#criminal minds angst

[pathologicalreid]

called you again | s.r.

in which you make a late night phone call to your ex-boyfriend because you're convinced he's the only thing that can lull you to sleep

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (h/c) content warnings: exes but they're still in love so... a lot of yearning, briefly mentions a bau case, inspired by a mattress and a tiktok. word count: 1.84k a/n: shout out to whichever anon from yesterday told me to post this!! you're a real one

Rolling over on your bed again, you tugged the comforter over your shoulder, hoping the fabric would form a cocoon around you. Mimicking the feeling of someone behind you, warm arms wrapped around you. You begged for the comfort that you needed in order to fall asleep, but sleep never came. 

Your exhaustion had come and gone, any hint of sleepiness wiped away when you moved from your couch to your bed. Insomnia had come to find you, a face so familiar that you had begun to greet sleepless nights with open arms. 

On your nightstand, your phone buzzed. Likely a social media notification or a news email telling you the end was near, but you rolled over anyway on the off chance that it was a text. Every night, you remind yourself that you should turn on do not disturb, but you’d spent years waiting for your phone to buzz at all hours, hoping for the opportunity to tell Spencer how your day was. That’s why you had to check your phone, hoping to see the contact with the heart next to it, remaining unchanged since you broke up with him two months ago. 

Cringing at the blue light on your sensitive eyes, you squinted at the notification. It was an email, holding the weekly advertisement for the grocery store. You tried to resist the disappointment that roiled in your brain, but it took over anyways. Disappointment that it wasn’t Spencer and shame that you’d thought he’d reach out to you after everything that happened between you. 

You clicked on your messages, looking at the short exchange from the day he came by to drop off a box of your things. He’d brought you coffee. You’d broken his heart two days before, and he brought you coffee from your favorite kiosk near his apartment. That kind of love was the epitome of Spencer Reid, and that was why it had killed you to let him go. 

As if your thumb had developed a mind of its own, you tapped on his contact and initiated a phone call, quickly sitting up in bed and ending the call, tossing your phone in the depths of your down comforter and glaring at it in horror. 

It must’ve been less than a minute before your phone started to buzz again, you rifled through the bedding to look at your phone, and there it was. The purple heart that you’d placed next to his name the night of your first date. It seemed cruel to take away his heart when you knew very well there was no love lost between the two of you. Swiping at the screen, you lifted the phone to your ear and took a nervous breath, ��Hey.” 

“Are you okay?” He asked immediately, not responding to your greeting and instantly trying to get to the root cause of why you had called. 

You tried not to read into it, staring at your lap and fiddling with a loose thread on your pajama shorts. “Spence,” you said meekly, your voice hovering over a whisper as his question echoed in your head.

He was silent for a moment. You imagined he was considering hanging up on you until he spoke again, “Hang on.” 

You heeded his instruction, shifting awkwardly on your mattress and listening to the shuffling on the other end. It was almost two in the morning, and he didn’t sound like you had woken him up, so he must be out on a case. Something akin to deja vu came over you then, imagining him in some city that he’d never be able to explore while you waited in your apartment for the slightest bit of contact. 

“Y/N?” Spencer said your name, and every bit of embarrassment you felt related to this call faded away. You could deal with the humiliation if it meant you got to hear him say your name just one more time. “What’s wrong?”

Because it couldn’t just be that you wanted to hear his voice, the only reason you could possibly be calling him in the middle of the night was because something was wrong. You were stranded when the metro stopped running or someone had stolen your wallet. No, the pounding of your broken heart was keeping you up at night. Even now, it slammed into your ribcage, ricocheting with the reminder that this was all your fault. “Where are you?” You asked, sniffling through the question and wiping you face with your sleeve. 

He sighed on the other end of the call and you told yourself it was in relief that nothing was wrong. “Bismarck,” he responded softly, matching your tone of voice in only the way he could. “We got here this morning for a family annihilator,” he explained in more detail. 

You felt yourself falling into a familiar pattern, settling your body back in bed with your phone pressed to the side of your face. Family annihilators were hard on the whole team, but Spencer was someone who held family dynamics with the highest regard. It always broke him to see that destroyed. “How was the flight?” 

“It was alright,” he answered, entering a similar pattern as you. “We had to fly over tornado alley. It’s storm season, you know?” 

Humming, you nodded despite the fact that he can’t see you. “And I’m sure no one appreciated your facts about turbulence,” you said, a teasing lilt finding its way to your tone. 

