meeting her eyes, of seeing the pain and understanding what your advice had led to... it felt unbearable. You couldn’t face her, couldn’t let her see how broken you felt, knowing how close you’d come to losing her because you thought you were doing something good.

So, while your teammates headed to the hospital, ready to surround Penelope with love and support, you went home. The silence of your apartment was suffocating, and it took everything in you to not collapse under the weight of your own regret. The emptiness of being away from the team, from Penelope, only deepened your guilt. But it was better than showing up and making things worse — better than her having to see your face and be reminded of everything that happened.

Instead, you did what little you could from afar. You sent gift baskets filled with all of her favorite snacks — crunchy caramel popcorn, brightly wrapped candies, a couple of silly trinkets you hoped would make her laugh. You sent care packages with magazines, crossword puzzles, and soft blankets she could curl up with while she healed. You tried to send all the comfort you couldn’t bring yourself to give in person, every basket and letter a quiet apology you weren’t sure you deserved to offer. You only hoped she knew that, despite the distance, you were thinking of her. That you were sorry.

And as the days went on, and Penelope stayed in that hospital, you wondered if she could ever forgive you — if one day, when she was better and things returned to some semblance of normalcy, she might understand that all you wanted was for her to find happiness. That, even though your advice had gone so terribly wrong, it had come from a place of love. But the uncertainty of her forgiveness lingered, hanging over you like a cloud, and all you could do was hope that, in time, the rift could be healed.

Until then, you stayed away, waiting for the moment you could finally make amends — if that moment ever came.

—

The next workday, you sat at your desk, your eyes fixed on the papers in front of you, but your mind felt miles away. The sound of your own heartbeat seemed loud in the quiet of the bullpen, pounding relentlessly in your ears as you willed yourself to focus on something — anything — other than the turmoil of the last few days. You barely slept, and the fatigue sat heavy on your shoulders, making every moment feel sluggish, disconnected from reality. The tension still hung in the air, lingering after Penelope’s shooting, and it felt like every step you took was on eggshells, threatening to crack under the weight of all you hadn’t said.

You didn't hear Derek's approach at first, lost as you were in your own thoughts. But when you did catch the sight of his broad form looming in your peripheral vision, your whole body tensed up instinctively, bracing for what you knew would be another wave of anger, another round of accusations that would leave you feeling raw and exposed.

Here it comes, you thought. The guilt clenched in your chest as you waited for the onslaught, already picturing the words he’d throw at you, the blame you knew you deserved.

But then, you looked up, and the expression on Derek's face made you pause. It wasn’t what you expected. The hard lines of anger that had been etched there were gone, replaced by something softer, something regretful. He stood before you, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find the right words.

“Hey,” he finally said, his voice low and rough with emotion.

“Hey.” You nodded back, your voice barely more than a whisper, your body still taut like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Derek glanced down for a moment, and when he looked back up, there was an apology written all over his face. “I, uh... I came to talk to you about... you know.” He trailed off, taking a deep breath as if trying to steady himself. “About what I said. What I did. And... I’m sorry.”

You blinked, the words hitting you like a punch you didn’t see coming. “You’re... sorry?” you repeated, trying to make sense of it, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I... I was angry, and scared, and I let it all out on you, and that wasn’t fair. It’s not your fault, what happened to Garcia. You were just being a good friend.” He paused, letting out a long, heavy breath. “And I guess... in a way, I’m mad at myself. Mad that I couldn’t keep her safe, that I didn’t know who this guy was, that I couldn’t stop it... so I put all that on you. And I’m sorry.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any trace of the rage you’d seen before, but all you saw now was sincerity, and pain, and a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to find there. Derek Morgan — the strongest person you knew — was admitting his own fear and guilt to you, and it felt like the world was tilting just a little bit on its axis.

"I appreciate your apology, Derek, but it doesn't erase how you treated me."

Derek's gaze dropped for a moment before flickering back to yours. "I know, Y/N. I said I’m sorry."

"And I heard you," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "But sorry doesn’t fix everything."

Derek's shoulders dropped slightly, the weight of your words settling in. He shifted on his feet, glancing away for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. When his eyes met yours again, they held that same sincerity, but now there was something else—regret, deeper and more profound.

“I know it doesn’t,” he admitted softly. “And I don’t expect it to. I just... I couldn’t leave things the way they were. You didn’t deserve that, Y/N.”

You crossed your arms, not to shield yourself but to hold steady under the swirl of emotions. “It hurt, Derek. I get that you were scared, but I was too. And when I needed someone to understand that, I felt like you were ready to make me the enemy.”

He nodded slowly, stepping closer, careful but deliberate. “I know. And I hate that I made you feel that way. I should’ve been better. You’ve always been there for us—for me—and I let my anger blind me. That’s on me.”

There was a long silence between you, filled only with the hum of the bullpen and the distant chatter of the team.

“I don’t expect things to go back to normal right away,” Derek continued, his voice low, “but I hope we can get there eventually.”

You sighed, feeling the tension in your chest ease just slightly. “I hope so too,” you said quietly. “But it’s going to take time, Derek.”

He gave you a small, understanding nod. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, the rift between you felt just a little smaller—still present, but with a path forward that hadn’t been there before.

—

The day Penelope returned to work felt almost like a holiday. The bullpen was transformed, bursting with bright colors and streamers that cascaded down from the ceiling. Balloons, in every vibrant hue imaginable, were tied to the chairs, and the break room was packed with all her favorite snacks and drinks — colorful cupcakes, glittery cookies, and more caffeine than the doctor would ever allow. The team had gone all out, putting together a grand welcome fit for the one and only Penelope Garcia. The room was buzzing with laughter and excitement as she entered, everyone cheering loudly as she walked through the doors, wide-eyed and grinning.

It was exactly the kind of entrance Penelope deserved. And as she hugged each person, the joy on her face made the space feel warmer, brighter. But you stood in the back, a small smile on your lips, content to watch from a distance. You clapped along with everyone else, but you kept to yourself, too aware of the gnawing guilt that still sat in your chest. It was wonderful to see Penelope smiling, to see her back on her feet and surrounded by the love of her family. But being there, knowing what you’d encouraged her to do, left you feeling like an outsider, not quite sure where you fit in anymore.

When Penelope finally got to you, it took all your courage to step forward and pull her into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, your voice trembling slightly, and you clung to her a little tighter than you’d intended. The relief of finally seeing her in person, of knowing she was safe and whole, made your throat tighten with emotion.

Penelope returned the hug with a strength that surprised you, squeezing you tightly as if she didn’t want to let go. “I’m just happy to see you, hon,” she whispered, her voice warm and forgiving. “It’s been too long.”

You pulled back, offering a small, apologetic smile, but the warmth in her eyes made it clear that there was no anger there, no bitterness — just pure gratitude and love. And for a fleeting moment, you felt the overwhelming urge to spill everything, to apologize for not visiting, to explain the guilt that had been eating away at you. But Penelope gave you a knowing look, a slight shake of her head, as if to say not now. And you understood. This moment was for her — for the joy of being back, for the healing that still needed to happen. The deeper conversation could wait.

But as the celebration continued and the week went on, you still kept your distance. You showed up, of course, participated in the day-to-day, but any time Penelope tried to engage with you beyond work matters, you found ways to cut the conversation short, to avoid anything that could bring up what happened. You didn’t want to push her; you didn’t want to burden her with the weight you were carrying, the idea that anything you say could put her in danger. And you could see she was trying to give you space, to let you come to her on your own terms. But the longer you avoided it, the harder it became to find a way back to the easy friendship you once had.

By the end of the week, it seemed Penelope had had enough. As you were leaving the office one evening, walking toward the elevators, she appeared beside you with a determined look on her face.

“Going somewhere?” she asked, planting herself firmly in your path, hands on her hips.

“Just... heading home,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made your heart skip a nervous beat.

“Well, change of plans,” Penelope said cheerfully, not giving you a chance to argue. “You’re coming over tonight. We need some serious girl talk, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Penny, I—” You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on her face was unwavering, her smile patient but insistent, like she’d already made up her mind and wasn’t going to let you wriggle your way out of it.

“Ah ah ah, don’t even try it,” she said, holding up a finger in playful warning. “We’re way overdue for some quality time, and if I have to drag you to my place myself, I will. And believe me, I’ve got the strength to do it.” She gave you a pointed look, raising her eyebrows.

You let out a sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders slowly give way. How could you say no? Penelope was right; you did need this. And no matter how afraid you were of having that conversation, of putting her in more danger, you couldn’t keep running from her. “Okay,” you said finally, giving her a small smile. “I’ll come over.”

“Good!” she exclaimed, beaming as she linked her arm with yours, pulling you into the elevator with a bounce in her step. “I’ll see you at seven. And trust me, it’s gonna be like old times. Pinky swear.”

And just like that, with Penelope by your side, the world felt just a little bit brighter again.

Being with Penelope felt so easy, so natural — just like it had always been. From the moment you stepped into her apartment, it was as though nothing had changed, as if the heavy cloud of the last few weeks wasn’t hanging over you. She’d set up her place just the way you remembered, warm colors, quirky decor, fairy lights draped over bookshelves, and the familiar scent of lavender. And Penelope, as if sensing your hesitation, knew exactly how to guide you back into a comfortable rhythm.

It started with laughter, of course. The kind only she could pull out of you, a sound that seemed to break down the walls you’d built around your heart. She leaned back on her sofa, legs curled under her as she went on about the latest gossip in her stack of magazines, her voice rising with excitement and exaggeration.

“Okay, so tell me this,” Penelope started, waving around a magazine with glossy pages. “How is it possible that Bruce Willis can just get hotter every year? It’s like the laws of nature don’t apply to this man!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I guess some people are just blessed like that.”

“And don't even get me started on what I saw in the office last week,” she continued, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “I swear to you, I saw a hickey on Hotch’s neck. A hickey. On. Aaron Hotchner’s. Neck.”

You nearly choked on your drink, the image catching you completely off guard. “No way!”

“Yes way!” she nodded, her eyes wide with the thrill of gossip. “I’m telling you, our stoic unit chief has a spicy side. And speaking of spicy sides, have you seen how Emily and JJ have been looking at each other lately? I mean, come on, are they not totally vibing?”

The conversation flowed easily, effortlessly, and before long, you found yourself leaning back, laughing, the warmth of Penelope’s company soothing all those frayed edges that had been gnawing away at you for so long. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe again. It was fun to catch up, to just be with her, to hear about all the little things you’d missed — the world outside the darkness you’d been living in. And you could see how much Penelope was thriving, back in her element, glowing with that infectious positivity you’d always loved about her.

But eventually, it happened. The laughter faded, and the unspoken truth sat between you like a presence too big to ignore. Penelope’s expression softened, her eyes meeting yours with that gentle understanding you’d come to know so well. “Okay, hon,” she said softly, resting her hand on yours. “We’ve gotta talk about it. About what’s been eating you up inside.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to make an excuse, but it was like the dam broke before you could stop it. All the guilt, the fear, the shame — it all came flooding out. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you couldn’t stop the trembling as you finally voiced the things you’d been holding onto for so long.

“Penny, I... I don’t know how to say this,” you started, your voice cracking. “But I’m so sorry. I... I didn’t know, I couldn’t know what was going to happen, but I feel like it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t told you to go, if I hadn’t encouraged you to see him, then maybe you wouldn’t have...”

“Stop,” Penelope said firmly, squeezing your hand. “Just stop right there.” Her eyes were intense, her voice steady in a way that cut through all the panic you were feeling. “You didn’t know. None of us did. And what happened — what he did to me — that is not on you. Do you hear me? It is not your fault.”

“But what if it happens again?” you whispered, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “What if I give you bad advice? What if I invite you somewhere, or we’re just hanging out, and I somehow put you in the wrong place at the wrong time and you get hurt again? I don’t... I don’t think I could handle it. I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose you.”

Penelope’s eyes softened, and without missing a beat, she pulled you into a hug, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Shh,” she murmured against your hair. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise you that.”

You clung to her, the sobs coming freely now as all the fear and self-blame poured out of you. Penelope held you firmly, stroking your back, soothing you like only she could. “I know you’re scared,” she said gently. “But, sweetie, you can’t carry the weight of things you can’t control. What happened to me — that was on Jason. He was the one who did this. Not you. You were just being a friend, trying to help me find some happiness. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I should’ve known better,” you mumbled against her shoulder, the words muffled but filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go.”

“Hey, listen to me,” she said, pulling back to look you in the eyes, her hands gripping your shoulders. “You didn’t push me. I chose to go on that date. And yes, it turned out horribly. But that doesn’t mean you should stop being my friend, or stop giving me advice, or living your life like you’re walking on eggshells around me. I need you, okay? And I need you to be you, because that’s the person who’s always been there for me, the person I love. I don’t want you holding back because of fear.”

The sincerity in her voice, the love, and the forgiveness shining in her eyes broke down the last of your walls. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you tried to believe her words. “I just... I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered again, your voice small and vulnerable.

“And you won’t,” Penelope said, her voice steady and resolute as she held your gaze. But then, her expression shifted, her eyes searching yours with a gentleness that only she could carry. “But I know that’s not all.”

A flicker of confusion crossed your face. “What do you mean?”

Penelope hesitated, biting down on her lip before speaking, her eyes dropping to her hands as she fidgeted with a loose thread on the blanket draped over her lap. When she finally looked up again, there was a hint of sheepishness in her expression, like she was tiptoeing into territory she wasn’t sure she should tread. “I know you were worried about me, hon,” she said softly. “And I love you so much for that, for being there for me even when you couldn’t actually be there. But… I can tell I’m not the eye of the hurricane inside your head.”

You felt your breath catch, the truth of her words hitting you with a force that left you momentarily speechless. It was as though she had seen straight through you, through all the guilt, all the fear — to the thing that lay beneath it all. And as much as you wanted to deny it, to tell her that it was just about her, you knew you couldn’t lie to Penelope.

You sighed deeply, the weight of everything you’d been holding onto crashing down on you again. You sniffled, trying to steady your voice as you nodded slowly. “Spencer,” you said, the name leaving your lips like an admission of a wound you hadn’t yet looked at directly. “Spencer hasn’t talked to me since we found out what happened.”

Penelope’s eyes widened with sympathy, and she reached out to take your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, sweetie...”

“It’s like he just shut me out,” you continued, your voice trembling. “The day we found out about you, he walked out of the hospital without even looking back. He hasn’t said a word to me since, and every time I try to talk to him, he just... shuts down. I know he’s hurting. And I know he’s probably just processing everything, but...” Your voice cracked, and you shook your head as the tears welled up again. “It feels like I lost him too. Like I lost both of you. And I don’t know how to make it right.”

Penelope listened intently, her face softening with every word you spoke. She could see how much pain you were carrying, how deeply Spencer’s silence had cut you. “Have you tried talking to him? I mean, really talking to him? Not just about work or everyday stuff, but about how you’re feeling?”

You nodded, though your shoulders slumped as the hopelessness of it all settled back in. “I’ve tried, Pen. I’ve tried so many times. But every time I get close, it’s like he just... builds a wall. He won’t even look at me sometimes. And it hurts, because I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

Penelope was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she processed your words. Then she sighed softly, her fingers intertwining with yours. “You know what I think?” she said gently. “I think Spencer is hurting more than he knows how to deal with. And I think he’s taking that hurt and turning it inward — or maybe even outward. But I also know that he cares about you so, so much. He wouldn’t just turn his back on you for good.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over again. “But what if he has? What if he’s blamed me for this just like everyone else did?”

“Honey, listen to me,” Penelope said, her voice firm but full of compassion. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but he’s also a human. And sometimes, humans don’t know what to do with all the pain they carry. That doesn’t mean it’s your fault, and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He just needs time, and you might need to let yourself be okay with that. I know it’s hard, but you can’t carry both your own guilt and his.”

You sat there, taking in her words, trying to let them sink in. It was easier said than done, but hearing Penelope — wise, compassionate Penelope — tell you that it was okay to not have all the answers gave you a sliver of relief.

“Do you really think he’ll come around?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability clear in your eyes.

Penelope smiled, a genuine, warm smile that seemed to light up the whole room. “I know he will. And until then, you’ve got me.”

You nodded, squeezing her hand, feeling a small, fragile hope begin to grow in your chest.

—

The kindness and warmth Penelope had shown you was not extended to Spencer when she found him in the breakroom Monday morning. You were still settling in at your desk when you saw her storm across the bullpen, determination in her eyes and anger practically sparking off of her. You didn’t think much of it at first — Penelope’s strong-willed presence was no stranger to the office. But when you saw her walk straight up to Spencer, her expression dark and unyielding, you knew something was about to happen.

Spencer, who had been stirring his coffee absently, looked up in surprise as Penelope closed the distance between them, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. And then she let him have it.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Spencer?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous as she jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ignoring Y/N for weeks? Shutting her out like she’s some stranger? After everything you’ve been through together, and everything she’s done for you, you have the nerve to treat her like this?”

Spencer flinched at her words, his face going pale as the berating continued. He opened his mouth to respond, but Penelope wasn’t letting him get a word in.

“Y/N’s been tearing herself up over what happened, blaming herself for something that wasn’t even her fault! And you know what? Instead of being the partner she needs — the person who supports her no matter what — you’re just adding to the guilt. You don’t get to treat her like that. Not after—”

“I almost lost one of the most important people in my life because of her!” Spencer choked out suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion as he interrupted Penelope’s tirade. His eyes were wide and filled with fear and frustration, and he looked like he was unraveling with every word. “I almost lost you, Penelope, because she told you to go on that date.”

Penelope’s expression shifted then, the anger replaced by a deep, aching sympathy as she let Spencer’s words sink in. There was a silence, a heavy silence that felt like it filled every inch of the breakroom. And neither of them knew that in that very moment, you’d walked up to the door, hearing Spencer’s words, and froze. The world around you seemed to fall away as his voice echoed in your head, the raw pain in his tone seeping into your bones. You stayed there, heart pounding, unable to move.

“Spencer,” Penelope said slowly, her voice gentle but firm, trying to rein in her own anger. “That was not her fault, and you know it. Do the math, genius. Jason was targeting me from the start, whether I was on that date or not. He had me in his sights long before Y/N ever said anything. Stop blaming her for something no one could control.”

Spencer scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if trying to brush off the weight of her words. “Yeah, well, you say that, but it’s not that simple. If she hadn’t—”

“No, Spencer!” Penelope’s voice cut through his, sharper now, and she pointed a finger right in his face. “You listen to me. That is your girlfriend we’re talking about. Your life partner. Your best friend. Y/N has been there for you through everything. Do you remember when you were so drugged up that you didn’t even know what you were doing, or who you were with, when you lashed out at her in the middle of the night? And did she blame you? Did she shut you out? No. She held you, she comforted you, and she made sure you got the help you needed. She has never given up on you, not once, and you’re giving up on her?”

Spencer was silent. His mouth opened as if to respond, but nothing came out. He looked at Penelope, his eyes burning with anger and anguish and something far more complicated. And for a long moment, the silence stretched between them, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, cracking with the strain of what he was feeling. “I love Y/N more than anything else in this world. But how can I trust her to make good decisions for herself, at all, if her last one almost got you killed?”

And that was all you could take. The words hit like a blow to the chest, and before you knew what was happening, you let out a sob, loud and choked and broken. The sound tore through the silence, and both Spencer and Penelope whipped around, eyes wide in shock as they realized you’d been standing there, hearing everything.

“Y/N—” Spencer started, panic flooding his voice as he took a step toward you.

But you were already moving, already running. You turned and fled, the tears blurring your vision as you rushed down the hall, away from the breakroom, away from the words that had shattered you all over again.

“Shit!” you heard Spencer yell from behind you, followed by the sharp slap of his hand hitting the cabinet in frustration, the loud bang echoing down the hall. But you didn’t look back. You couldn’t look back. All you could do was keep running, trying to outrun the pain that seemed to chase you down with every step.

“Was it worth it, Reid?” Penelope asked, her voice breaking the silence that filled the breakroom after you’d fled. There was no anger left in her tone — only a sadness, heavy and deep, that seemed to echo around them. She looked at Spencer with a sorrowful expression, searching his eyes as if she could somehow pull out an answer that would make sense of what had just happened. “Was it worth it? To get that off your chest?”

Spencer stood there, frozen, his hand still resting on the cabinet door he’d slammed shut in frustration. The thud of it still seemed to reverberate in the air, mingling with the ghost of your sobs. His jaw clenched, his eyes staring blankly at the floor where you’d stood only moments before, now empty.

He didn't respond, and for a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t find the words. He just shook his head, unable to meet Penelope’s gaze.

“Did it help?” Penelope pressed, her voice gentle but insistent. “Did it make you feel better? Because from where I’m standing, you just broke the heart of the person you say you love more than anything else.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting back the emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” he finally choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Penelope. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this right. I was just... I was so angry. So scared. And I... I took it out on her.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to take it back.”

Penelope’s face softened, but there was no pity in her eyes, only a deep, aching understanding. “You can’t,” she said softly. “You can’t take back what you said. But you can try to make it right. You can own up to it. You can tell her the truth — that you were hurting, that you let the fear and anger get the best of you. That you don’t actually believe she’s to blame for any of this.”

Spencer finally looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed, filled with regret. “But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” he asked, his voice raw with desperation. “What if I’ve lost her?”