He chuckled through the phone and your heart soared, “They never do. No one ever gets them like you, lo—” 

Your body stiffened as he caught himself. It would’ve been so easy for you to move past the initial comment if his instinct was to follow it up with a pet name. Lovey. He liked to call you lovey as a term of endearment. Your previously floating heart came back down to earth, “So it’s a bad case, huh? I should probably let you get back to work.” 

“Between you and me, I’m supposed to be at the hotel right now, so this would count as my break,” he told you, managing to coax you into staying on the phone. 

It was hard to be broken up with someone who hadn’t strictly done anything wrong, and it was hard to deny him conversation when he was wrapped up in such a dark case. “What’s the weather like?” You asked, choosing to talk about things that don’t truly matter. 

He sighed, “Cold, but I’m sure you could’ve guessed that. JJ whines about it every time she steps outside. We’re inside most of the time anyway, so I’m not really bothered.”

Weather was never an issue for Spencer, you used to think he’d be miserable in the winter, seeing as he grew up in Las Vegas, but it would seem that his time in Boston had completely changed him. 

“It’s finally getting warm here,” you mentioned. Though, of course he knew that already. Spencer hadn’t taken up residence in Bismarck, but sometimes it felt like he was 1,500 miles away, even when he was just across the river from you. It reminded you of all the times you’d disagreed on the temperature you should leave the thermostat at, and it brought a pit back to your chest. You used to insist that 68 degrees in the winter wasn’t the same as 68 degrees in the summer, and he’d tell you that it was the same temperature, it just felt different because of changing variables. 

Laying in your bed, you wished he was there to explain how the tilt of the earth’s axis affects the temperature, but instead, you could only talk to him about the weather. The cherry blossoms would bloom soon, and you wished he was here to take you to see them. “What’s wrong?” He asked you again, his voice was so gentle that it nearly crushed you. 

Looking at the other side of your bed, the side he used to sleep on, you sighed helplessly, “I can’t sleep.” It felt infantile to say it out loud, the average person would’ve taken something by now, but you could barely get yourself to stand up, let alone go to the medicine cabinet. 

“Have you taken anything?” He asked, reading your mind just like old times. 

You hummed, keeping your eyes on the other side of your mattress, “No. It’s too late anyway, I wouldn’t wake up for work.” 

“Maybe you should take something and take the day off, you sound exhausted,” he told you, a familiar worry crawling into his voice. 

The reminder of why you had left overwhelmed you. Spencer could give you all of the advice in the world, but he’d never be there to help you. Yours wasn’t the first relationship to fall victim to the BAUs hours, but it hurt nonetheless. You loved him so ardently that you’d forgotten to love yourself, and when you couldn’t take the distance anymore, you’d called the whole thing off. It was hard to love someone who wasn’t there, but it turns out distance does make the heart grow fonder. “Maybe,” you mumbled, looking at the divot on his side of the bed. 

It hurt you to acknowledge that the inanimate object you slept on had its own memory of Spencer. The impression of his body across the cushion reminded you of the space left by people in Pompeii, their suffering had been immortalized for people to gawk at 2,000 years later, but in 2,000 years, your romance with Spencer wouldn’t even qualify as a blip in the universe’s timeline. There would be no lasting impression of two lovers holding hands because he wasn’t yours and you were no longer his. 

“Spence?” You breathed into the receiver, looking at the memory foam imprint with tears in your eyes. 

He waited for a beat to respond, “Yeah?” 

Your chest ached to tell him that you loved him—that you had made a mistake, but that wasn’t fair to him. That wasn’t fair to you. “Stay safe, okay?” You whispered, hoping that one day things might be different, and if that day ever came along, you’d want him to at least consider the possibility of coming back to you. 

“Okay, sleep well,” he murmured back to you before the phone clicked off. 

At a sloth’s pace, you crawled onto the other side of your bed and curled yourself into a ball. When trees had objects left around their roots, they simply grew around the invasion, but your mattress was an inanimate object with no way of moving or growing or adapting to a life without him while you had no choice but to do so. Closing your eyes, silent tears streamed to the pillow that smelled faintly of his shampoo—no matter how many times you washed the pillowcase. Finally, you let your body relax into the memory of him. 

You supposed you could always buy a new mattress, but that would mean fully letting him go.

[kiwriteswords]

Yours, Mine, but Never Ours [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 6.6k|| AN: This is inspired by the gifset of Hotch + his wedding ring last week. I really mulled over the idea of Hotch, his trauma, and likely idea of marriage. I had originally--and really went back and forth on this--planned out a sad ending for this, but I couldn't do that to you all. Tags/Warnings: female reader, established relationship, jack hotchner, mentions of Haley hotchner, fear of commitment, marriage issues, spoilers to seasons 3-5, Derek and Rossi giving Hotch shit for his personal issues, talks of marriage, talks of death, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, reader couldn't give two damns about marriage, but hotch is old fashioned and conflicted, happy ending Summary: For someone as traditional as Aaron Hotchner, the topic of marriage shouldn't be one he shied away from. But given his past? Nothing scares him more.

Aaron Hotchner stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the warmth of soapy water lapping at his wrists.

Golden evening sunlight spilled softly through the half-open blinds, casting gentle stripes of light across the countertop and illuminating the porcelain dishes he methodically rinsed.

Behind him, at the kitchen island, Jack sat with homework spread around him, colored pencils scattered like confetti across the marble surface.

Aaron listened quietly to the gentle rhythm of pencil scratches and Jack's occasional murmurs as he read aloud softly.

"Dad?" Jack’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the dishwasher.

"Yeah, buddy?" Hotch replied, glancing over his shoulder.

Jack looked thoughtful, head tilted slightly, his brow furrowed in a familiar expression—

One he'd inherited from Aaron himself.

"Are you going to marry her?"

The casual innocence of the question hit Aaron like a splash of cold water. 

He paused mid-motion, water dripping from the plate suspended above the sink, eyes fixed on the steady drip-drip-drip into the basin below.

"Marry who, Jack?" He managed a neutral tone, heart suddenly heavier in his chest.

Hotch expected your name to come from Jack, but it still continued to catch him off guard. Jack’s eyes sparkled, entirely oblivious to his father's sudden tension.

Aaron slowly set the plate down, turning off the faucet, and dried his hands carefully with a navy towel. He took a deliberate breath, calming the racing pulse beneath his carefully composed expression.

“Jack…” he hesitated slightly, keeping his tone even.

"Yeah!" Jack interrupted eagerly, nodding vigorously. "I really like her. I think she’d be a good wife for you. And she makes pancakes better than anyone."

Aaron felt the corners of his lips twitch, betraying the smile fighting to emerge at Jack’s earnestness. 

You had become such an integral part of their lives that he hadn’t fully realized how deeply Jack had attached himself to you. Or perhaps, he admitted quietly to himself, how deeply he himself had become attached.

"Well," he began, stepping slowly toward the island, where Jack sat expectantly. Aaron leaned forward slightly, meeting his son's bright eyes. "Sometimes, marriage is… it’s complicated."

Jack tilted his head curiously, brows knitting deeper. "Why?"

Aaron swallowed hard, suddenly conscious of the persistent ache that seemed permanently woven into the fabric of his heart—

A remnant of old wounds never fully healed.

"Because…when you marry someone, you promise to always keep them safe, to always be there. And sometimes…" He paused, gently ruffling Jack’s soft brown hair, searching for the right words. "Sometimes life makes it hard to keep that promise."

Jack’s expression softened, becoming thoughtful and mature beyond his years. "Like with mom?"

Aaron's heart clenched painfully at the simple acknowledgment, but he forced a gentle nod. "Yeah, buddy. Like with mom."

Jack considered this silently, carefully rolling a blue pencil between his small fingers. Finally, he looked back up at his father with steady, serious eyes. "But we still love mom. And I think you can still love someone else too. Like you love mom, but different."

Aaron’s breath caught sharply in his chest. He stared down at his son, astounded by the profound wisdom carried in such innocent words. Jack gave him a shy smile, small but deeply reassuring.

Aaron reached out gently, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s shoulder. He knew he owed his son honesty—

At least as much as he could comfortably offer.

"You know," he finally said, voice soft, vulnerable, and undeniably sincere, "I really care about her."

"Good." Jack nodded firmly, returning to his homework with newfound decisiveness. "Because we both like having her around."

Aaron straightened, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Through the window, twilight began to deepen, colors bleeding into shades of lavender and deep blue, shadows stretching quietly across their small, familiar kitchen.

As the quiet settled once more, Aaron found himself thinking about you, about Jack’s words, and about the soft warmth he'd started associating with your presence. It terrified him, the depth of this feeling—

How easily and completely you’d settled into every corner of his life and heart.