Penelope took a step closer, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him in her touch. “Then you fight for her, Spencer,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “You do everything you can to make her see how much she means to you. You remind her that you love her, that you need her, that this — all of this — was just you not knowing how to handle almost losing two of the people you care about most.”

She paused, her voice softening even more as she gave him a sad, knowing smile. “But first, you’re going to have to forgive yourself. Because all that anger you’ve been carrying? It’s not about Y/N. It’s about you.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, nodding, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He knew she was right — he knew it all along. But knowing it and facing it were two different things. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to truly sit with the pain of it, to feel the regret for what he’d done, and the fear of what he might have just lost.

And in that moment, the truth settled in his chest like a stone: if he had any chance of making things right, he’d have to confront his demons, no matter how much they scared him. Because he loved you. And he was going to do whatever it took to get you back.

—

You found an empty office as soon as your legs carried you far enough away, stumbling inside and shutting the door behind you before you could even think of stopping the sobs that clawed their way up your throat. You leaned against the wall, your hands over your face as you let yourself cry — really cry — until the tears came freely, the weight of Spencer’s words sinking in like a stone in your chest. Every breath hurt, and the dam of emotions you’d held back for so long finally broke. It wasn’t just about what he said, but how deeply it cut.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours; you couldn’t be sure. You let it all out, every sob, every tremor that racked through you. And then, as the tears finally slowed and the pain dulled into exhaustion, you knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. The team was counting on you. Penelope was counting on you. So you pulled yourself together as best as you could, taking slow, deep breaths and wiping your face with the sleeves of your shirt until your hands stopped shaking.

The mirror in the bathroom was unforgiving as you stood there, splashing cold water on your face. You ran your fingers under your eyes, trying to erase the smudges of mascara that had stained your cheeks, and did your best to fix your hair, to smooth away any evidence of your breakdown. But your eyes were still puffy, red-rimmed, the remnants of your tears clearly visible. And you knew, even as you straightened your posture, forcing a calmness you didn’t feel, that everyone would see right through it. That they’d probably all heard what happened.

But you had work to do, and you couldn’t afford to fall apart again. So, with a deep breath, you steeled yourself and walked back out into the bullpen, your head held high, your shoulders squared. Even if your composure was a fragile thing, even if you felt like you could shatter with the slightest touch, you made your way to your desk, focusing on each step as if it were the only thing holding you together.

The bullpen felt different now, the energy heavier than it had been before. Conversations were hushed, the usual buzz of the office subdued as you passed by. You knew they were watching, that they’d seen or at least heard what had happened in the breakroom. But you didn’t look around; you didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. You just sat down at your desk, opened up the stack of files in front of you, and forced your focus onto the work, letting it be the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Across the room, Spencer sat at his own desk, and as soon as you walked in, he saw you. He saw the way you held yourself together — the straight line of your back, the tightness in your expression, the way you refused to let your gaze wander to his. And he hated it. He hated knowing that he had done that to you, his love, that he’d been the reason for the pain and exhaustion etched into your face. He’d never seen you like this before — so closed off, so... dim.

He watched you bury yourself in your work, your fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, your pen scribbling across the pages as if each word was a way to silence the hurt. And all Spencer could do was sit there, guilt and shame wracking his mind as he thought about what he’d done — how he’d let his anger and fear control him, how he’d let it spill out onto you, the one person he swore to protect, the one person who deserved none of it. His brilliant, loving, beautiful girlfriend, who had always stood by his side, even when he didn't deserve it.

He made you cry. He made you doubt yourself, blame yourself for something you had no power over. And the light that usually radiated from you — the brightness he loved so much, the joy you carried so effortlessly — was gone, dulled by the weight of the hurt he’d caused.

Every fiber of Spencer’s being screamed at him to get up, to walk over to you and wrap you in the biggest hug he could manage. He wanted to hold you, to whisper a thousand apologies, to promise that everything was going to be okay and that he’d never, ever make you feel this way again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to move, because he knew that it would take more than that — more than a hug, more than an “I’m sorry” — to fix the damage he’d caused. It would take time, and understanding, and patience — all things he wasn’t sure he even deserved from you after what he’d said, what he’d done.

—

Later that evening, the weight of the day still clung to Spencer like a thick fog. Unable to concentrate, unable to push past the regret that gnawed at his insides, he found himself reaching for a small comfort — your favorite book. It sat on his shelf, the well-worn cover soft under his fingertips as he pulled it down. You had gifted it to him long ago, lovingly annotated with notes, doodles, and highlighted passages. Each page was filled with bits of you — your humor, your thoughts, your heart. Categories like “reminds me of you,” “our jokes,” “my favorite quotes,” and “scenes I wish I could live with you” peppered the pages, showing just how much care, time, and love you’d put into making it special for him. It had been one of the most thoughtful gifts he’d ever received.

He settled onto the couch, the book resting heavily in his lap. And as he flipped through the pages, he let himself be pulled into the memories, letting his fingers brush over your handwriting, your underlines and notes. He read the small snippets where you’d connected a moment in the book to a joke only the two of you shared, where you’d drawn silly little hearts in the margins or underlined lines that spoke to you. And he could almost hear your voice as he read your thoughts, your teasing comments, your kind words. It felt as though you were right there with him, the warmth of you emanating from every page.

The tears came slowly, silently, at first just a sting in the back of his eyes that he tried to blink away. But as he read deeper, the notes growing more tender, the love you’d put into every word more apparent, he let them fall. He let them fall because he could feel the depth of what he’d pushed away, how much you’d loved him, how much you still loved him. And how horribly, deeply he’d hurt you.

He was reading a note that simply said, “This reminds me of the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching”. He laughed softly through his tears at your handwriting, slightly wobbly from when you’d annotated it while on a train, but the joy of that memory only made the pain sharper, cutting through him like a blade. He wished he could take everything back, go back to when things were easier and he hadn’t let his fears get the better of him.

Spencer found himself reaching for his phone, his fingers hovering over your name before he clicked it, pressing the device to his ear. The dial tone echoed in his chest, each ring making his anxiety climb higher as he waited for you to answer.

“Hello?” Your voice came through, flat and devoid of emotion.

“Y/N?” he asked softly, hesitating as if testing the waters.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Spencer...” he trailed off, the words catching in his throat. The coldness in your tone unsettled him, and he suddenly found himself unsure why your attitude toward him felt so distant.

“I know,” you replied, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut.

Spencer swallowed, feeling the space between you growing even through the phone, and he realized this call wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d hoped.

“I, um, I wanted to say I’m sorry… for earlier, for what you heard,” Spencer said, his voice hesitant and unsure, each word carefully chosen but fragile.

“You’re sorry I heard it?” you asked, the flatness in your tone making him wince.

“I’m—no, yes, I mean—” Spencer huffed softly, frustration lacing his voice as he struggled to find the right words. “I’m sorry I said it at all.”

Silence hung between you for a moment before you spoke again, your voice quieter but no less pointed. “Did you mean it?”

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat. He gripped the phone tighter, feeling the weight of the question press down on him, heavier than he expected. “No,” he whispered, the answer finally falling from his lips with a sincerity that surprised even him. “No, I didn’t mean it. I was scared, and I let that fear turn into something it shouldn’t have. But I didn’t mean it, Y/N. Not for a second.”

The line stayed quiet, but Spencer could hear your soft breathing on the other end, and he held onto that sound, hoping it meant you were still there, still listening.

Spencer’s words hung in the air, heavy with regret and vulnerability. But as you stood there, gripping the phone tightly in your hand, the weight of everything he’d put you through crashed down like a tidal wave.

You wanted to believe him — wanted to believe that fear had driven him to say those things, that he hadn’t meant to make you feel small and alone when you needed him most. But wanting to believe him didn’t erase the reality of how deeply his words had cut.

“I’m glad you didn’t mean it,” you said quietly, your voice steady but distant. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you said it, Spencer. And it doesn’t change how much it hurt.”

Spencer’s breath hitched on the other end. “I know,” he whispered, desperation creeping into his tone. “I— I know I let you down. I wasn’t there for you when I should have been. But I want to fix this, Y/N. I’ll do anything to fix this.”

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the phone. The truth sat heavy on your chest, but you couldn’t hold it back any longer. “I don’t know if you can,” you admitted, and for the first time since the call began, your voice trembled, betraying the storm of emotions you’d kept bottled up. “What you put me through... on top of everything else... it feels unforgivable.”

“Y/N...” Spencer’s voice cracked, but you couldn’t let him sway you.

“You were supposed to be there for me,” you continued, blinking back the tears burning at the edges of your eyes. “And instead, you made me feel like I was the reason for everything that happened. Like I was the reason Penelope got hurt. I needed you, and you made it worse.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear Spencer’s breathing, uneven and shaky, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to explain it away.

“I think I need some time,” you said softly, pressing the palm of your hand to your forehead as the ache in your chest grew heavier. “I just... I can’t do this right now.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was faint, barely more than a whisper. “Okay. I understand.”

And with that, the line went dead, leaving you standing alone with nothing but the weight of his absence and the ache in your heart.

—

The next day at work, Spencer sat at his desk, glancing over at you every chance he got. His eyes lingered, watching carefully for any sign that you might be willing to meet his gaze. But every time he tried to catch your eye, you looked away, your focus glued to the files in front of you or the screen of your computer.

His frown deepened with each failed attempt, the knot in his stomach tightening. He could feel the distance, thick and unrelenting, sitting between the two of you like an unspoken barrier he wasn’t sure how to break through.

By mid-morning, he tried a different approach. Quietly, he slipped away to the breakroom, returning a few minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee — just the way you liked it. It was a small gesture, but it was the only thing he could think to do, a silent offering, an olive branch wrapped in warmth and caffeine.

He set the cup gently on the corner of your desk, lingering for a brief moment in case you wanted to say something.

You glanced up, your eyes catching on the cup before drifting to him. A small, polite smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, and you gave him a soft nod. "Thanks," you said, your voice quiet but distant, as if the words were more out of obligation than gratitude.

Spencer nodded back, but the lack of warmth in your tone hit harder than he anticipated. He wanted more — a real conversation, something to pull you both back to where you used to be. But instead, he returned to his desk, the silence louder than any rejection could have been.

You didn’t owe him more than that. And Spencer knew he had a long way to go if he ever wanted to earn more than just a nod and a polite smile.

It took weeks for you to acknowledge Spencer outside of work. You were always courteous, always professional — but that was all. The warmth, the teasing, the quiet moments you used to steal together between cases were gone. And Spencer felt every second of that absence.

He missed you — deeply, achingly. Every glance you gave him that didn’t linger, every polite nod that replaced the easy smiles he once knew, it all felt like tiny fractures splintering through his chest.

But he gave you space. As much as it hurt, he didn’t push. He knew he deserved the distance, knew he’d earned every bit of the cold shoulder you gave him.

Then one night, after he’d convinced himself you might never reach out again, his phone lit up with your name. Spencer stared at the screen for a second longer than he should have, hardly daring to believe it was real before he answered, voice hurried and breathless.

“Y/N?”

“Hi, Spencer.”

He nearly melted at the sound of your voice, the familiar softness in it, even if it felt restrained. “I— It’s good to hear from you. How are you?”

There was a pause on the other end, and Spencer held his breath.

“I’m... okay,” you said carefully. “I was actually calling because I need to pick up a few things from your apartment. Would you be home tomorrow?”

The excitement that had bloomed in his chest moments earlier shrank instantly, replaced by the cold grip of reality. His throat tightened as he tried to keep his voice steady.

“Yeah... yeah, of course,” he replied, forcing a small, empty chuckle. “I can be here anytime. Just let me know when.”

“Thanks, Spencer. I’ll text you.”

And just like that, the call ended, leaving him staring at the phone in his hand, the silence of his apartment pressing in around him.

But Spencer wasn’t above begging. Not for you.

The next day, when you arrived at his apartment, Spencer stood in the doorway as you gathered the small things you’d left behind — a sweatshirt in his closet, your hairbrush by the sink, the book you’d been halfway through reading on his nightstand.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching you, his heart twisting with every item you picked up, as if each one was a piece of you he was losing all over again.

When you finally met his eyes, ready to leave, he took a shaky breath, and before you could step out the door, the words spilled out.

“Please don’t go,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “Y/N... I know I messed up. I know I hurt you in ways I can’t take back. But... I love you. And I can’t— I can’t just let you walk away from me like this. Please... I’ll do anything.”

You hesitated, your grip tightening on the bag in your hand. Your eyes softened for a brief moment, flickering with something he couldn’t quite place — regret, maybe, or sorrow.

But you didn’t say anything right away. And Spencer stood there, heart breaking with the silence, knowing that no matter how much he begged, some things might take more than words to fix.

Your grip on the bag tightened until your knuckles turned white. You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you, heavy and desperate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes for long.

“Spencer...” you began softly, your voice breaking just enough to betray the conflict raging inside you. “I can’t.”

His breath caught, and you saw the way his face fell, the faint flicker of hope extinguishing right before your eyes.

“I know you’re sorry,” you continued, forcing yourself to stay steady even though the tears threatened to come. “And I know you mean it. But this… this isn’t something an apology can fix.”

Spencer took a step closer, his hands trembling at his sides as if he wanted to reach out but was afraid you’d pull away. “I can be better,” he pleaded. “I will be better. Just— just give me the chance to prove it to you.”

You shook your head, feeling the tears slip down your cheeks before you could stop them. “I gave you that chance, Spencer. And when I needed you the most, you weren’t there.”

The weight of your words hit him hard, and for a moment, he looked as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“I’m not saying I don’t love you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But love isn’t always enough. I can’t keep giving and giving, hoping you’ll be there, only to be left standing alone.”

Spencer wiped at his face, quickly brushing away tears that he’d failed to hold back. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and the silence between you grew thick and unbearable.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he finally said, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” you admitted softly, meeting his eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. “But I think... I already have.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something, anything, but there were no words that could undo the damage. Nothing that could fix what had already broken.

“I need time,” you said, stepping toward the door, your fingers curling around the strap of your bag. “Maybe one day... but not right now.”

Spencer nodded, though the understanding in his expression didn’t mask the heartbreak written all over his face. “Okay,” he whispered. “If that’s what you need.”

You paused at the threshold, hesitating for just a second before you turned back to him. “Take care of yourself, Spencer.”

“You too,” he replied, his voice barely audible.

And with that, you stepped out of his apartment, leaving Spencer standing alone, the echo of your absence louder than any sound could ever be.

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dullwaterlily · 2 days ago

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🌷 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 🌷 ~ fic recs ii

~ the gun ~ 𝐛𝐲 @auroralwriting

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort

~ wedding bells ~ 𝐛𝐲 @auroralwriting

spencer reid x reader , pt2 of the gun , fluff

~ litmus test ~ 𝐛𝐲 @pathologicalreid

spencer reid x biochemist!reader ( i love love this au ), flangst

~ in the absence of you ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reidmania

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort , angst , read tw!!

~ time gave no compass, were there clues? ~ 𝐛𝐲 @gghostwriter

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ between silence and sorrow ~ 𝐛𝐲 @springtyme

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort

~ it’s romantic ~ 𝐛𝐲 @enderlovez

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ trouble almost all my life ~ 𝐛𝐲 @januaryembrs

spencer reid x prentiss!reader , series

~ lost and found ~ 𝐛𝐲 @sunshine-on-marz

spencer reid x reader , angst

~ thank you’s ~ 𝐛𝐲 @angellic4l

spencer reid x reader , mainly fluff

~ “unspoken understanding” ~ 𝐛𝐲 @little-jana

spencer reid x deaf!reader , fluff

~ tease ~ 𝐛𝐲 @parfaitblogs

spencer reid x shy!reader , flufff

~ copycat ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reiding-writing

spencer reid x unsub!reader , angst ,

~ copycat pt2 ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reiding-writing

spencer reid x unsub!reader , angst , i ❤️❤️❤️ this

~ kill for you ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reidmania

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort

~ last christmas ~ 𝐛𝐲 @anniebeemine

spencer reid x reader , angsty

~ burn notice ~ 𝐛𝐲 @pathologicalreid

spencer reid x reader , angst , i recommend margot’s whole masterlist!!

~ strawberry laces ~ 𝐛𝐲 @as-sweet-as-a

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ first fall of snow ~ 𝐛𝐲 @3verythingiknowaboutlove

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ lost connection ~ 𝐛𝐲 @darkmatilda

spencer reid x reader , angst

~ was i stupid to love you? ~ 𝐛𝐲 @incognit0slut

spencer reid x reader , angst

~ la vita è bella ~ 𝐛𝐲 @angellic4l

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ in omnia paratus ~ 𝐛𝐲 @street-smarts00

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort , flangst

~ lovebird ~ 𝐛𝐲 @spencerreidenjoyer

spencer reid x reader , fluff

make sure to support all these wonderful writers !!

💐💐

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drowning-rabbit · 1 day ago

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fuck it, i love you

spencer reid x celebrity!reader

chapter one: i like to see everything in neon

word count: 1.6k

plot summary

chapter summary: the calm before the storm - you meet spencer reid at an art gallery and he makes you question your view on life in less than twenty minutes.

Pretending is easy. At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself the majority of adulthood. At 25, you had been cruising through milestones in a convertible, with the top down and the wind blowing. Making it as a public figure never seemed attainable until it was in front of your eyes. Poor kids don’t get famous, and your situation was inopportune at best. Childhood wasn’t easy, but lo and behold: here was a thriving career in your mid-20s, launched by a recurring role in a dramatic romance series.

Except it wasn’t all that easy. The series wasn’t perfect, and it required a lot more intense scenes than you had hoped. But it had kickstarted your fame, and Michael said it was too early to leave. You had worked relentlessly to get here with no one close to your side. Parker was nice, and had been a great friend since college. He was always busy curating, though. Pinky was… there. Mags had been around constantly but was a bit clingy, and Michael, your manager, was a delight. That was it. Hollywood was lonely, and you had given up the concept of real friends entirely. Although every single available person threw themselves at your feet, no one had treated you as an equal. There were no friends in business; only colleagues. Most anyone would stab a knife into your back for an opportunity at more money and fame. Some pretended to be nice, while others were outright rude. Pinky was one of the rude ones. Although interesting to be around, she was a narcissist and constantly brought you down. She also had a thing for older men - which was odd considering her preference for dating women.

Parker had asked you to attend his latest exhibit, accompanied by Pinky. She was a featured artist. You arrived before the crowd in order to avoid most of the paparazzi, and now walked with him and Pinky through the exhibit. Cameras were not allowed inside, so you were safe from prying eyes. He explained some of the featured pieces to you, but was quickly distracted by someone he recognized.

“Spencer! Spencer Reid! Dude! Look at you!” He yelled over to two men in corporate clothing. One was older, middle-aged. His hair was greying and his expression was solemn. He looked like he had seen a lifetime of sadness. Pinky would latch on quickly. The other was possibly the most beautiful man currently in the state of California. He had the sweetest brown eyes, slightly overgrown hair, and an apprehensive smile. He looked hesitant, like he didn’t want to see Parker. That must be Spencer Reid. The name bounced around in your head like the DVD-idle screen that played during late nights in your apartment. He stood awkwardly with his hands nestled into his dress pants, his polka dot button up covered by a grey vest and a sleek black tie.

“You look just the same. Look at you, dude. Nothing’s changed. Spencer was the only 12 year old in our graduating class. Just the same.” Parker smiled genuinely at the pretty man. His name hit the corner of your brain’s TV screen and it clicked. Spencer Reid, graduated high school at twelve years old. A man that looked like a modern Adonis but walked with the air of a childhood prodigy. Clearly intelligent, equally awkward. Beautiful. Pretending was easy - you remembered to feign disinterest. After staring at him for a few minutes, you gave up on enjoying peace of mind and walked around the gallery with Pinky. It seemed like everything out of her mouth was contemporary, which explained the nature of her pieces. You pretended to pay attention, but Spencer still lingered in your thoughts until you heard Parker call your name.

“Guys, come on.” He motioned to Spencer and the other man as they approached you. “Spencer, you ever meet a real movie star?” He asked as Spencer eyed you up and down. When he met your gaze, he realized what he was doing and quickly looked away. You kept your eyes on him.

“Movie star? Please, she's got one role on a television series about weird kinky romance. Totally blue collar,” Pinky added from beside you. You chuckled a bit and introduced yourself, refusing to let eye contact break when Spencer looked back at you.

“Hi, I'm... I'm doctor Spencer... Reid. I'm Spencer. You don't have to... call me doctor.” He stuttered through his introduction and squinted like he offended himself.

“I won't.. Spencer.” You grinned widely to convince him to lighten up a little. You were interrupted by several flashes of a camera, so Parker excused himself.

“Hey you! I told you! No photos in the gallery! All right? Out!” You sighed deeply before reaching out to grab a glass of champagne off of a tray. Paparazzi always got in the way of everything. It was hard to say acting was worth it when privacy was never an option. Sure, you loved your job, but at what cost? When was it all enough? Pretending is easy, so you pretended not to care.

“So... you're not from around here, are you?” You asked Spencer, giving him another award-winning smile. He wasn’t used to it all, and despite the awkward facade, he was shockingly easy to talk to. His hesitance to be in the limelight gave you a sense of camaraderie. It was fun to be the center of attention, but easier to blend in to the crowd. Talking to him made you feel normal, like you could have a real friend.

“Me? No.” He shook his head firmly. “No, I'm... We're running a training service about profiling for the Los Angeles police department.”