Jack resumed his homework as if nothing monumental had just transpired, the gentle scratching of his pencil filling the contemplative silence. Aaron watched him briefly, a soft, affectionate ache filling his chest, before turning slowly back toward the sink.

In the quiet simplicity of the moment, he knew one thing clearly:

His son was right. You had quietly, undeniably woven yourself into their lives.

And now, Aaron had to figure out what to do about it.

The thought took root quietly, like an errant seed drifting into fertile soil, taking hold in the darkness and growing tangled and stubborn as it bloomed.

Marriage.

Aaron hadn’t intended for it to become something he thought about, but Jack’s innocent question echoed relentlessly in his mind—

At work, in meetings, late at night when he tried to find rest. It threaded through his thoughts when he watched you reading quietly on the couch, when he saw you laughing with Jack in the backyard, and even now, as he stood in the bullpen at the BAU, staring blankly through the window of his office, watching you across the bullpen.

You were speaking animatedly to Garcia, laughing at something she’d whispered. Your hand fluttered briefly to your hair, brushing a loose strand behind your ear—

A gesture so natural. 

So ordinary, yet lately, every little detail seemed steeped in meaning.

He wondered how he’d gotten here—

How you'd become someone he couldn’t imagine living without. 

The idea itself was quietly terrifying. After Haley’s death, after the brutal way that chapter of his life ended, Aaron had silently vowed to himself that he'd never step back into that vulnerability again. He’d convinced himself that emotional isolation was simpler, safer—

Far less painful.

But you were a soft disruption to his hardened rules, somehow slipping quietly through every defensive barrier he’d erected around his heart. 

Now, as he watched you laugh, your eyes sparkling and filled with warmth, he realized with stark clarity that he wanted to spend his life with you. But at the very same moment, something deep and raw within him recoiled, filled with dread at the risk that kind of love presented.

He thought of Haley—

The first time they'd met, their wedding day, the promises whispered softly in candlelight, promises of forever that had ended abruptly. 

Violently. 

Marriage meant vulnerability. It meant offering his heart, wholly and without reserve, knowing how easily it could be ripped away.

“You good, Hotch?”

Dave’s voice broke him sharply from his thoughts. Aaron startled slightly, turning to find Rossi leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, observing him with careful eyes.

“Fine,” Aaron answered quickly—

Too quickly, he realized.

Rossi raised a brow, stepping slowly inside the office, nudging the door closed behind him. “You’ve never been good at lying to me, Aaron.”

Hotch sighed softly, rubbing his forehead. “Just...thinking.”

“Must be some pretty heavy thoughts,” Rossi observed, following Aaron’s gaze out toward you. Understanding crossed his face. “Ah.”

“It’s nothing,” Aaron deflected quietly, knowing it was useless even as he spoke the words.

Rossi moved further into the room, settling against the edge of the desk. 

Aaron shot him a quiet look, momentarily surprised. Rossi simply offered a sympathetic smile.

“You’re not exactly subtle, Aaron,” Rossi said gently. “I’ve seen that look before—the one where the past and the future start to blur together.”

Aaron hesitated, the tension in his jaw visible, emotions pressing beneath a carefully maintained surface. “Jack…Jack asked me if I would marry her,” He sighed, “It was just an innocent question. But—” He broke off, feeling foolish.

“But you’re terrified,” Rossi finished quietly.

Aaron’s eyes flickered back out the window. You had moved, crossing back toward your own desk, unaware of the turmoil raging inside him.

He felt selfish, torn between longing and fear, aching for the simplicity of your touch, your warmth, yet paralyzed by the haunting memories of what could happen—what had happened once before.

“Marriage almost destroyed me once,” Aaron admitted quietly, the words barely audible even in the quiet of the office. “Not just divorce—but the guilt, the danger, losing Haley the way I did. Losing everything. Jack almost losing both of us…almost losing Jack. I swore I’d never put anyone else through that. Especially someone I—”

“Someone you love,” Rossi interjected gently.

Aaron drew a sharp breath, giving a stiff nod. “Someone I love.”

Rossi pushed gently, cautiously. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Aaron shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving you as you settled at your desk, pen dancing lightly across paper. He took in every detail—the way your hair fell against your cheek, the graceful slope of your shoulders, the familiar tilt of your head—and suddenly felt the unbearable heaviness of what he stood to lose.

“It isn’t fair to her,” Aaron murmured, voice thickening. “She deserves certainty. Not my fears.”

Rossi placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Aaron, don’t underestimate her. You’re afraid because you’ve lived the worst-case scenario—but you’ve also survived it. You’re allowed to be happy again.”