“Profiling?” You questioned. So much for a friend. He was a narc.

“Yeah, I'm with the behavioral analysis unit of the FBI. We psychoanalyze crime scenes in order to gain a better understanding of the criminal’s thought process,” He explained, crossing his arms over his chest. Oh, so maybe not as bad. He wasn’t any harm to you, anyway. It couldn’t hurt to entertain the possibility of connection. Pretending was easy, lying to yourself was a different story. And you couldn’t possibly lie about your attraction towards this man. You wondered if he could tell.

“Psychoanalyze, huh?” You watched his eyes as they averted your gaze, his cheeks still an endearing shade of pink. You wanted to see him turn red.

“Are you doing that to me right now?” You giggled as you watched his color turn. Bingo.

“What? no! I'm not psychoanalyzing you. I'm just…” He was so pretty.

“I'm kidding.” You said gently, unable to stop yourself from making sure he was comfortable. “Do you mind if I?” You reached out a hand and waited for him to take it.

He paused for an uncomfortably long period of time, staring at your well-manicured hand extended out towards his. He blinked once, twice, three times, as if trying to convince himself of something. He swallowed and closed his eyes, and you watched the trail of his Adam’s apple. When you looked up, he shook his head before opening his eyes and lacing his fingers through yours. You led him to one of the paintings on the wall while trying to hold his hand as gently as possibly. Physical contact seemed to be difficult for him, and it made you giddy that he was willing to trust you blindly. After a moment, you spoke again.

“Does it make you feel anything?” you gestured towards the painting in front of you. It was mostly dark, but splotches of neon light painted the canvas in an endearing way. It reminded you of Hollywood. When the lights were so bright, it was easy to forget the darkness lingering behind the scenes.

“Like what?” He tilted his head in curiosity, and you melted.

“I can't tell you how to feel. I can tell you I like to see everything in neon, and the lime green reminds me of partying. Fame is hard, but it’s easy to deal with. You just have to let go and live a little” You squeezed his hand a little, and he looked down before you heard a reply.

“Right now, I feel pretty good.” He squeezed your hand back. “You know, there’s other ways to cope. Maybe I can..”

“We're leaving.”

Spencer abruptly let go of you as the man from earlier tapped his back. He seemed to flinch as he realized what he was doing by touching you.

“We're still looking at the exhibit,” He protested, wiping the hand that held yours onto his pants. Was he trying to get rid of your germs? He could be a germaphobe, since you knew nothing about him. In fact, it was kind of odd to be holding the hand of someone you met twenty minutes ago. Then again, it was also odd for an FBI profiler and a television actress to meet in the middle of an art gallery. And it was odd that meeting this unusual man had been the most interesting event in your life in a long time.

“Now. Now, now.” The older man was in an urgent rush. He had left with Pinky earlier, which meant she was up to her antics again.

“Yeah, I guess we're leaving, so...” He looked you up and down, but made no move to leave.

“Reid, now.” At this, he started away from you. Fucking Pinky.

“Nice to meet you, Spencer Reid.”

“Bye!” He turned and smiled back at you, waving quickly. You only hoped you would see him again. Pretending was easy, so you pretended it didn’t matter.

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

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voguesabnxrmal · 19 hours ago

Text

i think tears were shed

was i stupid to love you?

in which a lingering glance at Rossi’s wedding threatens your engagement.

content: angst, 4.8k, takes place right after truth or dare (14x15), a lot of dialogue, mention of prison arc, emotional distress, relationship conflict, not proofread a/n: when was the last time you saw me write angst? exactly. this is inspired by malcolm & marie bc i really like the idea of having an argument while moving around the house (also disclaimer i have nothing against JJ i just like being dramatic)

The lock clicks open. The door swings with a creak. Your heels tap against the hardwood in a hollow rhythm that feels almost too loud. There’s a tightness in your chest, that prickling behind your eyes, and a familiar ache pressing up from the pit of your stomach, churning into a faint nausea that you try to ignore. You’re trying to hold it back.

Not here.

Not now.

Spencer doesn’t even look up. The keys slip from his hand with a soft clink as they hit the side table, and he turns away with a quiet sigh that reverberates deep in your bones.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, tossing a glance toward the kitchen. “Think we could order something?”

You trail after him, the sharp click of your heels echoing as you step onto the kitchen tile. “We just came back from a wedding.”

He’s rifling through the cupboard, his fingers brushing over the mismatched mugs and neatly stacked plates before he pulls down two glasses. “I barely ate anything at the reception.”

You watch him, biting back a response as memories flicker to mind. The slice of cake he’d poked at absentmindedly, washing it down with sips of water instead of real food.

It wasn’t hunger he seemed focused on tonight. No, it was his quiet glances across the room you keep on catching from the corner of your eye, and that conversation he’d had at the bar. The one where his posture softened, his gaze so intent you’d found yourself staring at the back of his head, trying not to read too much into it—and obviously failing.

“Why didn’t you eat?”

He shrugs, his back still to you as he fills the glasses with water. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost absent, like it’s something he hasn’t really thought about. “I didn’t get around to it, I guess.”

The muscles in your jaw ticks as you bite the inside of your cheeks.

Spencer turns, offering you a glass. “I was thinking of Chinese, or maybe we can check if that Thai place you like is still open.”

You take the glass from him, barely sparing it a glance before setting it back down on the counter. “Whatever you want is fine.”

A subtle crease appears between his brows. “You sure? You usually have some opinion when it comes to food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t want to eat anything?”

You suppress a sigh. "No. I'm tired."

The soft amber of his eyes dims slightly as he studies you. There's a flicker of uncertainty passing through them before he nods. “Alright,” he concedes. “We don’t have to order anything.”

A faint, humorless laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It tastes bitter, a little unfair, but it slips out before you can pull it back, “You don’t have to change your plans on my account, Spencer.”

“I’m not changing any plans,” he responds. “I’m just making sure you have something to eat in case you’re hungry.”

Your shoes dig uncomfortably into your feet. You shift your weight, starting to pace a few steps back and forth. "It's dinner, you don't have to check on me for every little thing. Do whatever you like."

He blinks, looking genuinely perplexed. "What are you saying? I was trying to be considerate."

"Right. Considerate.”

There’s an unmistakable bite in your tone.

“Yes, because we like doing these things together," he observes, watching your uneasy pacing. "Am I missing something here?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

"Honey."

The term of endearment lands softly, slipping from his lips like he believes it has the power to melt whatever tension has suddenly crept between you. But it only tightens the knot building in your stomach. It’s stirring the words you’re trying to hold back, tangling them somewhere between your chest and throat.

He calls your name this time, his eyes narrowing into sharp lines. “You’ve been awfully quiet on our way home, and now you’re… honestly, I don’t know why you're acting this way.” His voice dips with a tinge of exasperation. "What’s this really about?"

The words you’ve been biting back feel like a stack of stones in your throat, rising up, up, up, each one pressed tighter by the gnawing nausea in your stomach. You can feel them gathering, and before you know it, they tumble out messily.

“I’m just saying, don’t let me hold you back from getting what you want. I wouldn’t want to stop you from anything—or, god forbid," you add, letting your gaze drift away as if a little distance might soften the blow, “anyone.”

The soft, almost stifled inhale he takes is audible. You don’t even have to look up to see his expression shifting. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows as he processes your words. You know his reaction by heart, yet right now, you wonder if saying this was a mistake, if this is the start of something neither of you can take back.

His fingers twitching at his side slip into your line of sight. He's angry.

Maybe this isn’t the time to start a fight.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Your heels click softly as you turn.

“Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything,” you mutter, already moving toward the bedroom that’s been yours, too, for the past year. Although it feels strange tonight, like a space that belongs to someone else. A life you’re not entirely sure you belong in.

“No." His voice is somewhere behind you. “I think you should explain to me what you mean by that.”

You don’t respond, choosing instead to sink onto the edge of the bed, hands fumbling as you try to undo the straps of your heels. You twist the stubborn leather with more force. His shadow fills the doorway.

“Honey.”

Not again.

You decide to ignore him.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

You tug harder at the strap. “No.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’re clearly bothered by something.”

You shake your head, fingers still fumbling, the leather cutting against your ankle with each pull. “I’m just tired. Can we leave it at that?”

There’s a flicker of frustration in his gaze now, a crease forming between his brows as he studies you. He moves into the room. You barely have the chance to react before he lowers himself, bending one knee to the floor as he reaches toward the strap you’ve been fighting with. “Here, let me—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, pulling your foot away. “I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. But let me—”

“I can do it myself!”

Your heartbeat thuds loud in your ears, each pulse feeding the frustration that’s wound its way up from your chest. He rises slowly, not a word passing his lips, but the tension radiates off him like heat. He’s close enough that his warmth presses against your skin, although it’s not the kind you usually find comforting. It’s almost suffocating.

You turn your focus back to the stubborn strap, your fingers trembling slightly as you struggle to grip it. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him slipping off his shoes, one after the other, the soft thuds barely audible over the rush of your own heartbeat. He pulls off his suit jacket, carefully smoothing the crumpled fabric before hanging it in the closet. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to let it go… until his gaze drifts back to you.

You can tell his patience is fraying, and you’re proven right when he asks again, “What did you mean by that? When you said you wouldn’t want to stop me from anyone… what was that supposed to mean?”

You finally manage to tug the strap loose. The heel drops to the floor with a muted thump. “It was nothing.”

“I don’t think you’d say something like that if it was nothing.”

Your focus shifts to the other shoe. “Just drop it, Spencer.”

"How am I supposed to drop it when you're implying... whatever it is you're implying?"

You keep your eyes down, wrestling with the strap in silence. He cuts through the quiet before it has a chance to grow.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t brush it off like it’s nothing when it clearly means something. I need to know why you said that.”

You kick off the other heel and meet his gaze for the first time since you walked into the room. “You really want to know?”

He reaches for his bow tie, yanking it loose it with one hard pull. “Do I want to know why you’re giving me this attitude right now? Yes. Yes, I do.”

Oh. So this is going to be that kind of fight.

You hadn’t expected it to go here. Fights with Spencer are very rare, usually more a clash of misunderstandings that you both laugh about with limbs tangled between sheets by the time you’ve made peace. But seeing him standing there with the tie hanging loosely around his neck and his five o’clock shadow casting an even darker line along his jaw, it hits you differently.

This is real. And this time, you don’t know if brushing it off will fix anything.

“Fine, let’s talk about it then.” You rise from the bed, tension carrying you to your feet. “Emily’s speech tonight.”

His brow furrows, not quite a scowl, more a cautious crease as he processes your tone. “Emily’s speech? What about it?”

“What do you remember of it?”

There’s a slight pause, and you can tell he's clearly caught off guard by the question. “She mentioned how Rossi and Krystal are twin flames."

“Right. Two souls that are always meant to be together.”

His face is still marked by confusion, but there’s something else creeping in. A subtle tightening around his eyes tells you he’s starting to piece it together. “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“You looked at JJ the second Emily made that speech,” you cut him off. “Spencer, you didn’t even spare a glance at your future wife because you were too busy making eyes at the woman who’s apparently been in love with you all these years.”

There. You said it. The words that have twisted around your insides all evening are finally out. And maybe they taste a little bitter, but at least they're not choking you anymore.

A second passes, then another, and by the time the fifth heartbeat ticks by, he’s standing there with his hand on his hip.

“That’s not what happened."

“Then what was it?” you demand. "I sat beside you the whole day, you didn't even try to hide it."

“That’s not—you’re twisting things.” His hand moves through his hair, fingers digging in as his curls tumble forward onto his forehead. “And you know what happened that night wasn’t real. It was a forced confession. She was under duress, we both were. JJ and I are just friends.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You look at all your friends like that?”

His hand drops to his side. "I don't know what else you want me to say. JJ said what she did because she thought we might die. She has a family, and a husband who she loves. We already went through this, I don't understand why this is suddenly an issue again."

“Maybe I wouldn’t be bringing this up if you didn’t look at her tonight like you were ready to break up that marriage yourself.”

A flash of shock and anger crosses his features.

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice sharper than you’ve heard in a while. “Do you really think I’d disregard everything I have with you because of a look? Because of a history that has never gone anywhere?”

“I don’t know what to think. It's not like it happened just once, I saw you looking at her the same way at the bar." You step forward, accidentally kicking your discarded heel as you move. "What were you two talking about, anyway?”

He lets out a tight breath. “She was checking in on me. She… we haven’t talked much since then.”

The corners of your mouth pull down. “Mhm. Another round of truth or dare?”

“I can’t believe you’re using that against me." His hair flops forward as he shakes his head, falling messily over his brow. "If there were anything unresolved with JJ, I would’ve said something. But I didn’t, because there’s nothing there."

“And yet, she’s always been an important part of your life, hasn't she?"

He tilts his head. "What are trying to say now?"

Your tongue darts out, briefly brushing your lips. You're not sure you should say it, but it feels like a door has swung open—a door to words that have been waiting for their moment.

You take a slow, deep breath, filling your lungs with as much air as you can.

“When you were in prison, you put her on your visiting list ahead of almost everyone else. Doesn’t that say something about where she stands with you?”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.

“She’s part of the team,” he says, as if he’s trying to spell out something he’s already explained a dozen times. "There were strict rules, I already told you that only a handful of people were allowed to visit. It wasn’t like I could just put anyone on the list.”

“But you could’ve put me on there!”

The familiar burn of tears prickles at the edges of your eyes, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. An explanation or protest is poised on his lips, but you’re already moving, closing the distance with a single, decisive step. A finger lands on his chest.

“I was your girlfriend, Spencer. Were you that determined to keep me out? Was the thought of seeing me really so unbearable? Do you even understand how hard it was to sit at home, knowing you were locked up, feeling completely helpless? Do you have any idea how much I hated myself day after day because I couldn’t do anything to help you?”

Your lips quiver. You feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat.

“I was out here, just… waiting. Wondering if you were okay, if they were treating you alright, if you even had someone to talk to. And meanwhile, she’s there, with you. Every single time, she’s the one who gets to be by your side.”

Your nail digs into the fabric of his shirt.

“So forgive me if I can’t just let that go. Because when it mattered, it felt like you didn’t want me to be there for you. And now… now I don’t even know if you need me the way you seem to need her.”

Your breathing turns shallow, each inhale catching in your chest. The tears you’ve been holding back are dangerously blurring your vision. You swallow the knot lodged in your throat.

“I need a minute.”

Without another word, you turn and walk out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. You slip back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you finally reach for the glass of water that’s been sitting there untouched. You take a sip, barely feeling the cool water on your lips, when you hear his footsteps behind you.

“You think I don’t want you in my life?” he demands. “You think I somehow need her more than I need you?”

You set the glass down. “What part of ‘I need a minute’ do you not understand?”

“You really expect me to wait quietly after you unloaded every doubt you’ve ever had about us?”

You life your chin up. “Yes, I do. I need space to think right now.”

“What more do you want to think about when you’ve already convinced yourself that I’m always going to fall short? Is it so hard to believe that you’re the one I want?”

“You want to know why it’s so damn hard to believe?” You turn towards him. “Because every time I try to let this go, there’s always something. A confession. That—that not-so-subtle look. And when those things happen, it reminds me that I’m not as close to you as she is. I’m fucking tired of feeling like I’m fighting for space in your life.”

“Do you think I want you to feel like that? Do you think I’d go through everything we’ve been through if you didn’t matter to me?”

“Then explain to me why I wasn’t on that list!” you cry out. “Explain to me why, in one of the hardest times of your life, you couldn’t make space for me?”

“Because I was trying to protect you!”

A heavy, dreadful silence falls between you. He takes a step back, his eyelids fluttering shut briefly, and when he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that mirrors the gentleness now threading through his voice.

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, and maybe it never will, but I couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing me like that. Living through it was hard enough, but having you there, seeing me so helpless… It would have crushed me. I didn’t want that to be your memory of me.”

His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, a quick, almost anxious movement you’ve witnessed countless times.

“And when JJ came to see me,” he continues, “the way the inmates looked at her, the things they said after she left… it was disgusting. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to you. I couldn’t live with thought of you being subjected to that because of me.”

You lower your head with a sigh. “I don’t care if they looked. I don’t care what they would’ve thought.”

“But I care,” he fires back, taking a step forward. “Because you mean more to me than anyone. All I wanted was to keep you safe, and maybe I didn't handle it right, maybe I made the wrong call... but it was only because I—" His voice drops into an even more gentle note. "Because I love you."

Your heart stumbles, an uneven beat that feels almost bruised, pounding hard against your ribs.

"I-I love you so much. More than I know how to put into words." The ache in your chest sharpens as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. "I don't like fighting with you. I hate it, actually. I hate seeing you look at me like this."

You also hate the way he’s looking at you. There’s a depth to his annoyingly pretty eyes that makes it impossible to hold up your defenses without feeling them crumble. You let your eyes flutter closed.

“Why don’t we… call it a night?” He suggests. “Let’s lie down. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

The blackness behind your eyelids does little to quiet your mind. Nor does his voice. Or his touch. Instead of offering peace, his presence throws every glance, every moment of tension from tonight into sharper relief.

You draw in a breath, trying to find some comfort in his palms against your cheeks. Yet, even this can’t smooth away the doubt that’s settled in. With a resigned sigh, you release the breath you’ve been holding along with the words that have been pressing at the back of your throat.

“You haven’t explained it to me.”

The shadows in his gaze seem to deepen when you open your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been going in circles, but you haven’t explained to me what happened tonight,” you say quietly. “Why did you look at her, Spencer?”

His thumb absently strokes your cheek in a way that feels more hesitant than reassuring.

“Be honest with me,” you press. “Was there a part of you, even the tiniest part, that still wanted something with her? Some small part of you that… wondered what it might be like?”

The silence between you presses in from all sides, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled ticking of a clock on the wall. It’s the kind of quiet that sharpens even the smallest sounds, yet his lack of response feels like the loudest thing of all.

You pull back from him with an incredulous laugh.

“Unbelievable.” The word barely makes it past your lips, then louder as you start to move, pacing the length of the apartment. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait,” he says, trailing after you, “I didn’t even say anything.”

You stop short by the couch and whip around to face him.

“You didn’t need to! You—you hesitated," you stammer, searching his face for any flicker of denial, but it’s there, plain as day, that split-second of doubt you caught. “That was already an answer.”

He inches closer. A hand closes in on you. “Please—”

You flinch, pulling back, and every muscle in your body tightens. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now.”

His hand falls to his side. “Please… let me explain."

You watch his hand drop, fingers twitching like they’re not sure if they should retreat or reach out again, but he keeps them there, hovering in some invisible line you’ve drawn. He looks at you with those big, pleading eyes, and for a split second, you almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

A bitter sort of smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "So now you want to explain?"

He takes that as permission, and his voice comes in low, almost cautious. "When I first started at the BAU, I had… maybe a crush. A passing thing, barely anything, really. But that was fourteen years ago.” His hand scrubs through his hair in a frustrated sweep. “Fourteen years."

Your brows pull into a frown. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because it was nothing,” he says, almost too quickly. “I was young, it didn’t matter. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.”

“Oh, I get it now. All those old feelings came rushing back the night she confessed, didn’t they?”

He mirrors your frown, a visible line of tension etching itself between his brows as he protests, “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” you press. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a whole lot like you’re caught between us because some part of you is still hung up on what might’ve been with her."

He shifts uncomfortably, and you notice the muscles in his jaw clenching the moment his gaze falters, dipping away for just a heartbeat before he looks back at you.

“It’s not that I don’t know what I want,” he starts to explain. “I didn’t expect her to say those things, and, yes, it threw me off for a moment. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking back, or that I want her. I want you.”

You shake your head, feeling a tired sort of frustration settle over you, and walk over to the couch. The soft cushions give slightly beneath you as you sink down.

“If you really wanted me, this wouldn’t be happening. You wouldn’t have let her get into your head like that. And now, you expect to believe that none of it meant anything?”

He’s quick to follow, closing the distance in a few tense steps. “It’s not—” His hands flex open and close at his sides. “You’re acting like one single look tonight is enough to decide I’m not committed to you. Do you really think I’d let some confession I didn’t even ask for get in the way of what we have?”

“It’s not just about that single look. It’s the way she could say something and suddenly, you’re pulled back to something you swore you’d put behind you. How am I supposed to feel secure when she still has that power over you?”

“And what am I supposed to do, then? Apologize for things I don’t even feel anymore?”

You flinch at the sharpness in his voice. A low, frustrated noise rumbles in his chest when you don’t respond.

“You’re always going to question me no matter what I say, aren’t you?"

You glance over at him, catching the disheveled strands of hair falling over his forehead, and it pulls you back to that night he came home after that dreadful night. He’d walked in looking worn in a way you’d never seen before, his whole posture weighted down as if he was carrying more than just the fear of being held hostage.

You remember sitting with him on this same couch, fingers brushing his, and asking what was bothering him.

JJ said she loved me.

Your heart lurched, a quick, quiet ache that you tried to swallow down. Really?

Don’t worry. It’s not true.

But with that same haunted look in his eyes right now, you can’t help but wonder if it really was just a well-intentioned lie.

“One glance and you’re accusing me of things that are never going to happen,” he starts again. “Do you really think so little of me? After everything we’ve shared, you really think I’d betray you like that?”