Aaron was quiet for a long moment, absorbing Rossi’s words, feeling them settle somewhere deep and aching within him.

“I don’t know if I can put her at risk like that. I don’t know if I could survive losing someone else,” he admitted softly. “But God help me—I can’t imagine letting her go either.”

Rossi’s expression softened knowingly, compassionately. “Then don’t.”

Aaron let the simple truth of it sink in, a quiet ache lodged in his chest. His eyes returned to you again, watching as you tucked your hair behind your ear once more, your smile gentle, unburdened.

I can’t lose you, he thought desperately, even as fear tightened around him, relentless and choking.

And he knew—painfully, inevitably—that sooner or later, he’d have to face the possibility of opening that conversation, sharing those fears, or risk losing you anyway.

But for now, he stood quietly in the shadow of his past, trapped between memories of what had been lost and the quiet, terrifying beauty of what could still be found.

hat night, the darkness in the bedroom felt heavier, thicker somehow—each silence pulsing with uncertainty. Aaron lay on his back, eyes tracing the shadowy patterns along the ceiling as he felt your soft breathing beside him. His chest tightened with anxiety, as though every quiet breath was slowly stealing oxygen from his lungs.

He’d always been skilled with words—careful, purposeful—but tonight, they tangled uselessly on his tongue, caught by an invisible weight that felt impossibly heavy.

“Aaron?” Your voice broke through the quiet, gentle and sleepy, as your fingers brushed softly along his chest. “You’re tense.”

His breath stuttered briefly in his throat. Of course, you’d noticed. 

You always did.

“Can’t sleep,” he murmured, voice rough with the edge of nerves.

You shifted beside him, the bed softly creaking beneath your movements. Aaron felt his heart quicken as you propped yourself up slightly, your eyes studying him thoughtfully in the dim glow of moonlight.

“Something’s been bothering you,” you whispered knowingly. Your fingertips drew small, comforting circles against his chest. “You want to talk about it?”

For a long, hesitant moment, he almost didn’t. Aaron feared the weight of what he was about to say—

The risk of shattering everything he’d grown to love.

Yet the tenderness in your touch, the gentle patience radiating from your expression, urged him onward. You deserved honesty, even if he was afraid of what came next.

Slowly, cautiously, he met your gaze. “Marriage,” he said quietly, voice tight and guarded.

Your fingers paused, hovering briefly. Aaron’s heart pounded painfully as silence settled heavily between you. He braced himself for you to pull away, for hurt or disappointment to cloud your eyes. 

He wouldn’t blame you if you got up and left—

He knew what it sounded like, the fear in his voice. 

How could he expect you to stay if he couldn’t offer more?

But instead, your lips curved softly upward, surprising him. A quiet chuckle escaped you, gentle and warm. “Is that what’s been haunting you all week?”

Aaron frowned in confusion, blinking slowly. “You...knew?”

“I had a feeling something’s been bothering you,” you whispered, your eyes gentle, affectionate, reassuring. You shifted closer, your cheek resting against his shoulder, hand gently moving once more over his chest. “Aaron, listen. I understand why marriage scares you. You don’t have to apologize for it.”

He exhaled softly, relief mingling uneasily with confusion. “Y-You don’t mind?” he murmured uncertainly.

You shook your head gently against him, voice quiet yet firm. “Aaron, marriage—it’s just paperwork to me. A certificate. A legality.” You looked up at him, eyes sparkling with gentle humor. “As a former prosecutor, you should understand paperwork doesn’t always mean much.”

A small laugh escaped him—

Surprising.

Genuine. 

Breaking some of the tension that had been suffocating him for days. 

His chest loosened, though the shadow in his mind lingered. “Still,” he continued softly, “most people expect it at some point. A wedding, a ring—something.”

You squeezed him gently, your voice clear and steady in the quiet night. “If I ever married anyone, Aaron, I’d want it to be you. But I’d never ask that of you. I know what you’ve been through. What we have—this—means more to me than vows and rings and certificates ever could.”

Aaron felt something powerful surge through him—gratitude, relief, warmth—and yet something else lingered, stubbornly unresolved. 

He wrapped his arms carefully around you, pulling you close as you settled gently against him. He pressed his lips softly to your forehead, inhaling the comforting scent of your hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, meaning it more deeply than words could express.

You hummed contentedly, drifting gently toward sleep again, wrapped safely in his arms. But as your breathing evened out, Aaron lay wide awake, staring once again at the ceiling, haunted by the visions your words conjured in his mind.