In true honesty, you don’t believe he would ever cross that line. But the doubts still linger, fed by those small hesitations, the moments when his eyes seem somewhere else. It’s not that you think he’d betray you. It’s that a part of him might still be holding onto something he won’t let you see.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Now those words you might actually believe.

“Maybe I don’t,” you say quietly, eyes drifting to the ring on your finger. You twist it absently, remembering the night he proposed. How he’d stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing as he tried to make the moment perfect but ended up rambling in that endearing, nervous way of his. You’d laughed, reassured him that it was exactly right, that you didn’t need grand gestures. All you needed was him.

And yet, you don’t think he needs you as much you need him.

A hollow ache settles around your hand as you slip the ring off.

“What are you doing?”

You stare down at the gold band in your palm, blinking back the sting of tears.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

Panic. Desperation. There’s a sudden rush of melancholy in his voice, a heaviness that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “I—I don’t know anything right now.”

His face crumples, and in a sudden, almost instinctive movement, he drops down to his knees.

“No, no, you do know me. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Isn’t this—” he stops, then dips his head, trying to catch your gaze. “Isn’t that what couples do? They argue, they mess things up… but they work through it, right? Right?”

You look down, feeling the cool weight of the ring pressing into your skin.

“Spencer…” you begin. “I trust you. I do, and I’m sorry if I made it seem like I didn’t. But… I need to feel secure. I… I need to know that I don’t have to wonder or worry about where I stand. I never thought you’d be the one to make me doubt that.”

There’s a sharp ache in your chest.

“I didn’t think it could hurt this much. Not from you.”

Your pulse ring in your ear.

“I can’t—” The words catch in your throat, a stinging burn rising as you force them out. “I can’t be your wife when I’m constantly questioning if I have all of you. When I feel like… there’s always a part of you that isn’t mine.”

“I’m yours, honey. I’m always yours.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

There’s a slight falter in his voice. “Don’t—please don’t do this—”

“I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

He falls silent, and for a moment, the only sound is the rough, uneven rhythm of both your breaths filling the space between you. Then, like something inside him finally cracks open, he sinks down, pressing his forehead against your lap. The sudden weight of him forces a broken sob from your throat.

“Please,” he begs, fingers clutching at your sides. His chin presses deep into your thigh. “Tell me how to fix this. I can’t— I can’t lose you.”

“Spence…”

“I love you,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from him in a rush. “I love you.”

But what is love, really? Is it just a word people reach for when they’ve run out of things to say, a way to patch over bruised hearts and broken promises? Or should it feel like something more solid, something that doesn’t leave you questioning or aching? You can’t even tell anymore.

You wonder, too, if maybe you’ve been wrong all along. If this feeling in your chest isn’t love but something dressed up as it, something that fills the gaps while slowly hollowing you out. Because here you are, clinging to a love that somehow makes you feel like you’re both needed and unseen. Everything and nothing all at once.

You feel like a fool.

“I want to go to bed.”

His head lifts from your lap, a flash of surprise darting across his face, as though he hadn’t expected you to say anything at all, let alone that. “Yeah, okay, let’s go to bed. We’ll… we’ll figure this out in the morning.”

“I’d rather be alone.”

The words hit him visibly. His mouth opens, an argument forming there, but he catches himself, letting the silence stretch before he nods slowly.

“Then… I’ll stay out here. On the couch,” he offers softly. “Just… in case you need anything.”

A pang cuts through you at the thought of him stretched out on the couch, his legs too long, his shoulders folded in to fit the cramped space. But the idea of sharing a bed right now feels impossible.

You reach down, holding out the ring towards him.

“No,” he says firmly, gently pushing your hand away. “Don’t do that. This… it doesn’t mean we’re giving up. It just means we need time. That’s all.”

You’re not sure if your mind will change in the morning. The ring presses into your skin, but finally, you close your hand around it, nodding faintly before you peel away from him.

The tears start the moment the bedroom door clicks shut behind you. It spills over in a jagged, helpless cry that sounds nothing like you imagined heartbreak might sound. It’s messy, a kind of aching grief that feels too big for your chest, clawing its way out with no grace at all. You can practically hear how pathetic you sound, and yet you can’t seem to stop.

Even when the hem of your dress trails across the floor. Even when you finally collapse onto his side of the bed. There’s no stopping you. With the ring sitting cold in your hand, your tears keep coming, soaking into the pillow as you cling to the last trace of him woven into the sheets.

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imreidswifey · 3 days ago

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The Profiler’s Heart -S.Reid Fanfic-

Words: 20k+

Summary: The Profiler’s Heart, is a heartfelt romance with Dr. Spencer Reid, the brilliant yet socially awkward FBI agent from Criminal Minds. What begins as a simple, chance encounter at a local coffee shop transforms into a deep and transformative relationship. Over time, Spencer slowly lets you into his world, keeping his newfound happiness a secret from his team as he struggles with his own vulnerabilities.

A/n: As you may have noticed I have not been posting as much because I have been working on this!! It is a very long read so get comfortable (Around 20k+ words)

Warnings:

Mental Health Themes, Trauma & Emotional Struggles, Mature Themes & Emotional Content, Slow Burn Romance, Spoilers for Criminal Minds, Language: The story includes some strong language and emotional intensity in dialogue, Romantic Relationship Dynamics, Slow Development.

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The familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as you pushed open the door to your favorite coffee shop, the bell above jingling softly. It was a small, cozy space, tucked away on a quiet street—a haven for anyone seeking a little peace. You’d been coming here for months, drawn to the warm lighting, mismatched chairs, and the faint hum of classical music playing in the background. Today was no different. You approached the counter, exchanging a quick smile with the barista as you placed your usual order, then made your way to your favorite seat by the window.

You had just settled in with a book when you noticed him walk in. He wasn’t entirely new to the coffee shop—you’d seen him a few times before—but he always seemed to come and go without much interaction. He was tall and lanky, his slightly unkempt hair giving him an air of quiet distraction. Today, he looked even more out of place than usual, wearing a sweater vest over a button-down shirt and a tie that seemed just slightly too tight. As he reached the counter, he fumbled briefly with his wallet before ordering in a low, hesitant voice.

“Black coffee, no sugar.”

He stood awkwardly while waiting for his drink, his gaze darting around the room before landing on your table. The coffee shop was unusually crowded today, and there weren’t many seats left. When his coffee arrived, he hesitated for a moment, then approached your table, holding his cup with both hands as though it might steady him.

“Excuse me,” he said softly, his voice almost drowned out by the chatter around you. “Is this seat taken?”

You shook your head, offering a polite smile. “Not at all. Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, lowering himself into the chair across from you.

He placed his coffee on the table and pulled a thick book from his bag. You tried not to stare, but the title caught your eye—An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations.

“Light reading?” you asked, tilting your head toward the book.

He glanced up, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Adam Smith is… surprisingly engaging,” he replied, his tone measured and deliberate.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s one way to describe it. Most people would’ve gone with ‘dense’ or ‘impenetrable.’”

His smile widened slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for. It’s fascinating when you think about how his ideas laid the foundation for modern economics.”

“True,” you conceded, closing your own book and leaning forward slightly. “But do you ever read anything just for fun?”

He hesitated, as though the question caught him off guard. “I do,” he said after a moment, though his tone carried a hint of defensiveness. “But I suppose my idea of fun might be… unconventional.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Don’t worry. I’m not judging. I mean, I’m sitting here reading 19th-century poetry for fun, so I’m probably not one to talk.”

His gaze flicked to the cover of your book, and he nodded appreciatively. “Emily Dickinson. Her work is deceptively simple but incredibly profound.”

“You’re a fan?” you asked, surprised.

“Of her conciseness, yes. She had a remarkable ability to convey complex ideas with very few words,” he said, then added, almost shyly, “Though I can’t say I’ve read all of her work. There are still… gaps in my literary knowledge.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he spoke—thoughtful, deliberate, as though each word had been carefully chosen. It wasn’t the kind of conversation you were used to having with strangers in coffee shops, but there was something refreshing about it.

For the next half hour, the two of you exchanged snippets of conversation between sips of coffee and moments of quiet reading. You learned that his name was Spencer and that he worked in a field he described only as “challenging.” He asked about your interests with genuine curiosity, his sharp mind evident in the way he seemed to absorb every detail you shared.

When it was time for you to leave, you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should say anything. In the end, you simply stood, offering him a small smile. “It was nice talking to you, Spencer. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He looked up from his book, his expression softening. “Likewise. And… thank you for letting me sit here.”

You nodded and walked away, feeling an inexplicable sense of warmth. As you stepped outside, you glanced back through the window and saw him watching you, his book forgotten on the table.

You didn’t know it yet, but that moment was the beginning of something that would soon become a part of your routine—and, eventually, your life.

The coffee shop was quieter today, the usual mid-morning rush giving way to a lull that left most of the tables empty. You had claimed your usual spot by the window, your coffee steaming gently on the table, and a fresh novel open in your hands. You weren’t expecting to see him again so soon, but as the door jingled softly, you looked up instinctively.

There he was.

Spencer walked in with the same slightly awkward air, his satchel slung over his shoulder and his tie slightly askew. This time, though, he spotted you almost immediately. His gaze lingered for a moment, a flicker of recognition crossing his face before he moved to the counter to place his order.

“Black coffee, no sugar,” he murmured, just loud enough for the barista to hear.

You went back to your book, though your focus wavered slightly. When he approached your table, coffee in hand, you glanced up again.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his tone polite but hesitant.

You gestured to the empty seat with a smile. “Not at all. Looks like it’s becoming a habit.”

He sat down carefully, placing his coffee on the table and pulling a notebook from his bag. The book from last time was absent, but he seemed just as engrossed in whatever he was working on. For a few minutes, the two of you sat in companionable silence, the only sounds the faint rustle of paper and the clink of ceramic mugs.

It was Spencer who broke the silence first. “What are you reading today?”

You held up the cover for him to see. “It’s a mystery novel. Nothing as dense as Adam Smith, but it’s a fun read.”

He tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “Mystery novels are interesting. They rely on a careful balance of misdirection and logic. Do you prefer ones with a twist ending or ones where you can solve the puzzle before the protagonist does?”

You considered the question for a moment. “I like the ones that make you think you’ve figured it out, only to completely surprise you in the last chapter. Keeps things exciting.”

He nodded, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of his coffee cup. “The element of surprise is important, but so is fairness. A good mystery should give you all the clues—you just have to know how to interpret them.”

“Is that something you’ve studied?” you asked, leaning forward slightly.

He hesitated, his expression shifting as though he were carefully choosing his words. “In a way. My work involves… patterns, logic, and deduction. It’s not exactly the same as a mystery novel, but there are parallels.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “That sounds fascinating. What do you do, exactly?”

He hesitated again, glancing down at his notebook as if it held the answer. “I work for the FBI,” he said finally. “In the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Your eyes widened. “Seriously? That’s incredible. You’re a profiler, then?”

He gave a small nod, his expression modest. “Yes. We analyze criminal behavior to help solve cases. It’s… challenging, but rewarding.”

“That sounds like the kind of job that would keep you up at night,” you said, your tone curious but gentle.

He gave a faint smile, his gaze distant. “It does, sometimes. But it also gives me a chance to help people, which makes it worth it.”

There was a quiet intensity in his voice that made you pause. It was clear that his work was more than just a job to him—it was something deeply personal.

“Sounds like you’re pretty good at it,” you said softly.

He looked up, startled, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “I… try to be.”

The conversation drifted after that, touching on lighter topics. He asked about your work, genuinely interested in what you had to say, and you found yourself sharing more than you expected. There was something disarming about his quiet attention, the way he seemed to hang on every word.

Before long, an hour had passed, and you realized with a start that you needed to get going.

“I should probably head out,” you said, gathering your things. “But this was nice. I’m glad we got to talk again.”

Spencer nodded, his expression softening. “Me too. And… thank you for letting me sit here.”

You smiled. “You don’t have to thank me for that. Besides, I’m starting to think you’re better company than I expected.”

A faint blush crept up his neck, but he didn’t look away. “I’ll… see you around, then?”

“Definitely,” you said, giving him a small wave before heading out the door.

As you walked down the street, you couldn’t help but feel lighter somehow, as though the conversation had brightened your day in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Back at the coffee shop, Spencer sat for a moment, staring at the empty seat across from him. He pulled out his notebook and jotted something down—a brief note in his neat, precise handwriting.

For the rest of the day, he carried that moment with him, and though he didn’t say a word about it to anyone, his coworkers at the BAU couldn’t help but notice the faint smile that lingered on his face.

It was raining the next time you saw Spencer, a steady drizzle that painted the streets in a muted haze. The coffee shop was busier than usual, filled with people seeking shelter from the weather, and the hum of conversation blended with the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows. You were perched at your usual table, a warm mug in your hands, when the door jingled and Spencer walked in, shaking droplets from his hair.

He scanned the room, his gaze landing on you almost immediately. You raised a hand in a small wave, and his lips curved into a soft smile as he made his way over.

“Crowded today,” he remarked, his voice low but warm as he slipped into the seat across from you.

“Seems like everyone had the same idea,” you replied, gesturing toward the line snaking its way to the counter. “You might be waiting a while for your coffee.”

He glanced at the line, then back at you. “That’s all right. I’m in no hurry.”

There was an ease to his presence now that hadn’t been there before, a quiet comfort that made you smile. Over the past few weeks, your conversations had become more frequent, the once-occasional meetings in the coffee shop turning into something you both seemed to look forward to.

“Working on anything interesting today?” you asked, nodding toward the notebook he’d pulled from his bag.

Spencer opened it carefully, revealing pages filled with neat, precise handwriting and diagrams that looked more like they belonged in a science journal than a coffee shop. “Just some notes,” he said, brushing his fingers over the edge of the paper. “It helps me organize my thoughts.”

“Mind if I take a look?” you asked, intrigued.

He hesitated for a moment before sliding the notebook across the table. You skimmed the page, your brow furrowing as you tried to make sense of the densely packed information.

“This… is definitely not light reading,” you said with a laugh, handing it back to him. “Is this for work?”

“In a way,” he said, tucking the notebook back into his bag. “I like to stay ahead, so I do a lot of independent research. It helps when I’m working on particularly complicated cases.”

You nodded, impressed. “You really don’t stop, do you?”

Spencer looked at you, his expression thoughtful. “I suppose not. But I enjoy it. There’s always more to learn, and I find comfort in that.”

Something about the way he said it made you pause. There was a vulnerability beneath his words, a quiet admission that spoke to the way his mind worked—always racing, always searching for answers.

“Well, if you ever need a break from all that learning,” you said lightly, “you know where to find me.”

His lips quirked into a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The line at the counter finally thinned, and Spencer stood to get his coffee. When he returned, he carried two cups instead of one, placing one in front of you with a sheepish smile.

“I noticed you were almost out,” he said, gesturing toward your empty mug.

You blinked, surprised. “Thank you, Spencer. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged, his cheeks faintly pink. “It’s nothing. Consider it a… small token of appreciation.”

“For what?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“For… this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “Talking. Listening. It’s nice.”

You smiled, touched by his sincerity. “It is. I’m glad we met.”

For the next hour, the two of you fell into easy conversation, your voices weaving through the ambient noise of the coffee shop. Spencer told you about his love of obscure trivia and his penchant for collecting rare books, and you shared stories from your own life, finding common ground in unexpected places.

At one point, he hesitated, glancing down at his coffee cup as though gathering his thoughts. “Would you… be interested in going to the museum sometime?” he asked, his tone careful but hopeful.

You tilted your head, surprised but pleased. “I’d love to. Which one?”

“There’s an exhibit on mathematical paradoxes opening this weekend,” he said, his enthusiasm breaking through his usual reserved demeanor. “It’s fascinating how something can appear contradictory but still hold a deeper truth.”

His excitement was contagious, and you couldn’t help but grin. “Sounds like fun. Let’s do it.”

The smile that spread across his face was unguarded, and you realized then how rare it was to see him so openly happy. It was a side of him you hoped to see more of, and as the rain continued to fall outside, you felt a quiet certainty that this was the beginning of something special.

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer carried that same certainty with him when he left the coffee shop that day. For the first time in a long while, he found himself looking forward to something outside of work, and though he kept his happiness tucked away like a secret, it shone through in small, quiet ways that didn’t go unnoticed.

At the BAU, Penelope Garcia was the first to comment on the change.

“Spence, you’ve been smiling more lately,” she said one afternoon, leaning against his desk with a knowing look. “Something you want to share?”

He shook his head, his ears turning pink as he focused intently on the file in front of him. “Nothing in particular,” he murmured, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that didn’t escape her sharp eyes.

“Uh-huh,” she said, narrowing her gaze. “We’ll see about that.”

Spencer didn’t respond, but as Penelope walked away, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles, his thoughts drifting back to you and the quiet joy you’d brought into his life.

The BAU was a place where secrets rarely lasted long. The team’s job, after all, was to dissect behavior and unravel mysteries. As close-knit as they were, each member had an uncanny ability to notice even the smallest shift in one another’s routines. It was only a matter of time before they turned their collective attention to Spencer Reid.

It started with little things.

“Is it just me,” Penelope Garcia mused one morning, leaning dramatically against Derek Morgan’s desk, “or is our resident genius unusually… chipper lately?”

Morgan looked up from his case file, an amused grin tugging at his lips. “C’mon, Baby Girl. Reid’s always in his own world. What are you noticing?”

Penelope gestured emphatically with her glittery pen. “He’s been smiling. Like, actual smiles. And—get this—he whistled in the break room yesterday. Whistled!”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Whistling’s a crime now?”

“No, Derek,” she said with mock exasperation. “But it’s unusual for our dear Doctor Reid. He’s not exactly the whistling type. Something’s up. I can feel it.”

David Rossi, who had been quietly listening from his desk nearby, chimed in. “It’s true. Kid’s been humming, too. I caught him doing it while going through the case files last night.”

Emily Prentiss joined them, holding a mug of coffee and looking intrigued. “Wait. Reid? Humming? What’s next—Reid cracking jokes?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Rossi said with a smirk. “Mark my words: there’s something—or someone—making him happy.”

Penelope’s eyes lit up at the possibility. “Someone? Oh, now this is interesting. What if he’s secretly dating someone and didn’t tell us?”

Morgan laughed, shaking his head. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Just because he’s smiling doesn’t mean he’s got a secret girlfriend.”

Penelope crossed her arms. “Oh, you think so? Then how do you explain the sudden wardrobe upgrade? He wore matching socks two days in a row last week. That’s not a coincidence.”

Emily snorted into her coffee. “Matching socks are the evidence we’re going with?”

“I have my methods,” Penelope said dramatically. “And my gut is never wrong. I’m telling you, there’s a mystery here, and I am determined to solve it.”

Rossi leaned back, a knowing look on his face. “Whatever it is, let him have his secret—for now. If it’s important, he’ll tell us.”

But Penelope wasn’t about to let it go that easily.

Meanwhile, Spencer was doing everything he could to keep his private life private.

He’d always been meticulous about compartmentalizing his personal and professional worlds, but ever since he’d started spending more time with you, it had become harder to maintain the separation. The team’s inquisitive glances and subtle comments hadn’t escaped his notice, and it was making him increasingly anxious.

During lunch in the break room, JJ sat down beside him, her expression casual but her tone careful. “So, Spence. Anything new going on in your life?”

He froze for a split second, his fork hovering over his salad. “Uh… no. Not really.”

“Nothing at all?” she pressed gently.

“Nope. Just the usual,” he said quickly, focusing intently on his food.

JJ raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. She exchanged a look with Emily across the room, who gave her a subtle nod.

Spencer knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

That evening, after a long day at work, Spencer met you at the coffee shop where it had all started. You were already seated at your usual table, a warm smile lighting up your face when you saw him.

“Hey, you,” you greeted as he slid into the seat across from you.

“Hi,” he said, his expression softening in your presence.

But you could tell something was bothering him. His brow was furrowed, and he kept fidgeting with the edge of his coffee cup.

“Everything okay?” you asked gently.

He hesitated, then sighed. “It’s my team. They’re starting to notice… changes in my behavior. Penelope, especially. She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to figuring things out.”

You tilted your head, concerned. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s just… they’ll want to meet you. And once they do, they’ll start meddling. They mean well, but they can be… overwhelming.”

You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I get it, Spencer. They’re your family, and you want to protect this part of your life for a little while longer. But…”

“But?” he prompted, his eyes searching yours.

“But maybe letting them in wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” you said softly. “From what you’ve told me, they sound like amazing people who care about you. I’d love to meet them someday—when you’re ready.”

He looked down at your hand on his, his expression conflicted. “What if they start analyzing us? Or worse, what if they don’t think I’m… good enough for you?”

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “First of all, you’re more than good enough. And second, I can handle a little scrutiny if it means being part of your life in every way. Besides, I think they’d like me.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “They’d more than like you. They’d adore you.”

“Then what are you so worried about?” you teased gently.

Spencer let out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I guess… I’m just not used to sharing this part of my life with anyone. It’s new for me.”

“It’s new for me, too,” you admitted. “But we’re figuring it out together, right?”

“Right,” he said, his smile growing.

At the BAU the next day, Penelope was on a mission.

She cornered Morgan in the bullpen, her eyes gleaming with determination. “I’ve been doing some digging, and I think I’m onto something.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Digging? Garcia, you didn’t—”

“Relax,” she said, waving a hand. “I didn’t hack anything. I’m just observing. And based on my observations, Reid is definitely hiding something—or someone.”

“What makes you so sure?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“He’s been leaving earlier than usual, taking lunch breaks outside the office, and—get this—he turned down a weekend trivia marathon to ‘run errands.’ Who turns down trivia, Derek?”

“Okay, you might have a point,” Morgan admitted, though he still looked skeptical. “But if the kid’s got a secret girlfriend, don’t you think he’d tell us eventually?”

Penelope sighed dramatically. “Eventually? Do you know how long eventually could take with Reid? We could all be retired by then!”

Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. “All right, fine. Keep sleuthing. But don’t push him too hard. The kid’s entitled to his privacy.”

Penelope grinned. “Oh, I’ll be subtle. Like a ninja.”

Morgan muttered under his breath, “Subtle is not in your vocabulary.”

That evening, Spencer found himself staring at his phone, your encouraging words from the night before echoing in his mind. He knew you were right—his team was his family, and they deserved to know about you. But the thought of their teasing, their endless questions, and their well-meaning meddling made his stomach twist.

After a few moments of hesitation, he opened the group chat.

Spencer: Can we all meet for dinner tomorrow? My treat. There’s something I’d like to share.

The replies came almost instantly.

Garcia: OMG, yes! Is this about what I think it’s about???

Morgan: I’m in. But if it’s not about what she thinks it’s about, you’re buying dessert too.

JJ: Sounds great, Spence. Can’t wait!

Prentiss: This better be good. Rossi and I are skipping wine night for this.

Spencer sighed, already regretting his decision, but there was no turning back now.

The next day, as the team gathered at a cozy Italian restaurant, Spencer felt his nerves building with every passing minute. But then he thought of you—your steady reassurance, your warm smile—and it gave him the courage he needed.

“Okay, Reid,” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been acting all secretive for weeks. Spill it.”

Spencer took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across the table. “There’s… someone I’d like you all to meet. Someone important to me.”

The table fell silent for a moment, and then Penelope let out an excited squeal. “I knew it!”

Spencer winced but pressed on. “Her name is [Your Name]. We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now, and… well, she means a lot to me.”

JJ smiled warmly. “Spence, that’s wonderful. We’re so happy for you.”

“Yeah, kid,” Morgan added, grinning. “It’s about time you found someone who makes you smile like that.”

“Thanks,” Spencer said, his cheeks turning pink. “I just… I wanted you all to know. And she’d like to meet you, too.”

Penelope clasped her hands together, her eyes shining with excitement. “When? Where? I need details!”

“Soon,” Spencer said, his smile growing despite himself. “But… promise me you’ll go easy on her.”

“No promises,” Rossi said with a smirk, raising his glass in a toast. “To Reid and [Your Name]. May we get to meet her soon—and may she survive this group.”

Laughter erupted around the table, and for the first time, Spencer felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing for certain: with you by

The day had arrived, and Spencer was pacing his apartment like a man preparing for battle. He had gone over every possible scenario in his mind: what his team might say, how you might respond, and how much teasing he would inevitably endure. Despite your reassurances that everything would be fine, his anxiety hummed like static in the background.

“Spencer,” you said gently, stepping into his path and placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “Take a deep breath.”

He halted mid-step, looking down at you with wide, nervous eyes. “What if they don’t like you?”

You smiled softly. “Then they’d be the first people in your life to have terrible judgment.”

He let out a nervous chuckle, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “You don’t know them like I do. They’re going to analyze everything. And Penelope… she’s going to want to know everything about you.”

“Good,” you said, squeezing his arm. “I’m an open book. Besides, it sounds like she already likes me, and she hasn’t even met me yet.”

Spencer hesitated, then sighed. “You’re right. I’m overthinking this.”

“You? Overthinking? Never,” you teased, earning a small smile from him. “Come on, Spencer. Let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can stop worrying.”

The restaurant Spencer had chosen was cozy and unassuming, with warm lighting and a menu that promised hearty Italian fare. You arrived hand in hand, his grip tightening slightly as you walked through the door.

“Over here!” Penelope’s cheerful voice rang out, and you turned to see her waving enthusiastically from a large round table in the corner. The rest of the team was already seated—Derek, JJ, Emily, Rossi, and Aaron Hotchner, all watching your approach with varying degrees of curiosity.

“Hi, everyone,” Spencer said, his voice quieter than usual. “This is [Your Name].”

You offered a warm smile, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement as six pairs of eyes turned to you. “Hi. It’s so nice to finally meet all of you.”

Penelope was the first to react, jumping up from her seat and pulling you into a hug before you could blink. “Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to meet you! I’ve been dying to know who’s responsible for putting that adorable smile on our boy genius’s face.”

“Uh, thank you,” you managed, laughing as you hugged her back. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

When Penelope finally released you, Derek stood, his expression warm and teasing. “So, you’re the one who’s been keeping Reid all to yourself. I’m Derek Morgan. You ever need anything—or if he ever gets on your nerves—you call me.”

“Nice to meet you, Derek,” you said, shaking his hand. “And don’t worry, Spencer’s been a perfect gentleman.”

“Of course he has,” Derek said with a wink. “The kid’s a saint.”

The introductions continued around the table, each team member greeting you with a mix of curiosity and warmth. JJ’s smile was kind and welcoming as she shared stories about Spencer’s quirks, while Emily’s dry humor had you laughing within minutes. Rossi was effortlessly charming, offering you a wine recommendation before the server even approached.

And then there was Hotch.

He was quieter than the others, his expression measured as he shook your hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said simply, but there was something in his steady gaze that felt like approval.

As the dinner progressed, you couldn’t help but be impressed by how much this group felt like a family. They teased each other mercilessly, but the underlying affection was unmistakable.

“So,” Penelope began, leaning forward with her chin propped on her hand. “How did you two meet? Was it one of those adorable movie moments where you bumped into each other and spilled coffee everywhere?”

“Not quite,” you said, glancing at Spencer, whose cheeks had turned pink. “We met at a coffee shop, though. He was sitting in the corner reading a book, and I… well, I couldn’t help but say hi.”

“Classic Reid,” Emily said, smirking. “Always with his nose in a book.”

“Hey,” Spencer protested weakly, earning a round of laughter.

“It worked out, though,” you said, smiling at him. “Because he said hi back.”

“And the rest is history,” JJ said warmly.

As the conversation continued, you found yourself feeling more at ease. Penelope’s bubbly energy was infectious, and Derek’s playful jabs at Spencer had you laughing until your sides ached. Even Rossi, with his sharp wit, made you feel welcome, sharing anecdotes about Spencer’s early days in the BAU.

But it was Hotch’s quiet observation that stuck with you the most.

“You make him happy,” he said simply when the others were distracted by a debate about dessert.

You glanced at Spencer, who was laughing at something Derek had said. “He makes me happy too.”

Hotch nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “Good. He deserves that.”

By the time dinner ended, you felt like you’d known Spencer’s team for years. They walked you to the door of the restaurant, Derek and Penelope insisting on giving you a round of hugs before you left.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Penelope said. “We expect you to join us for trivia night sometime.”

“I’d love that,” you said, smiling.

As you and Spencer walked to the car, his hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt easy and natural.

“Well?” you asked, glancing at him. “How do you think it went?”

“I think it went… really well,” he said, his voice tinged with relief. “They love you.”

“And I love them,” you said sincerely. “They’re amazing, Spencer. It’s no wonder you consider them family.”

He smiled, his eyes soft as he looked at you. “Thank you for doing this. I know it wasn’t exactly a quiet night out.”

“It was perfect,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walked. “And now I understand why you were so nervous. They’re protective of you, but it’s only because they care.”

“They do care,” he agreed. “But I care about you, too. And seeing you with them tonight… it just felt right.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and when you reached the car, you turned to him, your hand resting lightly on his chest. “I’m glad we did this, Spencer. You don’t have to keep parts of your life separate anymore—not with me, and not with them.”

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I know. And I’m grateful for that. For you.”

As the two of you drove home, the city lights blurring in the distance, you couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of contentment. You had taken another step forward together, and as you glanced at Spencer, who was humming softly along to the radio, you knew that this was just the beginning of the many adventures yet to come.

The case had hit Spencer harder than he had anticipated. It wasn’t the nature of the crime—it wasn’t even the investigation itself that had him on edge. It was the familiar feeling of helplessness, the weight of memories he had long buried surfacing unexpectedly. The case involved a series of abductions, and the helplessness of the victims—who had been taken from their homes, without a trace—was something Spencer couldn’t ignore. It brought back too many painful memories of the time when he had been kidnapped, the hours that had stretched endlessly as he fought to stay alive. It wasn’t the first time a case had triggered his trauma, but something about this one felt more personal. The terror in the victims’ eyes, the hopelessness in their families, was too close to home.

He had been quiet all day, retreating inwardly, the weight of his thoughts dragging him into himself. His usual sarcasm and jokes were absent, and his responses to questions were short and distant. Spencer wasn’t the type to show weakness, especially in front of his team, but anyone who knew him well could sense the shift. Penelope had been the first to notice, giving him a concerned look across the room as he sat staring blankly at his computer screen. Derek, always the observant one, had seen it too.

It wasn’t long before Spencer excused himself, claiming to need a break from the team’s discussions. He knew they’d want to talk about the case—everyone was anxious to make progress—but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t give them what they needed. Not now.

You had been waiting for Spencer at home, preparing dinner when he texted you that he would be late. You knew the team had been working a difficult case, but you hadn’t anticipated how much it would affect him. As you set the table, your thoughts turned to Spencer. Lately, you had noticed that he seemed more closed off than usual. He had always been a bit reserved, but it felt different now. More distant. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering him, but you didn’t know how to help. You had tried talking to him a few times, but he always brushed you off with a smile or a joke.

When Spencer arrived home, it was later than usual. He walked through the door, his shoulders slumped, his usual energetic stride replaced by a slow, weary gait. You had been waiting in the living room, a quiet concern in your chest as you stood to greet him.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, your voice gentle.

Spencer didn’t immediately respond, his eyes lost in thought as he dropped his bag on the floor and hung his coat. You could see the exhaustion in his face, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way his shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

“Spencer?” you said again, a little softer this time, stepping closer to him.

He finally met your gaze, his eyes glassy, though he quickly tried to mask the vulnerability behind a forced smile. “I’m fine,” he said, though the lie was evident.

You stepped forward, reaching out to touch his arm, offering him the comfort you knew he needed, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. “Spence, you don’t have to hide it from me. What’s going on?”

His eyes flickered away from yours, and for a moment, he seemed like he might retreat into his usual defenses. But then, without warning, he let out a long breath, the weight of the day settling on him. “I… I’m not sure I can handle this case. It’s bringing up too much. Too many memories I’ve tried to forget.”

You nodded, understanding immediately. Spencer’s past, his time being held captive, his struggles with addiction, and the emotional toll of the job—it was a lot for anyone to carry. You had seen glimpses of it in the months you had been together, but he had always kept the more painful pieces of himself hidden, buried beneath his intellectual armor.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked softly.

Spencer’s eyes briefly flickered to yours, as if measuring how much he was willing to share. After a moment of silence, he sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he murmured, voice breaking ever so slightly. “I just… I feel like I’m reliving it. The helplessness. The fear. It’s all coming back, and I can’t stop it.”

Your heart ached for him, but you remained quiet, giving him the space to continue.

“I thought I was over it,” he said, his voice quieter now, vulnerable in a way you had never heard before. “I thought I had it all under control. But this case… it’s like it’s ripping open old wounds I never knew were still there.”

You took a step closer, gently placing your hand on his chest. “Spencer, you don’t have to go through this alone. You don’t have to carry this burden on your own.”

He looked down at your hand, then back up at you. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t want to burden you with my problems. You deserve someone who isn’t broken.”

Your heart swelled with emotion at his words. “You’re not broken, Spencer. You’re human. You’ve been through so much, and it’s okay to feel all of it. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here, no matter what you’re going through.”

He let out a shaky breath, the weight of his emotions beginning to show on his face. Spencer had always been the one to hold it together, to be the strong one for everyone else. But in this moment, you could see that he was human, too, and that he needed someone to lean on just as much as the rest of them did.

“Tell me what you need,” you whispered, cupping his cheek gently. “Let me help you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, searching your face as though looking for something. Maybe reassurance. Maybe understanding. Maybe even permission. “Just… stay with me,” he whispered. “Stay with me while I try to make sense of it. I don’t know how to handle this, but I don’t want to be alone.”

You nodded immediately, pulling him into an embrace. Spencer’s arms wrapped around you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt the full weight of his exhaustion. He didn’t have to say another word. You could feel the turmoil within him, the fear, the confusion, and the deep sadness that clung to him like a shadow. And as you held him close, you knew you would be the steady presence he needed to get through it.

“I’m right here, Spence,” you murmured into his hair, your voice steady. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You simply held each other, letting the silence comfort you both. Spencer’s breathing began to slow as he relaxed into your embrace, but you could feel the tension in his body—the tightness of unresolved emotions still lurking beneath the surface.

After what felt like an eternity, Spencer pulled away slightly, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t know what to do with all this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to let it go.”

“You don’t have to let it go,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You just have to process it. And I’ll help you. We’ll do it together, okay?”

He nodded, his gaze softening. “Okay.”

Over the next few days, Spencer allowed himself to lean on you in ways he hadn’t before. He didn’t bury his emotions as deep, didn’t retreat into the quiet isolation that had once been his defense mechanism. You were there, offering him space to talk when he needed it, and offering silence when that was what he craved. You didn’t push him to get over it, didn’t try to fix him. You simply gave him the one thing he had needed all along: your presence, your unwavering support.

And slowly, he began to open up. He talked more about his past—the things he had never shared, the things he had never wanted to confront. He spoke about his time in captivity, the moments that still haunted him, and the way it had affected the person he had become. He spoke about his mother, his struggles with addiction, and how he sometimes felt like he was walking a tightrope between who he wanted to be and who he feared he might become.

Through it all, you listened. You didn’t offer solutions, didn’t try to change his perspective. You simply let him speak, giving him the safe space to express what had been locked away for so long.

One night, as you both sat on the couch, his head resting on your shoulder, Spencer spoke again, his voice quieter than before.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his words barely a whisper. “Scared that I’m never going to be okay. That I’ll always be carrying this with me.”

You turned your head to kiss his temple softly, your hand gently tracing the lines of his jaw. “We’re going to figure it out together. You don’t have to carry it alone, Spencer. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

His eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of hope in them. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with affection for him. “I’ll never give up on you, Spencer. Not ever.”

And in that moment, as you held him close, you both realized that despite the challenges you faced, you were stronger together. Spencer had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now, he didn’t have to carry it alone. You were his support, his rock, and in return, he had begun to trust that he wasn’t just surviving—he was healing. Together.

The journey ahead wouldn’t be easy, but one thing was certain: you would face it side by side. And with each passing day, Spencer found himself thinking more and more about a future that was no longer clouded by fear, but illuminated by the love and strength you had built together.

The drive to the small town was quiet, the world outside the car slipping by in muted shades of gray and green. Spencer’s hand rested on the steering wheel, his fingers drumming lightly to a rhythm only he could hear.

His gaze was fixed on the road, but there was an undercurrent of anticipation in the air. You sat beside him, your hand resting on your lap, but your mind was elsewhere.

Today was different. Today, Spencer was taking you to meet his mother. Diana Reid. You had heard about her many times—the challenges Spencer had faced growing up, the deep bond they shared despite the complexities of her illness. Spencer had always spoken of her with such tenderness, but there was also a sadness there. A reluctance. As if meeting her, truly being part of that chapter of his life, was something he had only now begun to feel ready for.

You could sense the nervous energy radiating from him, even if he wasn’t overtly showing it. He had always been a man of intellect, his thoughts swirling around his cases, his team, his work—but today, it was personal.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your voice breaking the quiet between you. Spencer glanced over at you, offering a small, tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… it’s a big step, you know?” You nodded, understanding completely. “I know. But I’m here, Spence. Whatever happens, I’m here.” He gave you a brief, grateful look before focusing back on the road.

The drive was longer than you expected, and as you neared the outskirts of the town, Spencer’s usual quick pace slowed. He turned onto a smaller, tree-lined street, eventually pulling up to a modest house at the end of the road. The house had a quiet charm to it—simple, cozy, the kind of place where the walls held memories and time moved at its own pace.

Spencer parked the car in front of the house, but he didn’t immediately get out. Instead, he sat there, hands gripping the wheel, eyes fixed on the house in front of him. You waited patiently, knowing this moment meant something significant to him.

“I’ve never really brought anyone here before,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to meet her. But it’s not easy for me. I…” His words faltered as he turned to you, his eyes soft and vulnerable. “I want you to understand why she’s so important to me. But I also want you to understand that it’s not always easy with her. Her illness…it’s complicated.” You reached over, placing your hand on his arm. “I know, Spence. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you, for whatever comes.” Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

Slowly, he opened the door and stepped out, holding his hand out to you. You took it without hesitation, your heart swelling as you followed him to the front door.

Spencer rang the doorbell, his finger tapping nervously against the frame. A few moments later, the door opened, and standing there was a woman whose face you had seen in countless photographs and heard about in Spencer’s stories. Diana Reid. She was dressed simply, her hair long and silver, her eyes slightly unfocused but kind. There was a certain fragility to her, a delicate air that made her seem more like a bird than a person. But her smile was warm, genuine, as she looked from Spencer to you. “Spencer,” she said softly, her voice wavering slightly. “It’s so good to see you, my boy.” Spencer smiled, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. “Hey, Mom,” he said, his voice gentle. “I brought someone with me today. This is my girlfriend, [Your Name].” Diana’s gaze shifted to you, and you offered her a soft smile in return. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, searching your face. You could tell she was processing everything, trying to make sense of the new person standing in front of her.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, stepping forward. Diana’s smile deepened. “I’m glad you’re here,” she replied, her voice soft but sincere. “Spencer doesn’t bring people around much, so this must be special.” Spencer chuckled lightly, though there was a hint of discomfort in his tone. “Yeah, well, I figured it was time.” Diana gestured for you both to come inside. “Please, come in. I’ve made tea. You’ll need it, with this weather.” As the three of you sat down at the kitchen table, you could sense the delicate dance taking place. Spencer and his mother—there was so much unspoken between them, so many years of history that only they truly understood. But as you watched them interact, you could see the love between them, even through the layers of complexity. Spencer was patient with his mother, always attentive, never rushing her. And Diana, in turn, looked at him with a quiet pride, her eyes softening whenever she spoke to him.

“Spencer tells me you’re very smart,” Diana said after a pause, her voice light and teasing. Spencer flushed slightly, but you could tell he was touched by his mother’s words. “Well, he’s a genius,” you said with a smile, nudging Spencer gently. Diana smiled, her expression softening even more. “I see,” she said. “You seem to make him happy.” Spencer’s gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, you saw the raw vulnerability in his eyes. His mother had always been his anchor, the one person who truly understood him. And now, you were here—his two worlds, the most important parts of his life, coming together.

“She does,” Spencer said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. Diana’s smile widened, and she reached out to gently squeeze his hand. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “I know how hard it is for you, Spence. You deserve someone who sees you. All of you.” You squeezed Spencer’s hand, offering him a silent show of support. The rest of the afternoon passed with small talk and shared laughter. You learned more about Spencer’s childhood, his mother’s struggles with her illness, and the depth of their bond. As you got up to leave, Diana hugged you warmly, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Take care of him,” she whispered. “He’s a good boy, but he needs someone who will help him believe that.” You smiled, a lump forming in your throat. “I will. I promise.”

On the drive back to your apartment, Spencer was quiet, but there was a peacefulness in the air. You could sense the shift in him, a weight lifted from his shoulders. “How are you feeling?” you asked, glancing at him. Spencer took a deep breath, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “I’m… I’m okay,” he said softly. “It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.” You nodded, offering him a smile. “I’m proud of you, Spence.” He glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small smile. “Thanks. I think I’m finally ready for this… for us.” You reached over, taking his hand in yours. “Me too.”

The rest of the drive was spent in a comfortable silence, both of you reflecting on the significance of the day. When you arrived home, Spencer turned to you, his expression soft. “I’m glad we did this. I’m glad you’re here with me.” You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I’m glad too. I’m excited for what’s to come, Spence. For all of it.” That night, as you both settled into bed, the weight of the world seemed lighter. Spencer’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and for the first time in a long while, everything felt right. The future stretched out before you, full of possibilities, and as you drifted off to sleep, you knew one thing for certain: together, you could face anything. The adventures, the challenges, the quiet moments—they would all be yours to share. And no matter what came next, you would face it as a team.

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minswriting · 1 day ago

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i NEED spencer reid to take my virginity so carefully because he's afraid to hurt me. like he's not worried about himself AT ALL. he'd feel so bad if even the smallest sound is made and he'd whisper praises and encouragement AHHHHHHH IM TWEAKING

nsfw | mdni

okay so like how i imagine this is like spencer isn’t a virgin but he isn’t the most experienced so he’s desperate but because he wants to focus on you. he’d take his time eating you out, use his fingers for as long as possible. he’d want to make you cum so many times before he’d even think about sticking his cock into you. he’d watch your face and how it contorts, listen to your sounds and the certain pitch in them. and he’d make sure you just feel oh-so-good. he’d praise you like “you’re so beautiful,” or “you’re doing so good, sweetheart. i’m so proud of you,” in that raspy whisper voice he does. and when he eventually does fuck you, it’s so slow and tender. he’s making sure he isn’t hurting you. your fingers would be intertwined and his forehead pressed against yours as he gave you the most tender and warm kisses. ❤️❤️❤️

#🌸 — min’s asks #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminals minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds reactions #spencer criminal minds

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blluesiide · 3 days ago

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It's sometime in the night when Spencer opens his eyes. Sometimes he sleeps through the night, others he can't sleep to save his life. Then, there's nights like these. His eyes open softly, and he stares at the soft moonlight peaking in from the window against the walls. Then he goes back to sleep.