He imagined a life for you—

A real one.

Complete with celebrations and milestones, the kind that were marked by gold bands, carefully spoken promises, laughter, joy, perhaps even children of your own. The thought pierced him deeply—

A life you might never have because of his past, because of his pain, because of him.

He wondered if he was stopping you from the quiet life you deserved. 

The one with a husband who wouldn’t bring danger home constantly. He cringed, thinking of another man’s hands getting to hold him at the end of the night, but this ordinary man could give you so much more than Aaron was comfortable even thinking about. 

Guilt wrapped tightly around his heart, squeezing with a terrible, relentless force. He imagined resentment clouding your eyes someday, silent regrets staining quiet evenings, things left unspoken but deeply felt. The selfishness of it stung sharply.

As you slept softly beside him, trusting him, loving him unconditionally, Aaron silently grappled with the invisible weight pressing heavily against his chest.

He knew you'd meant what you'd said tonight—

He had no doubts about your sincerity. Yet it still haunted him, the fear that one day you’d look at him and realize you deserved more than he could ever offer.

And as he lay awake, your body curled softly, trustingly, in his arms, Aaron realized with an aching certainty:

He'd give anything to make sure you never regretted choosing him—even if it meant confronting every fear he'd ever had.

The weeks turned quietly into months, each day deepening the gentle rhythm between you, Aaron, and Jack. The comfort of routine wrapped around you both, steady and reassuring, but beneath that comfortable surface, Aaron felt himself growing restless—

An anxiety simmering just under the warmth, quiet but ever-present.

It was the milestones that haunted him most.

Like the afternoon Penelope burst into the bullpen, glittering ring catching every light, tears of joy streaming down her face as the team quickly crowded around her.

“I said yes!” she had cried joyfully, throwing her arms around Morgan, who laughed heartily and lifted her off the ground. The bullpen buzzed with congratulations, laughter, and plans for celebrations.

Aaron had watched quietly from the side, heart tightening painfully at your gentle smile and the sincere warmth in your eyes. You squeezed Penelope’s hand, genuinely thrilled for your friend, your voice filled with affection. But as Aaron stood slightly apart, his fingers clenched in quiet frustration, imagining you missing out on that kind of joy—

Of celebrations that revolved around promises he’d silently denied you.

The guilt lingered long after the excitement faded.

Or when the two of you attended a gala for the FBI, and he watched, heart heavy, as you introduced him to a former colleague of yours.

“This is Aaron Hotchner,” you’d said proudly, gently squeezing his arm. “My boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. 

Aaron had almost flinched at the word—

Not because he didn’t cherish it but because it felt so inadequate. 

He noticed the subtle reaction in your colleague’s eyes, the quick glance down at your hand, perhaps checking for a ring. He hated the way you quietly shifted your stance, almost defensively, as though expecting judgment.

Later that evening, in the darkness of the car ride home, Aaron felt you quietly watching him, reading the subtle tension in his jaw.

“Aaron,” you whispered gently, fingertips brushing his thigh, “you know none of that matters to me.”

But he hadn’t entirely believed you, even though he desperately wanted to.

Then there was the playdate at Jack’s friend’s house—

A moment, Aaron hadn’t anticipated hurting him so deeply.

“So, your wife mentioned Jack doesn’t like strawberries?” The other parent had asked casually, unloading snacks from grocery bags.

Aaron’s hesitation had been brief but painfully obvious. “Ah, actually…she’s not my wife,” he’d explained awkwardly. “My girlfriend. She’s—we live together.”

“Oh,” the parent said softly, embarrassment flashing over their face. “Sorry, I just assumed.”

Aaron had waved it away, pretending not to see the confusion, pretending not to notice the way the word ‘girlfriend’ seemed suddenly juvenile or inadequate.

He spent the rest of the afternoon tense, discomfort spreading through his chest, lingering even hours later as he walked into the kitchen and found you preparing dinner. 

Your gentle, easy smile pierced his heart.

“Hey,” you greeted softly. “Did Jack have fun?”

“Yes,” Aaron murmured, stepping behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist. 

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling the familiar warmth of your scent, his chest aching quietly.

You’d tilted your head gently back against him, feeling the tension in his embrace. “Everything okay?”

He’d wanted desperately to say yes—

To protect you from his burdens. 

But the words came out strained. “They thought you were my wife.”