He's in the middle of tracing the pattern of the curtain in his mind when he heard you sharply inhale, followed by your hand softly reaching out to find him. When he feels your faint touch you let out a quiet sigh, relieved to find him there.

This happens sometimes, to both of you. Waking in the middle of the night from a nightmare, reaching out for reassurance that your love is in fact, right next to you.

The touch is usually enough, but this time he feels you scooting closer, wrapping your arm delicately around his waist and nuzzling your nose into the curls at the nape of his neck. It feels like you want to squeeze him, but you're holding back.

He presses back a bit into you, and it's then that he feels you tighten your grip.

"What was it about?" He asks softly, already privy to this routine.

"You were in love."

"and it was a nightmare?" He offers a soft chuckle.

"With someone else."

He falls quiet, "I could see you, in that Washington DC sweater. I wished you luck. You smiled and ran off. Away from me."

"and you let me go?" He asks, jesting softly.

Your grip tightens, your face pressing closer to his skin. Your silence speaks volumes to him, and he rolls over to face you, "Hey." He whispers, firmly.

You look up at him, eyes melancholic.

"I'm sorry dream me was so blind. But real me is right here. With you."

You offer a small smile. Your face thoughtful for a moment before you go, "I'm really lucky to have you."

"Luck has nothing to do with it." He speaks.

You stare into his eyes for a moment before he cups your cheek, pulling you until your lips softly meet his.

"I'm all yours." He whispers as he parts. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

You softly bump your forehead into his, nuzzling him, the way a cat would. It makes him chuckle. He pulls you in then, by your lower back, nuzzling in close as you both settle down, ready to slip back into the stages of sleep.

"I love you." He whispers, hearing you repeat it back, just as he dozes off in the safe comfort of your arms.

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awordsmith · 2 days ago

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genuinely one of the cutest, fluffiest fics i've ever read

Spencer's Secret - Spencer Reid

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: All Spencer wanted was to finish his paperwork and go home, but now he’s in a bar, drunk, and confessing all his secrets to Derek.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The team had barely settled back into the office after a grueling case when Derek threw an arm over Emily’s shoulder, talking about needing a drink. Emily agreed with a weary smile, and soon enough, JJ, Penelope, and Rossi had chimed in, all eager to unwind together. Somehow, they’d even managed to convince Hotch, who gave them a reluctant nod, his rare smile hinting he could use a break too.

All that was left was Spencer. Sitting at his desk, he was hunched over, diligently finishing up his paperwork, when Derek strolled over and leaned in with his usual, "Hey, pretty boy."

Spencer looked up, already anticipating the question. "No, Derek, I’m not going."

Derek raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "I didn’t even get to ask!"

"Doesn’t matter. I’m not going," Spencer replied firmly, looking back down at his files.

"Come on, kid," Derek urged, his voice dropping to a softer, pleading tone. "Just this once. If you come, I’ll never ask again. I swear."

Spencer let out a sigh, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with him. There was a beat of silence as he mulled it over, glancing at the hopeful faces of his teammates nearby. Finally, he closed his file, resigned. "Fine," he muttered, “but just this once."

Derek’s face broke into a grin, practically bouncing on his feet. "You heard him, guys—he’s in! Let’s go before he changes his mind."

Spencer reluctantly stood up, pulling on his coat with a sigh. He glanced around, noticing the others already gathering their things, excitement buzzing among them. As they all filed out together, Penelope slung an arm around Spencer, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh, Spence, you’ll have fun. Trust me," she said, winking.

Spencer managed a small, hesitant smile, wondering just what he was getting himself into. It wasn’t exactly his ideal night out, but surrounded by his friends, he couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of anticipation growing despite himself.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

As soon as the team settled into the bar, the weight of the last case started to fade. They ordered the first round, eager to drink, laugh, and let loose for a few hours. The drinks flowed freely, and soon they were deep in conversation, sharing old stories and laughing harder with each passing round. Spencer, who rarely drank, was feeling more than a little tipsy. Nights like these weren’t really his scene—he usually found it far more comfortable to stay home. But now, with the warm buzz in his head and his friends around, he was actually enjoying himself.

Meanwhile, Derek had been off flirting at the bar, but eventually made his way back to the booth, where Spencer was the last one still sitting. Derek, who could hold his liquor well, was only slightly buzzed. He noticed Spencer's dazed expression and grinned, sliding into the seat next to him. "Pretty boy," he said, nudging him, "there are so many gorgeous women here tonight. You should go try and have some fun, maybe even get a date."

Spencer, a little too drunk to filter his thoughts, shook his head. "Don’t need a date," he said, his words slurring slightly.

Derek raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh yeah? And why’s that?"

Spencer’s face softened, and he blurted, “I’ve got an amazing girlfriend at home.”

"Right, sure," Derek teased, not at all convinced. "So what’s her name?"

Spencer’s face lit up. "Y/N," he said, his voice full of adoration. He leaned in, eyes dreamy, and started rambling. “She’s incredible, Derek. So smart, so beautiful. She’s way out of my league—I still can’t believe she’s with me.”

Derek chuckled, noticing just how drunk Spencer was. It was getting late, and he knew Spencer would never make it home on his own. “Why don’t you call Y/N to pick you up, then?” he said, jokingly.

Spencer’s face brightened, and he fumbled for his phone. Derek watched in amusement as he dialed, still skeptical, until he heard a faint “Hello?” from the other end.

Spencer’s face lit up even more. “Hello, my love,” he said, voice thick with affection.

You let out a soft laugh on the other side of the line. “Hey, Spence! Everything alright?”

Spencer grinned, completely forgetting why he’d called. “Yeah,” he said dreamily. “I just…wanted to hear your pretty voice.”

You laughed, clearly touched. Derek, now genuinely surprised that someone had actually answered, took the phone from Spencer, holding it up to his ear. "Hello?" he asked, still a bit skeptical.

"Uh, hi,” you replied, a little confused. “Who is this?"

Derek cleared his throat. “This is Derek. Spencer friend.”

“Oh! Nice to finally meet you, Derek, Spencer talks about you and the team quite a bit.” you said, sounding amused. “I’m Y/N, his girlfriend.”

Derek muttered, “Holy shit, you’re real.”

"Sorry?" you asked, sounding puzzled.

“Nothing, nothing,” he chuckled. “Listen, Spencer’s had a bit too much to drink. Are you able to pick him up?”

You let out a soft, understanding laugh. “Yeah, of course. Just tell me where you guys are.”

Derek gave you the address and hung up, handing the phone back to Spencer. "Your girlfriend’s coming to get you," he said, still slightly in awe that Spencer’s been hiding a girlfriend from them.

Spencer’s eyes lit up even more. “Y/N?” he asked eagerly.

“Yeah, pretty boy, Y/N,” Derek replied, shaking his head with a grin.

Spencer slumped back in his seat with a satisfied sigh. “Finally,” he mumbled. “Someone cool to hang out with.”

Derek just laughed, patting Spencer on the shoulder. He sat down with Spencer and waited with him for Y/N to get there, eager to meet her.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

As Spencer was still happily rambling to Derek about his incredible girlfriend, the door opened, and a beautiful woman stepped into the bar. Spencer’s eyes widened instantly. "Y/N!" he exclaimed, jumping up so quickly he nearly tripped. He stumbled over to you, practically throwing himself into your arms, clinging to you like he’d just found his lifeline. He buried his face in your neck, a contented sigh escaping him.

You wrapped your arms around him, laughing softly at his drunken enthusiasm. "Looks like someone had a good time," you teased, rubbing his back.

“Missed you so much,” he mumbled into your neck, his words muffled but unmistakably fond.

Looking up, you noticed a man standing a few steps behind Spencer, observing the two of you with an amused grin. "You must be Derek," you said, offering him a warm smile.

Derek smiled back, giving a nod. "Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you tonight."

Before you could respond, Spencer had already started tugging you gently toward the exit. You glanced back at Derek and gave him a quick smile. "Hopefully we can actually talk sometime soon," you said, laughing as Spencer clung to your arm.

Derek chuckled, nodding. "I’d like that. Take care of him. Goodnight, Y/N."

He watched as you guided a tipsy, lovesick Spencer out of the bar, a soft smile still on his face. Just then, Penelope popped up beside him, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “What are you staring at?” she asked, following his gaze to the exit.

“Spencer’s got a girlfriend,” Derek said, unable to keep a little laugh from escaping as he recalled the whole scene.

Penelope’s eyes went wide, and she gasped, practically bouncing in place. "Wait, what?! Our Spencer? Oh my God, I need details!"

Derek smirked, shaking his head. "Calm down, babygirl. You can interrogate him tomorrow," he teased.

Penelope pouted, but the excitement was already building. After a second, she sighed dramatically, then brightened up again and grabbed Derek’s hand. “Fine! But right now, you’re dancing with me.”

Derek let her pull him to the dance floor, chuckling as he made a mental note to tease Spencer about this night for a long time.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

#fanfic #fluff #secret girlfriend #romance #spencer #spencer reid #spencer x y/n #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagines #doctor spencer reid #bau team #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fandom #derek morgan #kat's recs

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clrasecretdiary · 1 day ago

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You're just a little bit too much like me | Spencer Reid x Reader

Enemies to lovers | angsty fluff

Word count: 1755

Warnings: Normal criminal minds type of violence, mention of guns and gunshots, age gap (Reader is about 25, and Spencer is in his late 30s)

Content: Spencer being an asshole because he doesn't know how to deal with his feelings and how you remind him of his older self, past Spencer trauma (implied but not directly mentioned), self-doubt, Post prison! Spence

It was a difficult situation, only your second week on the job and the first time you had to make that kind of decision. You went alone to a location where the suspect might have been at, all of your teammates were further away so, as reckless as you now recognize it was, you went there alone, instead of waiting like Spencer and Emily asked you too. You didn't want to lose your chance, there were more than 3 days on the field at stake here, you did not want to disappoint your colleagues and just stand there waiting like a dumb newbie, so you made the decision.

“I'm going in” You warn your teammates in the radio, not waiting for a response before storming into the unsubs house.

You bust the door open with your feet, storming into the house. As you look inside, you find the unsub taking his gun from a drawer. Thinking you had an advantage as his back was facing you, you rush to try and immobilize him, but somehow he managed to turn around and shoot you.

You growled in pain as your body dropped to the ground, just before you passed out completely you heard the sound of rushed footsteps. You heard two voices, one you recognized as Emily's going after the unsub, and the other as Reid's talking to you.

“Please don’t go to sleep, we need you awake” His voice was soothing, far different from the tone he always used with you ever since you joined the team this year, but he sounded so worried, and you really did try to stay awake for him, for your team, to show that you were okay and that they needed to go after what's important, the unsub, but you couldn't. The last thing you heard as your vision got black was him yelling at his radio, “Medical, we need medical right now”. And then, everything went black.

You are now back at your first day on the job. Still at your house, confused as to what outfit you should use, so anxious about being so young at the top team of profilers, even thought it was a last year internship you hoped to impress them enough that they would hire you officially for the team, so your anxiety was through the roof wondering whether you really deserved to be there (goddamn that impostor syndrome). But most of your worries went away when you met the team, you would never imagine that the best profilers in the FBI and maybe in the world would be such good, kind and even funny people. They all welcomed you, seeming excited to be able to work with you, except from one of them.

Doctor Spencer Reid, you had read about him and his genius mind, you even went to a couple of his lectures on forensic psychology, honestly? You were a fan, and you were so excited to meet and work with someone you looked up to. Unfortunately, he didn't seem as eager to meet his new coworker. He just stood there in the back, staring at you while you introduced yourself to the team, the most he did was mutter a “morning” when you sat next to him in the briefing room.

Never meet your heroes, they say.

Now, you're back at… Where are you again?

Your eyes begin to open, you're completely adrift until you finally begin to recognize the awful white light, and the coldness of the room. You're at the hospital, no idea as to how much time has passed.

Jennifer comes into your line of vision, holding your hand, “Hey, how are you feeling?” her voice is calm, as she watches you sit up in the hospital bed.

“I'm fine, I think... I didn't even realize what happened back then. Oh shit, did you guys catch him?” You abruptly try to sit up, remembering how you couldn't get the unsub when you got shot, guilt washing over you as you started to piece together what happened

“Hey slow down, Emily went after him and made the arrest, the victim was rescued. He shot you, but it just grazed you. You did lose a lot of blood, that's why you passed out, but the doctors say you'll be fine to leave today. Don't worry.” She says as the doctor comes in to do his final checking.

You just agree with your head, lost in your own thoughts. You knew it wasn't your fault that you got shot, but still you felt so stupid. The hurt of not being able to catch the unsub might've been even bigger than the one from your wound, all of them had been in even more difficult situations than you and made it out without so much as a scratch, and you couldn't even catch an unsub that was alone?

After a few hours, you were back on the jet, finally heading home. The guilty was still bothering you, and you even apologized for the mistake. Hotch just asked you to be more careful and follow instructions next time, but overall, the team seemed genuinely happy you were fine. Except, of course, for Spencer, who ever since you got in the jet was staring daggers at you.

Later, the jet finally landed, and you were eager to get home. You quickly went to the office to get a few of your things, Unfortunately, you and Spencer were now all alone in an uncomfortable silence waiting for the elevator.

“That was reckless” Spencer mutters under his breath

“I'm sorry, what?” You turn in your heels to face him, had you heard that right? Is that the first thing he's going to tell you after you just got shot?

“What you did on the case, was reckless and naive. You should've followed our instructions, you can't just do what you feel like doing” he's looking in your eye now, his voice coming out angry but with a hint of… worry?

“I'm sorry ok? I tried to do something, I just did not want to just stay there waiting while he could be doing god knows what inside that house” Your voice comes out more shaky than you wanted it to, the weight of the guilt pressing into your chest

“Still, it was reckless and stupid, you should never just storm into, alone, a place where an unsub might be, you never know what he might do to you, what might be waiting inside.” His gaze is cold, almost as if he's not actually here talking to you, but somewhere inside his head and his memories.

“Trust me, I know that. I regret my decision, but I wasn't doing what I felt like, I tried my best, Reid.” You turn to look directly in his eye. Yes you did something wrong, but you wouldn't let him out of all people talk like that to you “I might be the youngest on the team, the one with less experience but trust me… I'm not dumb, I earned my place here.” Your voice shaky when you said that last sentence, the insecurity you felt showing through your words.

Something in his gaze shifted after that, his expression became softer, almost sympathetic. “Listen, I'm not saying you're not qualified, I'm sorry if it came off like that, just be careful… That could have ended a lot worse, trust me I know”

“ I will” The air between you two less intimidating now but still heavy with tension, you two step in the elevator, the whole way to the garage an awkward silence until you two finally reach the bullpen's garage.

Even thought you felt like now maybe he didn't absolutely want you gone from the team, you were still curious as to why he is so cold to you

“Sorry, I need to ask… Why do you hate me?” You turn to him, after finally gathering the courage to ask this question

“What do you mean, don't hate you”

“Yes you do, I mean you're not obligated to like me but since I joined, you didn't even meet me yet and just gave this cold look”

His eyebrows furrowed as he processed your words, clearly taken aback by your directness. He sighed, a hint of regret in his eyes, and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's not about you personally," he finally admitted, his voice softer than before.

“What is it about, then?”

He takes a deep breath before starting to talk “You're only 3 years older than me when I joined this team, I know what it does you, to your mind. I guess I just saw way too much of me, of who I used to be, in you, and it terrified me to be honest” His cold facade disappeared completely now, in its place a soft and genuine expression.

“So you were, and I'm sorry for the words, an asshole to me because you were worried?” You almost can't wrap your head around it, all this time you felt like one of your biggest references in the BAU hated you, but instead he was caring for you.

“Yes, I see how it comes out as “asshole” behavior, but my brain just went full shutdown when i saw you” His face turns slightly red when he notices what he just said – Freudian slip or just a bad choice of words? He doesn't's know for sure – His hand goes to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck “I mean… for the resemblance, of how I acted when I had just joined, of course”

You give him a small smile, and just like that your side that has been a fan and read all of this man's articles comes back to life “Of course. Thank you for worrying but maybe instead of hating me you could… I don't know, if it's not too much of a bother of course, help me? I value your worries Doc, maybe you could help me not make the same mistakes you did”

He nodded, a hint of relief washing over his features. "I'd be happy to help," he said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "I might not have all the answers, but I can definitely share what I've learned along the way."

“I'm happy to hear that, thanks, Doc. Reid” You wave at him as you begin walking over to your car.

“Hey, just call me Spencer” He smiles warmly at you

“See you tomorrow Spencer”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x bestfriend!reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x reader angst #criminal minds angst

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enderlovez · 2 days ago

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On Thin Ice

Spencer Reid x Chubby Reader WORD COUNT: 1300+

Summary: After a particularly grueling case, the weight of your insecurities catches up with you. Despite years of toughening yourself against judgment, an unexpected moment of self-doubt has you questioning everything—until Spencer reminds you of your worth.

Content Warning: body image issues, insecurity and self doubt, emotional vulnerability, mentions of childhood bullying, Spencer is a sweetheart, metaphors about falling through ice

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You've always been the fat kid.

The one picked last for teams in gym class. The one who endured sidelong glances at lunch when you grabbed a second slice of pizza, even though everyone else was already on their third. The one people were dared to ask out during games of truth or dare.

The one whose confidence had to be built like a fortress over the years of relentless judgement, brick by painstaking brick. You'd grown used to the torment over the years—or so you thought.

The things you've seen in this job are enough to shatter most people—dead bodies and grieving familiar and the kind of darkness that crawls under your skin and refuses to leave.

You've stood on the edge of danger more times than you care to count, facing down killers without so much as flinching, literally been stabbed and shot. None of it breaks you. But tonight, staring at your reflection in the BAU bathroom mirror, you feel like you're crumbling.

Your blouse, which you'd liked when you put it on this morning, now feels all wrong. The fabric stretches across your chest and stomach in ways that make your skin crawl.

It fits—technically—but your brain won't let you believe it. The logical part of you knows it's fine—it fits and it looks good, no one cares. But the voice in your head, the one you've spent years trying to quiet, whispers, Isn't it a little snug?

You press your palms flat against the sink, trying to steady your breathing. Why does this matter? you ask yourself. Why do I care?

You see the worst humanity has to offer every day. You quite literally deal with life and death and unimaginable grief. Your body—how it looks, how it fits into societal expectations—should be the least of your concerns.

And yet, here you are.

Maybe part of the reason everything feels to terrible tonight is because of him—Spencer. He's been talking to you heaps more lately, and though it really should make you feel better, it only deepens whatever this insecure feeling inside you is.

The way he moves, the way he talks, the way his beautiful mind works—everything about him fascinates you, and you've been harboring this ridiculous, all-consuming crush for months.

But no matter how much you try to push it down, it always creeps back in, and with it comes the certainty that you're not his type. How could you be? He's brilliant and kind and effortlessly charming in his own unique way, and you're... you. Soft in all the undesirable places, sometimes a little too loud for even yourself.

It's not that you don't think you're worth something, but when you're next to him, it's hard not to feel like you fade into the background. And you've been next to him a lot more than usual.

The mirror reflects your frown back at you, the tightness in your chest growing until it feels like you might snap. You splash cold water on your face, hoping the shock will pull you out of your spiral.

It doesn't, but you can pretend it does.

The bullpen is quiet when you step back into it, the hum of computers and the rustle of papers the only sounds. Most of the team has gone home for the night, except for Spencer.

You find him in the kitchenette, his tall frame bent awkwardly as he wrestles with the ancient coffee maker.

He glances up as you walk in, his expression softening when he sees you. "Couldn't sleep?"

Right—you were going to nap somewhere before getting back to work before you detoured to the bathroom.

You shrug, leaning against the counter. "Something like that."

Spencer nods, his focus shifting back to the coffee pot. "I think this machine predates the invention of modern technology," he mutters, earning a faint smile from you. He pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to you, his finger brushing your briefly.

"Thanks," you say, your voice quieter than you intended.

For a while, the two of you drink in silence, no words shared. None are needed. It's comforting, standing next to him in the soft glow of the kitchenette light. For a moment, you almost almost feel normal in your own skin. Like everyone else.

Except Spencer has always been too perceptive (especially when it comes to you, but you don't need to know that), and you can feel his gaze periodically flicking toward you, studying your face.

"You know," he says eventually, "it's okay to feel overwhelmed. You don't have to hold it together all the time, not when you're... in this particular profession."

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply. His expression is calm, his tone heartbreakingly gentle, but the words hit a nerve. You force a laugh, trying to deflect. "I'm fine, Spencer. Just tired is all."

He doesn't buy it. Of course, he doesn't. This is Spencer Reid, profiler extraordinaire, the man who can read you like an open book even when you think you're being subtle.

"Are you?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. His voice is soft, but there's an unfamiliar firmness to it that makes you pause.

You want to brush him off, to keep the walls you've built around yourself firmly in place. But the words slip out before you can stop them—apparently your subconscious is desperate to get it out.

"I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's just that sometimes I feel like... I don't know, like I don't belong here. Like I'm walking on thin ice, and any second it's going to crack, and I'm going to fall through."

Spencer's brows knit together, and he sets his mug down on the counter. "Why would you feel like that?"

You hesitate, the familiar shame and embarrassment bubbling up in your chest. "Because I've always been the... the fat one, okay? The one people look at and judge before they even know my name. I should be used to it by now. I am used to it, but sometimes..."

You trail off, swallowing hard.

"Sometimes it just gets to me, and I hate that it does, because it's so stupid. There are so many bigger things to worry about than how I look. People are actually dying out there, and I'm sitting here worried about my stupid blouse being too tight..."

Spencer step closer, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you wonder if you've said too much, if he thinks you're being ridiculous. But then he speaks, and his voice is steady, full of quiet conviction.

"It's not stupid. What you're feeling is valid," he says. "And you're not 'the fat one.' You're you—intelligent and compassionate and one of the strongest people I've ever met. The way you connect with people and make them feel seen, even in the darkest moments of their life—that's not something everyone can do. That's you."

The words hit you like a wave, the sincerity in his tone making your throat tighten. You look down at your coffee, unable to meet his eyes.

"You don't have to say that just to make me feel better," you mumble.

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better," he replies. "I mean it."

He hesitates for a moment before reaching out, his hand hovering near yours. When you don't pull away—you don't think you could ever make yourself pull away from Spencer—he rests it gently on top of yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel like you can breathe again.

"Thin ice can hold more weight than you think," he says quietly. "And even if it does crack, you won't fall. I'll make sure of it."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you think them away quickly. "Thank you, Spencer," you say, your voice thick with emotion.

"Anytime." He smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "And for the record, I think you're beautiful."

Your heart does a little flip, your face warming. Maybe one day you can tell him how you feel, how desperately in love you are with him.

Baby steps.

#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 chubby reader #spencer reid x plus size reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #enderlovez

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sunset-curve-fantom · 1 day ago

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I Can See You- Spencer Reid x Reader

SOMETHING NEW.... WHAT DO WE THINK?

You knew something was wrong but knowing Spencer he was not going to share it. His feelings are something he did not wish to share with the group, and you had grown to accept that part of him. But the tension that crossing his features was something that struck a chord in you.

Since you had joined the BAU, Spencer and you had become thick as thieves. From the moment he saw your copy of The Odyssey, you had been glued together. But these moments of tension and unease, were new to your friendship. It is something that started happening after prison and he was trying to find his way again.

Your shoulder grazed his as you looked over the case file, this case came in late Friday night and you had been working nonstop since.

"I can see you, are you okay?" you murmured leaning into his personal space. The concern clear in your tone.

His dark eyes met yours, like he was trying to figure out what to say, or more so how not to say what was going on.

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner imagines #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader #derek morgan #penelope garcia #bau team

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way-too-addicted-to-fandoms · 1 day ago

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And I thought I was awkward😬😅 at least it turned out well in the end.

Morning Glory (S.R.)

Summary: Spencer goes into way too much detail about nocturnal penile tumescence (or morning wood or whatever colloquialism you prefer). Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Cuddling, accidental grinding (asleep), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, fingering Word Count: 5.7k

MASTERLIST

Ever since I was a boy, I’d been plagued by nightmares. My interest in dream analysis had been a great part of my budding interest in psychology — until I’d gone and learned that it was all mostly bunk. That, too, had been a great sense of comfort, because I realized my nightmares meant nothing about who I was (beyond my brain chemistry, which, I suppose was everything about who I was - but I digress).

But still, I wanted them to change. Each night when I laid down, I would force myself to think of anything and everything beautiful. That particular evening, it had been easier than usual.

It wasn’t the first time (y/n) and I had shared a room. The very first time we had, I think we’d both been a bit nervous to see each other in such an intimate setting. Every time after that, however, she’d made a point of picking me in the event we had to partner up. When I’d asked her why, she sort of just shrugged. She’d talked about snoring, weird habits, and schedules, but in the end she’d told me that she simply felt safe when she was with me, and I had happily accepted that answer.

However, when we walked into our room, we noticed something peculiar. Something that threatened the typical comfort we felt together. It was a product, we supposed, of having been a man and a woman in professional dress, asking to share a room in a hotel far nicer than our normal taxpayer-subsidized stay.

There was, in the center of the room, only one king-sized bed.

The woman beside me hardly seemed to notice at first. It wasn’t until I’d asked her if she wanted me to talk to someone that she realized there was a mistake. At that point, she just bit at her nails and shook her head. She hadn’t wanted to be a bother, and she saw no harm in us sharing a bed, especially one so large.

‘It’ll be like I’m not even there,’ she’d said.

She was wrong. Wrong in the best way.

We both knew it the second we fell in bed together at the end of a day that went on for far too long. She had only been right about one thing — the massive space that existed between us. But all it had taken was one look, one twitch of hands too close together in the middle of the bed before we realized that we didn’t have to leave it there.

(Y/n) and I hadn’t talked about cuddling, but we had done it, anyway. It had started with interlocked pinkies and nervous giggling that eventually shifted into her back pressed against my chest. There was still space between us, as physics demanded there always be. But it was not for a lack of trying. Each time I pressed forward, she would press back.

We would meet in the middle, but we said nothing.

I had fallen asleep just like that, with her wrapped safely in my arms. The beat of my heart pounding against her shoulder blades and the smell of her shampoo filling my lungs with each calm, rhythmic breath.

That was why it had been easy to think of something beautiful. I had thought only of her, and how no matter her size, she would always feel small when she sank further into my embrace. I imagined a reality where this was not a one-off, a favor from fate to let us both find something wonderful where we usually only saw death and pain.

My mind spun so many fantasies, all of which turned to dreams filled with her. Every dream, each thought of her became more complex as the night went on. Eventually, it felt like I’d hardly been dreaming at all.

I hadn’t wanted to let it go. Even — especially — when the mood began to shift from the innocent, naive kind of puppy love to something else. Something that made my chest ache with a desire that I’d rarely experienced before. I could still smell her perfume, the lingering hint of her true presence.

My hands gripped her hips harder, pulling her against the true source of my longing. The thought that she would allow me to do that was enough to drive me mad with lust. But she hadn’t stopped there; hellbent on turning me to nothing but a feral animal seeking warmth in the cold, she began to move against me with a similar need.

The friction and the sounds of rustling sheets and her breath became too much to bear. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t see anything but visions of her riding my thigh until she begged for something more. With frustrated tears streaming down her face, she choked out a plea for me to take her until there was nothing left but one two-headed beast.

“Spencer,” she whispered apprehensively.

“(Y/n)…” I returned, dragging my nose along her neck just to feel her shiver. Which, she did. And with just a few seconds of self-reflection, I realized that the sensation of her name in my throat had felt just a little bit too real.

Because it was.

“U-Um… Spencer?”

And so was that.

“Hm?” I sleepily replied, somehow still not caught up on the fact that my dream had not, in fact, been confined to my own mind.

That poor girl seemed too petrified to speak at all, much less explain the nature of what was happening.

“Um…” was her dreadfully inarticulate reply. I didn’t blame her for not knowing what to say, though.

There were very few suitable options for when you awake in the morning with your coworkers dick pressed firmly against your ass, and his mouth buried against your neck. In fact, I think ‘Um’ was probably the least hurtful of them all.

What did hurt, however, was the sharp sound that left me immediately thereafter. That pain was shared, as was the guilt that followed. Because as soon as I’d jumped away from her, I realized how close to the edge we’d come over the course of the night. My head hit the nightstand with a terrible thud, and my body hit the floor much the same.

“Are you okay?!” she screeched, holding the blanket to her chest like she’d actually had something shameful to hide.

Meanwhile, I was sitting there with a persistent erection that apparently was impervious to pain.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied in the least convincing manner. All of my genuineness would be saved for the next word to leave me — which really ought to have been the first: “Sorry.”

She didn’t accept my apology. Instead, she jumped from bed and landed on two feet that quickly took her out of the room.

“Let me go get you some ice!” she yelled, as if I wouldn’t notice the way she’d left the ice bucket behind.

Unsurprisingly, she left for quite some time. I could only hope that she would return at all. Thankfully, she did. She’d even managed to snag an ice bucket from someone or somewhere else, and I prayed that it wasn’t a member of the team. I really didn’t want to think about anyone other than the two of us knowing about this just yet.

I wanted to be a bit more diplomatic about Derek Morgan finding out I had basically just assaulted a coworker because I couldn’t control my dick.

Diplomacy, however, was apparently not a skill I had perfected just yet.

“Okay, first, before you say anything,” I said much too loud and much too fast to a girl simply trying to tie off a thin bag from a cheap hotel ice bucket.

I’m not sure what I had expected her to do, but she stared at me with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth and her eyes wider than I’d ever seen them. The poor thing looked petrified, or some other kind of powerful emotion that I would project everything negative onto. If I’d thought about her feelings for even one second before I started to speak, I might’ve realized that I could have asked her if she was alright, or if she needed anything from me.

But no, I just started talking. Per usual.

“I just want to assure you that nocturnal penile tumescence, or NPT, or—or morning wood, or morning glory, or whatever… colloquialism you prefer, is completely unrelated to sexual arousal or thoughts.”

Not entirely true.

“I wasn’t… like… arousing myself by touching you, I swear.”

A bald-faced lie.

“It’s actually theorized that the cause it the lack of the normal noradrenergic neurons of the locus ceruleus, which inhibit penile erection during the day to prevent… disruptions,” I continued, just barely catching myself before I said something even more regrettable. I should’ve figured, though, that there was no right answer when I was playing with the trolley problem’s tracks.

(Y/n) still said nothing.

So, like an idiot, I just kept talking.

“A-And testosterone levels are highest in the morning. Although, most men have several erections at night, they just only notice in the morning because they wake up.”

“Spencer, I—“ she actually tried, but it sounded so terrifying that I immediately cut her off again.

“Sorry, I know I’m rambling and it’s not even 9am and you really don’t want to think about your coworker’s penis but, I want you to know that I also don’t want to think about your genitals, and that I wasn’t doing that before.”

The disgust or rage or whatever it had been faded into a frightening apathy. (Y/n) looked down at my feet, still clutching a bag of frozen water that had been meant to make me feel better. If I’d let her speak, I might’ve heard the crack in her voice and realized that she hadn’t actually been apathetic at all. In fact, she almost seemed… sad.

I had been so busy being wrapped up in my own shame and self-hatred, though, I hadn’t cared to look. My concerns were entirely set on self-preservation, and even more so, repairing any damage I’d already done between us.

I just didn’t want to hurt her, and I wasn’t quite sure how to undo what I’d done. I didn’t know how to assure her that, although I found her beautiful and I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anything or anyone, I would never have touched her without her blessing. That I would only ever want it if she showed a similar amount of enthusiasm.

But then again, I didn’t exactly want to explain to her that she had been displaying that desire for me in my wildest fantasies. Nor that I had wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep and feel them again.

Instead, I firmly repeated, “It has… nothing to do with sexual attraction or arousal.”

That time, I did see a flash of anger in her eyes. It was a palpable pain that I very much wanted to avoid if given the chance. I figured that the best way of doing that was either humor or guilt. I tried, and failed, to do both.

“A-And, you know, women get it too, nocturnal clitoris tumescence, it’s just not visible because while most penises are visible when erect, the clitoris tends to remain hidden,” I stated with a tight-lipped smile and a sure nod.

“Right,” was all that she replied.

In the awkward silence that followed, I squeaked, “Yeah, it’s all very interesting.”

“Yes. Interesting,” she sighed. “Can I… get ready to leave now?”

It was regrettable, really, that all I could say was a pitiful beg. Just one small, “Please,” that I hadn’t meant at all.

Nonetheless, she had accepted it.

“Okay. I’ll… bye,” she muttered, dropping the dripping bag of ice back into the sad plastic bucket.

As she disappeared into the bathroom with a door that shut a little too hard for comfort, I continued to stare at the discarded trash. I thought for a second that I should use it, considering she had gone through the trouble of getting it for me. But then I figured that I deserved the dull ache as a reminder of just how fucking stupid I had been.

Relief was a luxury I didn’t deserve. The least I could do for the girl I’d practically defiled in my sleep was to suffer in honor of the death of her perceived notion of safety. Not even halfway through the day, I found myself mulling over that same feeling to the point of near-obsession.

And I came to a realization. Whoever said time heals all wounds was a goddamn liar.

As the hours stretched on, the only thing that got any easier was avoiding (y/n) at all costs. Truthfully, that also had nothing to do with time and everything to do with the fact she had also made the executive decision to avoid me at all costs.

Enough so, in fact, that it had only taken Derek approximately three hours to realize that something had happened. As I’d promised myself, I was much more diplomatic in explaining the incident that had happened that morning. I left out a lot of the… more distressing details, and left it a simple, conclusory statement: “We woke up cuddling in a slightly disturbing way.”

He hadn’t asked for any clarification, immediately understanding what had happened and instead going directly for the jugular.

“You apologized, right?”

“Yes?” I answered, “Or… possibly no? I mean, I-I explained that it wasn’t anything to do with sex. I think I said sorry.”

“You think?” he balked, only barely resisting the urge to smack me upside my already injured heard. “You have an eidetic memory, man. What do you mean you think you apologized?”

“I was panicking! I don’t remember things I say when I get flustered, you know that!”

“Give me the shortened version,” he demanded with a heavy sigh.

Condensing the conversation was hard for a number of reasons. One, because I had a massive headache and a lump on my head that I probably should have looked at. Two, because I actually did remember the conversation with a frightening amount of clarity and was horribly embarrassed by it.

And three, because about halfway through the story I noticed the way his jaw dropped, and never came back up.

The silence in the room was deafening. The normal sensory overload I struggled with had disappeared, replaced only with the suffocating lack of noise. Even as I nervously bounced my foot and tapped my fingers against the desk, I could barely hear them over the blood rushing through my ears.

“So… let me get this straight,” Derek started, and I knew I was doomed. “You rubbed your business all over a girl, and then spent the next five minutes repeating over and over that you find her repulsive?”

Slowly, I felt rusted gears in my head start to turn. I repeated what he’d just said over and over to myself, trying to formulate why he was the one who’d mistaken the meaning of a social interaction. But the longer that I tried, the more exasperated the man sitting across from me became.

“Reid. We’ve talked about this.”

“First of all, I have an eidetic memory and I can confidently say that we have never once talked about this—“ I stated sharply, pointing an accusing finger that I quickly corrected and turned to numbers, instead, before continuing, “—and second, that’s not what I said at all!”

The only answer worse than a denial was the knowing stare that I received.

“… Is it?” I squeaked.

With just one nod of his head, I felt the depths of my self-loathing rise to levels unknown. I felt myself be swallowed by the dread that I almost certainly deserved to feel, and I dropped my bruised head down onto the table with absolutely no attempts to save myself any of the pain.

“Yeah,” he agreed as he stood from his seat to leave me alone in my misery. His final parting gift was a simple, and well-deserved, “Good luck with that one, dumbass.”

To say that I’d had a bad day would be an understatement. The day wasn’t even over yet, but I’d dug myself a hole six feet deep and I was more than ready to find my way to the bottom already. However, this particular hole would prove to be more difficult to crawl into because it would already be occupied.

Spencer and I hadn’t really talked since that morning, and I knew that was what he’d wanted. But knowing that my best friend didn’t want to talk to me didn’t make the day any better at all. It made it much, much worse.

I hadn’t stopped replaying the morning in my head, but each time that it started, I found the pit in my stomach growing larger until it threatened to swallow me whole.

I knew Spencer well. Well enough to know that when he was put in an even slightly uncomfortable situation, he would panic. But when I’d been backed against a rock and a… hard place, I hadn’t really had any good options.

The options were these: wake up Spencer before either of us did anything even more regrettable, or take advantage of his sleepiness and built my repertoire of fantasies for when he awoke and inevitable hated me forever. And honestly, both of those things made my heart race in entirely different ways.

It didn’t matter anyway. It was in the past now, and all I could do was attempt damage control now that we’d be forced into a room together again.

However, seconds after the door closed behind me, I realized that it would be easier said than done.

The poor boy was like a deer caught in the headlights, but with cheeks the color of the sports car the animal was about to total. After a few seconds of tense and prolonged eye contact, he turned away from me and refused to meet my eyes again.

We said nothing, instead going about our nightly routines as if the other person weren’t there at all. I wasn’t sure which was worse; him avoiding me, or him ignoring me. Either way, I knew that the feeling wasn’t fading anytime soon.

I tried to tell myself that things would be better again soon. I just needed to get him into the bed with me again, to wrap his arms around me like he had the night before. Neither of us were exceptionally great at talking, especially about feelings. But not that many hours ago, we’d expressed more about our feelings than we ever had before.

When Spencer held me, I felt nothing else. The pain and suffering I’d witnessed faded like the later Summer sun. Fiery hues of pink and orange consumed me, and the sheet of blues calmed heated skin. Our embrace felt like safety and home and everything good.

So, when it slowly became less and less innocent, moving away from it was the furthest thing from my mind. My body was still burning from the love, and I sought only to stoke the flames higher and higher until they licked at my jaw where his breath ghost over a frantic pulse.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this, I reminded myself as the heat returned to my cheeks.

“Do you, um… do you want me to sleep on the floor?” Spencer squeaked from where he stood on his side of the bed. “B-Because I can. I don’t mind.”

“No, Spencer. Don’t be ridiculous,” I sighed, although I think we were both tempted by the thought. “I know you didn’t mean to make me uncomfortable or anything.”

“Did I?” he asked.

“What?”

“Did I make you uncomfortable?”

What kind of question is that? was what I’d wanted to say.

“Um… no. It’s fine,” was what I said, instead.

Because it felt like a trap. What had I been meant to say? That yes, he had made me uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the part where he pressed his dick against me, it was the part where he extended my rejection well past the minute mark.

Talking had been bad enough already, anyway. We’d both proven time and time again that our mouths couldn’t be trusted to open without causing panic or something much worse. So, I hoped that my next instruction could be one of the latest sentences uttered to end the worst day.

“Come get in bed. I’m cold.”

To his credit, he did follow my directions. However, he also made a point of staying so close to the edge of the bed that a light breeze probably would have tipped him over the edge.

“Do you want to put a pillow between us or…”

My answer came in the form of a heavy sigh. I actually heard Spencer’s voice crack into the nothingness. Over rustling sheets, he continued to make pitiful sounds like I was honestly about to hit him for being kind.

But I wasn’t going to hurt him. I wanted to do the opposite.

My hand on his wrist was gentle, but firm. I wanted to show that I had no doubts nor reservations when I yanked him closer.

“It’s fine, Spencer. I mean it.”

Spencer did not fight my grip at all. If anything, it almost seemed like he leapt at the opportunity to hold me closer. But I knew that was probably just wishful thinking, and I was trying to keep things as relaxed as one can be when half-clothed and vulnerable with a coworker in a king-sized bed. When he was finally in his rightful place beside me, however, I realized that I wasn’t quite ready to let him go.

It was not my idea for Spencer to wrap his arm around me so that we could continue to hold hands without putting stress on my shoulder — but I did not deny the offer. Not even close.

While it was frightening and exhilarating to think that he was close enough to me that he could almost surely feel the way my heartbeat went wild and my lungs struggled to fill at the risk of losing any part of his hold, I still felt so free. So at home in his arms that my tongue became loose and threatened to spill all of my secrets.

“Your hands are so warm.”

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, but he said nothing. I closed my eyes and prayed that it would stay that way, because I was terrified what words might come out. I also sort of hoped that when he made a noise, they wouldn’t be words at all. At least not any shaped like my name.

I could still hear his sleepy voice calling out to me, the first word uttered that morning between soft sounds of pleasure. The feeling it elicited deep in my chest was so powerful that I had hardly noticed when my hand, still in his, began to steadily descend down my stomach.

It wasn’t until our skin touched, the gentle pads of his fingertips brushing over the exposed skin of my stomach, that I gasped. Goosebumps littered my skin, each particle of my existence reaching out in the hope of touching him.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered with broken words half-muffled against the column of my throat.

As if to prove his point, Spencer slipped his hand further underneath the hem of my shirt. Abandoning my hand as it fell between my legs, the man behind me recounted his steps now that he’d rid himself of the barrier in the way. If I’d thought my heartbeat was wild, his could hardly be counted in its frenzy. But I still tried. I paid attention to every place where his body pressed against mine, relishing in the way it felt to be desired in the way he swore to me that he wasn’t.

When the backs of his knuckles brushed across the underside of my breast, though, he paused. Whether he was catching his breath or seeking my permission, I didn’t care.

“Don’t stop,” I begged. “Please, don’t stop.”

Spencer’s response was immediate and powerful. Forcing his leg between my own, his other hand appeared out of seemingly nowhere to ensure that I was exactly where he’d wanted me. With a ruthless hold and hands that shook under the pressure, he began to lead my hips to move against his leg. His other hand continued its previous path, tenderly kneading my breast just enough to make me want more.

I’d always want more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he praised just before laying a sloppy kiss against my throat. That kiss, too, was followed by another, and together the sensation robbed me of my breath and any remaining sense.