Your shoulders stiffened slightly, then relaxed just as quickly. You’d turned in his arms, your expression patient and understanding. “Aaron, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” he sighed softly. “I just—I hate the idea of people misunderstanding your role in my life.”

You’d cupped his cheek gently, your thumb brushing soothingly over his skin. “I’m not worried about what they think, Aaron. I know exactly what I mean to you.”

He wanted so deeply to believe you, but even as you smiled reassuringly, he couldn’t shake the fear—

The persistent ache that whispered to him late at night, taunting him with visions of what you might eventually grow to resent.

And in the quiet darkness of his own mind, Aaron found himself caught between two impossible fears: losing you, or selfishly keeping you and robbing you of something you might one day desperately want.

He felt trapped—

Holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable day, you’d finally realize he couldn’t give you enough.

Penelope’s surprise bridal shower had transformed Rossi’s elegant backyard patio into something that looked like an enchanted garden, glowing softly beneath strands of golden fairy lights. Laughter and warm conversation carried gently through the cool evening air, mixing seamlessly with the low hum of soft music.

Aaron leaned back quietly in his chair, his eyes trailing across the table to you. Warm light flickered from small candles, catching softly in your hair and reflecting in your eyes, bright with laughter. You were seated beside Penelope, your hands resting gracefully atop the white linen tablecloth as you listened, fully engrossed in the conversation.

He knew he should have felt completely at ease surrounded by his team—his friends—but the unease he’d been carrying for weeks now seemed even heavier tonight.

“So, Garcia,” Emily called out teasingly, swirling her wine gently in her glass, a playful smile on her lips. “Did you choose the ring, or did you let your man surprise you?”

Penelope grinned brightly, eyes glittering with excitement. She extended her hand dramatically across the table, showcasing the ring proudly. “He surprised me, and he nailed it.”

JJ reached across the table, taking Penelope’s hand gently to admire the sparkling diamond more closely. “It’s gorgeous, Pen. He did amazing.”

Aaron watched quietly, his chest tightening uncomfortably as Emily’s gaze suddenly shifted toward you. “Alright, your turn,” Emily teased gently, nudging your elbow playfully. “What about you—what’s your dream ring?”

He saw your expression soften, eyes brightening as you leaned in closer, not a hint of discomfort or awkwardness visible. Aaron’s heart stalled briefly, his grip tightening subconsciously around the cool glass in his hand.

“Well,” you began softly, entirely casual, oblivious to the fact that your words were slowly twisting something inside of Aaron, “I’ve never really thought about it much, but probably something vintage-inspired. I’d want something delicate. Not too flashy.”

Aaron swallowed hard, feeling suddenly and irrationally nervous, as though everyone at the table might turn toward him at any second, reading plainly the conflict on his face. He forced himself to maintain a neutral expression, carefully raising his glass to his lips to hide his discomfort.

You continued, laughing softly, warmth in your voice, “Maybe something with a sapphire, even. I’ve never really been a diamond girl anyway.”

He caught Morgan’s eyes across the table in that moment—

Dark, knowing, and filled with playful seriousness. Morgan raised an eyebrow subtly, tilting his chin slightly toward Aaron as if to say, Are you taking notes? You better be.

Aaron looked away quickly, the weight of expectation and guilt pressing harder against his chest. He found himself staring into his wine glass, the deep red liquid gently swirling against the sides, feeling profoundly exposed. 

He felt selfish for holding back something that felt so normal, so easy to discuss for you and the others.

You glanced over at him just then, eyes warm, oblivious to the storm brewing quietly in his chest. Your smile was gentle, reassuring—

Always comforting. 

And yet, it only deepened the tightness in his chest, reinforcing his quiet dread.

Morgan cleared his throat quietly, leaning casually closer to Aaron, his voice pitched low enough that only the two of them could hear. “You good, Hotch?”

Aaron forced a careful nod, but Morgan wasn’t easily fooled. His friend’s expression softened knowingly, quietly supportive.

“Look,” Morgan said gently, glancing discreetly toward you, where you continued chatting warmly with JJ, “you know you’ve got something special. Don’t overthink it, man. She seems pretty clear about what matters most.”

Aaron nodded again, eyes still locked on you, heart aching deeply. He knew Morgan was right, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps you deserved more than he could offer—more than he’d ever be brave enough to give.

And as laughter and excited conversation continued to fill the air around him, Aaron quietly watched you, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t someday come to regret holding you back from the life you truly deserved.

The ride home was unbearably quiet.