I became nothing but what I’d always wanted to be — His.

“Spencer…” I called, allowing his name to slip between parted lips.

His leg wasn’t going to be enough. I wanted more, craved that sunset feeling of him enveloping me and burning through each and every defense. I wanted to be nothing but ash and dust in his wake, still dancing along the rays.

After a few more moments of passionate, breathtaking adoration, Spencer had also decided that our current situation was both too much and not enough. Pressing a now familiar hardness against my ass, he finally rewarded me with a long, drawn out sound of pleasure.

“I want you,” he groaned, “Please, I want to have you so bad.”

There were many ways I’d envisioned this happening. Fantasies about sleeping with the ever elusive, always awkward Dr. Reid were plentiful and pervasive. I’d always envisioned something remarkably special; a romantic outing or a deep, emotional conversation following something terrible.

But when he offered himself to me in the heat of the moment in a beautiful hotel and a king-sized bed, romantic gestures seemed simpler. It didn’t have to be rose petals and wine. I didn’t want anything to distract us from each other.

I wanted him just as badly as he wanted me, and I wasted no time in demonstrating that to him. I tugged down my shorts, trying my hardest not to kick him while also removing my clothing as quickly as fucking possible. His job was easier. He didn’t even need to pull his pants all the way down — and he didn’t. In the moment, that testament to just how eager the two of us were felt a lot like romance to me.

As did his hand on my cheek, pulling my face back so that he could kiss me for the first time. It felt less like a checklist of things we were meant to do, and more like a bucket list of dreams that suddenly seemed accessible. That would explain why we hadn’t stopped with just the one. We kept going, a flurry of kisses that broke into lighthearted laughter.

It felt exactly how it always did with him. Safe. Comfortable. And when the feelings became less and less innocent, with his legs intertwining with mine and his cock slipping between my thighs, it still felt like home.

Again, Spencer paused. His body stalled there, no matter how much he struggled not to continue. He waited with heaving breath and tiny, desperate whimpers until I gave him my permission to cross that last line.

“Fuck me, Spencer,” I whispered.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said with a dreamy chuckle, “More than you could ever know.”

There was no more hesitation. With utmost care, he answered my call. He pressed into me slowly, with both of his hands holding me tightly and his mouth buried against my neck. I felt each moan and every gasp shaking my throat, and I tried my hardest to offer him my own in return.

But we both knew we weren’t the best at talking, and (for the most part) let our bodies speak for us. Still, it was sweet to hear just how much I was affecting him with each inch deeper he went.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he practically sobbed. I’d never heard him so exasperated, so raw and vulnerable and rendered speechless. “And so… fuck…” he mumbled, “God, you feel amazing.”

“So do you,” I offered in exchange, unable to predict the visceral reaction he would have.

His hips thrust forward, filling me completely with little warning. The sudden stretch of the sensitive muscles caused a chain reaction, and before I knew it I was clinging to any part of him I could reach. The shoulder he’d been kind enough to think about earlier was now craned back, leading my hand to grab fistfuls of his hair to keep his lips against my neck.

“Harder,” I demanded.

And harder, he provided. Everything about him became harder. Our hips met with a brutality that seemed too crude for him. His breath came with more force, too, causing his lips to slip on the dew of my neck. That didn’t stop him, though. The same way that I had been dedicated to finding new ways to hold him, he used every bit of his 187 IQ points to ensure that our bodies were never farther apart than they needed to be.

But while his moans were drowned out by the debaucherous sounds of skin slapping together, mine were freely flowing through the room. That was, until those same, soft fingertips clamped over my lips.

“Shhh,” he said, not as a command, but a humble request. “It’s okay. Be quiet, sweetheart.”

As if that hadn’t made me want to sing his praises more. When my jaw dropped open, his fingers toyed with my lips that begged to be kissed. But he couldn’t, because we were both too caught up to let each other go long enough to turn around.

I didn’t need to face him, though. I just needed to feel him. Always more of him. My lips closed around his fingers, sucking them in until the sounds coming from my lips were just as lewd as the ones between my legs.

“Oh, good girl,” he choked, “My sweet girl. I can’t wait to taste you.”

My heart skipped a beat, or several, on his command. If it weren’t for the revitalizing sensations he was providing, I very well might have dropped dead right then and there. But death wasn’t strong enough to separate the two of us now that we’d finally gotten our hands on one another.

Things continued to devolve, with Spencer’s pace fluctuating based on the rate with which I lavished his fingers. I could only imagine the things he was thinking, the images a mind like his could conjure now that I’d given him the tools necessarily for all his little hypotheses.

I, however, remained firmly in the present. Because I knew that it was almost the end, and I wanted to enjoy the finale to the fullest.

Which was why when he asked, “Tell me where you want it.”

I already knew my answer.

“Inside.”

“What?” he balked, but not in the way that sounded surprised. It was more like he was… excited.

“Come inside of me,” I repeated without hesitation.

Spencer, ever the gentleman, remained unconvinced. Despite having intimate knowledge of my medical history and my nightly routine, he still wanted to ensure that nothing about this night would be regretted in the morning.

“Are you sure?” he urged.

To which I cried against his fingers wet with my spit, “I need it, please!”

No more words were needed. Whether he’d been convinced or caught off guard, it didn’t really seem to matter. Because when the fireworks began, we were both lost to the beauty of the lightshow. Stars burst behind my eyes, my hands gripping tightly to his on my hips as he gave a few more powerful pumps of his hips.

He didn’t stop, even after it was over. He continued to rock against me exactly like he had that morning; a comparatively innocent demonstration of his insatiable desire. The way he still wanted me, the same way I would always want more of him than I could have.

As if on cue, Spencer’s voice was quiet when he called, “Come here, sweetheart.”

The instruction seemed superfluous, considering he immediately used his existing handle on my hips to turn our bodies. He hoisted me onto his lap until I sat on his lap, facing away from him in a way that made me suddenly feel bashful.

… and that feeling got much, much worse when he slowly lifted me from his softening dick, and I felt the aftermath of our actions drip out of me and over his stomach. The feeling sent a shiver down my spine, which again was worsened by the sound of a deep, rolling moan from the man underneath me.

Because we would both always want more than we could have. Not in the sense that we couldn’t be together, but because the laws of the universe dictated that no matter how close we became, there would always be a layer of particles separating us.

But as I started to stand on shaky legs, laughing and watching him struggle not to spill all over our only bed, I thought that Spencer and I… might find a way to truly touch one another. If any two things in the universe stood a chance, I believed that it was us.

“How considerate of you,” I sighed, motioning to the mess he’d made on himself so I would have less of it between my own legs.

Unable to spout his usual facts, on account of being out of breath, he merely muttered, “Physics.”

“It’s all very interesting,” I teased to a man whose pink cheeks suddenly had a very different meaning. “You should tell me more about it sometime.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he chuckled like he’d been in on the joke.

“I hope you do,” I said, “I hope you never let it go.”

(Tell me what you thought of this fic here!)

#spencer reid #spencer reid insert #spencer x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds smut #x reader

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lokisswiftie · 1 day ago

Text

My beloved ghost and Me (Spencer Reid x Reader)

3.2k words

First time writing for Spencer, please be nice! I’m open for requests :)

Summary: Spencer Reid was your entire world. Until he died, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of him. But Is the ghost of him more present than you expected?

Warnings: Main Character Death (it’s literally the premise of the fanfic), mentions of Guns/Gunshots, loss and grief is a key theme, Reader is probably depressed, BAU!Reader, Heavy Angst, descriptions of violence, Ghost!Spencer, possibly ooc Spencer because I’ve never wrote for him before, written with early seasons Spence in mind. Yes I did make Wuthering Heights the book, who is going to stop me? Tell me if there’s any I missed.

When you first met Spencer Reid, you were both young agents at the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Before he ever became close to you, you’d found yourself slightly intimidated by his vast intellect. Still, you grew close fast, Spencer Reid was a kind person, more than that all his little quirks seemed to make you like him even more. The rest of the team could see you both falling for eachother fast, they could see the way his eyes always found you after he told a fact- searching for your approval. He always got it.

There was reluctance to accept the love between you. Love could hurt, and the two of you had experienced enough hurt to know that. But try as he might, Spencer Reid could not pull his eyes away from you. He could not stop himself from wanting you. The longing between you grew and resistance was futile. So on that quiet night at some hotel the team was staying at, when he had sought you out and your lips had met for the first time, it was a breath of relief after so long pretending.

After that your life was filled with Spencer Reid, and you woke up in the morning when the sun was creeping through your windows and saw him next to you and knew this was were you needed to be. You saw a brightness in him that seemed to pull you towards him, like a moth to a flame. Though, in the time that Spencer Reid was in your life he had only ever hurt you once. The pain of that flame came unexpectedly.

You both knew that with your work, with the job that you both had that there was danger. Part of the reason you both had for being so reluctant to be together was that something happening to one of you in the field was a haunting thought. And it could happen. And though you reassured eachother constantly, promised to be careful and tried to be… it did happen.

You never should have left him. There was a sinking feeling of dread in your gut the moment Spencer even proposed the idea of splitting up, but you had pushed it down. You had given the okay, agreed to him taking the back of the building and pushed down the crawling feeling of nausea in your gut.

Less than a minute. Less than a minute after your beloved had left your sight, the snap of gunshots echoed through the air. Your head had snapped in the direction of the sound, hands flying to your radio to alert Hotch that something had happened. Something had gone badly wrong.

Try as you might since that day, you can’t forget the sight of Spencer on the floor of the building, dark blood pooling around him. His eyes had been wide with almost childlike surprise, looking at the blood on his clothes like he didn’t even realise what it was. You stayed beside him till the EMTs came, and he’d begged you not to go. While you had been holding onto his steadily whitening hand, he remained as calm as he could and promised you everything would be okay.

Spencer died in the hospital. The gunshots- yes, that bastard had shot the love of your life multiple times- had broken inside him. Just like something had broken inside you the moment the doctors told you and the team that Spencer was gone. The rest of your team were doing their best to support you, but loss weighs down heavily. Especially when someone like Spencer is gone.

Since Spencer died life has felt at a stand still. Mandatory leave has resulted in you trapped at your apartment. Surrounded by your shared belongings. In the months after he died, Penelope was a rock for you, and bless her she really did try to keep you steady. She forced you to actually venture outside the apartment. And on the days when she arrived and you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed, she stayed with you too.

Nothing could replace him though. And the team couldn’t be there all the time- you understood, of course. But when you were alone, you felt the darkness creeping in. You couldn’t bare to open the curtains so your apartment remained in half darkness most of the time. When you slept, you dreamt of Spencer. And though you knew it wasn’t helping… you were just glad to see his face again. Even if he did fade with the morning light.

Three months after Spencer died, and you think you’ve driven yourself mad with pacing your apartment like this. Your daily routine has turned into getting up, and finding a new area of the house to be flooded with memories of Spencer by. Today you were standing by the bookshelf, swaddled in your pyjamas. Tears wet your cheeks. They always do.

This apartment had originally been Spencer’s, but when you moved into it he had accommodated space for your belongings. Both of you being avid readers, a large chunk of that was books. Your fingers trace over the spines of countless books, eyes flickering to titles. You don’t have an eidetic memory, but you can remember Spencer’s voice reading these stories to you during cold winter days, his arms around you tightly. You pull your hands away when you find a book Spencer had read to you late one night when you were both stressed after a case. Wuthering Heights.

You can feel the tightness in your throat already, and when you close your eyes you can see him again. Your hands hover over the bookshelf while your mind flicks back to that day with Spencer. Your Spencer.

“Are You okay?”

Spencers voice broke you out of the trance you had been in, your head snapping up to look at him in the bathroom mirror. He looked exhausted, already wearing his pyjamas and leaning on the door with tired eyes. He’s been watching you. Watching you staring at your hands, soaking them in the sink for so long they’ve started to prune. The water stopped being filled with blood long ago, but the urge to scrub your hands so hard the skin peels prevails. You wipe your hand on your face, sniffing while you quickly drain the clear water from the sink.

“I’m fine. Sorry I’ll be right in-“

You freeze in the middle of drying your hands, staring at yourself in the mirror. You can see the haunted look in your own eyes. Somehow the flickering bathroom light isn’t bright enough for you to forget what you saw on that case. Both of you know it. Spencer watches you for a moment, watching how you visibly recoil at the sight of yourself. For a long moment neither of you speak, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing.

When Spencer’s arms gently encircle your form, you jump at first before settling into him. Admittedly, you’re shaking.

“It’s Not your fault.”

He whispers by your ear, his voice as soft as the sweater he’s wearing. You’re looking at yourself in the mirror and find your lip trembling. There’s a look of skittish fear in your eyes that’s strange to you. You don’t remember starting to cry.

“I know-“

You try and reassure him, unable to meet the soft brown eyes you know are staring back at you.

“It’s Not your fault,”

He repeats it anyway, saying your name with a firmness. you realise how much you’ve begun to lean on him, and how his hands steady you. You’re filled with a rush of emotions and you turn around in his arms before he can see you fully start sobbing. Spencer pulls you into his chest without hesitation. Your eyes sting so you press your face further into his neck, and he repeats those words over and over again until you can believe it. Until you can’t cry any more, and he’s gently rubbing your back and pulling away.

You know you must look even more of a mess now, skin puffy with broken sobs. But he doesn’t look at you with anything less than adoration. His hand comes up to hold the side of your face and you exhale shakily, the space between you tiny.

“Let’s go to bed baby,”

And so you do, following Spencer into your shared bedroom and slipping under the lavender covers. You look up In confusion when he doesn’t join you, and your eyes land on him as he finally comes to join you with a book in his hands. He smiles when he sees you squint in questioning, and you could melt at the adoration in his eyes at that moment. He slips into bed beside you, beckoning you closer which you eagerly comply with and find your designated place in his arms.

“What’s this?”

You question finally, looking up at the sharp curve of his jawline from where your head rests on his shoulder. His face is focused as he flicks through to the first page of the book.

“Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë.”

He replies, and sensing the scrunch of your nose in confusion he adds with a coy smile.

“I’m going to read to you.”

You’re sure you’re burdening him with your unpleasantness, because once again you find yourself replying in a far more abrasive tone than his.

“I’ll probably fall asleep before you’re even started.”

You grumble, and you’re not sure why you’re fighting off the affection but something within you wrestled with your morals, begging you to be difficult. Maybe to see if he’ll love you anyway.

He turns his head to look at you when you say that in that specific tone, and his eyes have this way of seeing through you.

“That’s the point. Get comfortable, I’m about to start.”

He turns his head back to the book and as promised, begins to tell the story to you like you’re a little kid. You settle down without another word of protest, too exhausted and too content by the sound of his voice to fight it anymore. You find yourself Inhaling deeply while you watch his fingers dart over the page, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and drifting in a sea of his voice.

As promised, you slip into a sleep quickly, one far more restful than would be without his help. And when Spencer tenderly brushes your hair back from your face you lean into his touch. Sometimes you still find yourself leaning, but find nothing left of him to hold you.

A choked gasp leaves your throat at the memory, and then before you can judge the situation better you grab the book tightly by the spine. It’s hurting your hand how hard you’re gripping the ornate cover, clammy hand shaking with rage. The sound of your own crying has become like white noise over the past few months. It's filled so much of your time recently that the sound of silence is more distressing than the wretched sobs.

Your eyes flash and once again your head is filled with images of Spencer. When his eyes appear in your mind, you hurl the book right at your front door. For a moment you choke on your own sobs, before caving into the bookcase and without much grace slump to the floor. With your eyes blurry with tears you can see the book, it’s spine looking cracked. Spencer would have hated that. Spencer would have hated you for doing that.

“God, I’m sorry-“

It’s pathetic, you tell yourself. How often you find yourself apologising to the memory of your partner. The reason why changes every time. There’s so many reasons to beg for his forgiveness now.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry-“

You wail, and you can’t even be bothered to think about your neighbours. The first few times your wailing had disturbed them they had been understanding, and they gave you the same pitying smiles in the corridors that everyone did. Now, you're certain their sympathy has worn off. The bookcase makes a noise while you suddenly slam your head back against it. It aches deep into your skull, and when you find that it somewhat muffled the sound of Spencer’s voice in your head you do it again. And again, and again and again and again and-

“Y/N.”

No. You’d been slamming your head back so hard you were starting to see stars. Surely reprieve from the torment that is his voice should have come by now.

“Y/N.”

No, he sounds clearer this time. You almost scream in frustration. You weakly hit your head again.

“No!-“

Your voice comes out in a scream that silences the voice for a moment. The relief doesn’t even get a chance to fill you, before your chest starts to feel like it’s being crushed. You keep Your eyes screwed tight shut to avoid the sting of your own salty tears, and deep down to avoid his voice. Jesus, you must be past the point of insanity now.

“Y/N!”

Like a crackle of thunder, Spencer Reid’s voice echoes into the air around you. And it is a startling realisation, one that spurs you to blink your eyes open- but you’re certain. You didn’t make that up. He’s here.

Tears blur your vision, and you struggle to make out the room in front of you for a moment before it swims into focus. The sight rips the breath from your lungs all at once. Your eyes travel up, from his shoes which are shiny and polished, to the top of his head where his hair shines like a halo in the warm lighting of your apartment. There, like a mirage in the depth of the desert, is Spencer. Your Spencer. And he looks back at you with soft eyes.

The seconds where you stare up at him like a worshipper to a god seem to stretch into hours. You gape like a fish wrenched from the ocean, silently begging for words. Begging for an explanation for the man you love standing In Front of you, when for the past months all you’ve done is remember him dead.

Finally the silence breaks when you wheeze out a reply, breathing his name like a prayer while tears threaten to cloud your vision again. You frantically wipe them away, lest he disappear from the world again and leave you more broken than ever.

“Spencer?”

He looks back at you, his eyes startlingly alive. So bright, you could almost kid yourself that the young man before you is still alive and well, and not buried with all of his future in the ground with him. The guilt eats like maggots under your skin, a rot you’re certain is polluting the air around you. The way he looks at you with some kind of divine forgiveness in his eyes does not ease this feeling.

“I’m here, it’s me.”

He replies, his voice eerily nostalgic. And then he reaches out a hand to you, and you look at it. You realise how pathetic you must look, on the ground with your lips wobbling while you suck in breath after breath. You can’t seem to care when all you feel is disbelief. You stare at his palm; you don’t trust yourself to grab ahold of it in case he vanishes like mist in front of you.

“How… are you here?”

Your voice cracks and his fingers twitch like the sound pains him. You look up at him and can’t restrain the flood of liquid to your eyes when you say the words out loud.

“You’re dead.”

He looks down at you, his eyes warm with heartbreaking pity, and then he comes closer as he drops to the ground. You watch with stunned half believing eyes as he sits beside you, leaving a distance of approximately five inches between you both as he too comes to lean against the bookshelf.

“I was. I don’t know. I think I still am, I’m not sure I-“

His voice is like a fever dream, every syllable making you shiver with memories. You stare up at his face, and he cuts himself off and looks down at you. That’s when you know this must be real, because he has that look. The one that seems like he’s totally enraptured with you. None of your previous visions of him had given you that mercy, the burn of hatred in his eyes was more common. Spencer looks down at you with sorrow.

“I remember dying. I remember… watching everything that happened after.”

He explains, fixing his eyes on his hands while you stare at him numbly.

“I watched you for so long, Y/N. I tried to talk to you- I think I wasn’t strong enough then, maybe or something like that.”

Your heart, which you didn’t know could still shatter further, somehow does. Spencer. He’s been here, within reach but somehow not. If you could remember how to, you would laugh bitterly at the revelation that the universe has found yet another way to kick you down.

“What changed? How are you here now?- I don’t understand-“

You frantically ask, and he quickly reaches for you. His eyes flash with hurt for a moment when you duck away from his touch before they fill with understanding.

“Y/N, please- I’m here. I don’t know how, I think maybe I’m… stronger? I’ve been trying to get you to notice-“

You listen to him and at this your mind flashes with memories of the various objects that have been falling off of tables. You didn’t care at the time, but the pieces fall into place now. He continues.

“…I saw you hurting yourself and I didn’t think about it, I just spoke. And you heard me.”

There’s a moment of silence where the world seems to settle- it turned on its head when you saw him, and you’re not sure it will ever return to the way it was before. But the world around you settles as you grapple with the knowledge.

You stare at your palms stunned, and you can hear the anxious tapping of Spencer’s fingers against his thigh. It’s a sound you didn’t realise you’d missed. It’s then you realise sluggishly that he’d tried to touch you, and you’d pushed him away. It’s then that your body is filled with overwhelming need for Spencer, and it’s the moment that you realise you can have him again.

He lets out an exclamation when you quickly turn towards him and briefly look at his face. Not bloody, not bruised, not pale and lifeless. You choke on a sob, and launch yourself into his arms again.

“Oh my god, Spencer-“

You sob, and his arms wrap around you without hesitation. He’s just as eager to have you in his arms again, and he doesn’t flinch at the way you squeeze him harshly. He’s real. You reach up and you can feel the softness of his hair under your fingertips. You bury your face in his neck and you can smell his cologne once more. Then his hand moves up to gently cup the back of your head, which you’ve only just realised has started to sting. He cradles you close to him, and you can sense the worry emanating from him.

“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

He whispers, and presses a firm kiss to your forehead. You shudder at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as his breath tickles the hair on your neck.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

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