Aaron’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened beneath the pale illumination of passing streetlights. The silence in the car hung heavy, like an oppressive storm cloud, stifling any attempts at casual conversation. He felt trapped in his own head, frustration gnawing relentlessly at him.

Beside him, your posture was rigid, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared unseeingly out the passenger window. Every second of silence made Aaron’s chest feel tighter, every shallow breath adding fuel to the simmering frustration that refused to be contained.

Finally, you broke first.

“Are you seriously going to do this again?” Your voice was sharp, hurt simmering just beneath the surface. Your eyes flashed toward him in the dim light of the dashboard, wounded yet defiant.

Aaron’s jaw tightened, eyes locked forward, voice controlled and low. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped bitterly. “You’re tense, Aaron. You’ve been tense all night. Is it because of the damn ring conversation? Again?”

His eyes narrowed, fingers clenching tighter around the wheel. “I didn’t say a word about that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you retorted sharply. “You’ve been stuck in your own head for months now. Every time someone mentions marriage, or engagements, or God forbid a ring, you completely shut down. Do you honestly think I don’t notice?”

He exhaled sharply, frustration flaring dangerously in his chest. “You said yourself you’d want a ring. Vintage. Something delicate. Sapphires, wasn’t it?”

Your laugh was harsh, humorless. “Yeah, I did say that—because they asked. You’re making a huge deal out of nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!” Aaron’s voice rose sharply, surprising even himself. His eyes darkened, flickering with something raw and painful. “You don’t get it. You deserve all of that. You deserve someone who can give you exactly that, and I’m the one keeping it from you.”

“I told you,” you shot back, voice thickening with frustration and hurt, “I don’t care about a ring or a piece of paper or—”

“You say that now!” Aaron snapped, his words harsh and unyielding. “But what about later? What about ten years down the line when you resent me for not giving you the things you deserve, the life you pictured for yourself?”

Your eyes widened slightly in disbelief, anger sparking dangerously. “Are you kidding me right now? Aaron, I could die tomorrow. We could get into a crash right here, right now, and you really think I’d be worried about not being your wife? That some paperwork or a damn ring would make a difference in how I feel about you?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened further, breath ragged with emotion. “It’s not about the paperwork! It’s about making promises that I’ve already broken once. It’s about knowing the second I give you that, I could lose everything again. I don’t want that—I don’t want to lose you.”

“You think marriage changes that?” you challenged fiercely, voice shaking slightly. “I see myself old with you, Aaron. You. And that vision isn’t any stronger or weaker because we signed something or because I wear your ring.”

His voice cracked painfully. “You say that, but you don’t know—”

“No,” you interrupted harshly, hurt blazing in your eyes. “You’re pushing me away because you’re scared. Because you think wanting marriage again means risking it all again. Maybe you’re afraid because deep down, you actually want that with me.”

Aaron’s grip on the wheel was nearly painful, his voice dangerously quiet, trembling with barely-contained fury. “Enough.”

But you didn’t listen. You leaned closer, your voice fierce, challenging. “Is that it, Aaron? Is that what scares you? Because at the end of the day, you do want it—”

“Yes!” Aaron suddenly roared, slamming a hand against the wheel in frustration, the words erupting from somewhere deep and raw within him. The car filled with stunned silence, broken only by his heavy, ragged breathing.

His heart was pounding painfully, eyes filled with conflict, pain, and longing as he finally looked over at you, emotion raw and unguarded. “Yes,” he repeated, softer now, voice broken. “I want it. I want you. I want to call you my wife. I want it all, every damn thing that terrifies me, because I want to know that you’re mine—really mine.”

You stared back at him, eyes wide and glistening with tears, your anger replaced instantly by shock, empathy, and a deep, aching tenderness.

“I know it’s old fashioned--I’m old fashioned. But you don’t think that every day I think about wanting to buy you a ridiculously expensive ring? Or sign my entire life over to you? Because you already have it. Paper or not--my life is yours. I want you to have it. Take it.” Aaron exhaled heavily, voice unsteady with vulnerability. “But God, it scares me. It scares me more than losing you, because the moment we make it real—I could lose everything. Again.”

You reached out, your hand shaking slightly, gently resting on his tense arm. Your touch felt like an anchor amidst his storm, steadying him.

“Aaron,” you whispered softly, voice thick with emotion, “you're not going to lose me. Not because we marry or because we don't. I chose you, and I choose you every single day. Nothing changes that.”

He let out a ragged breath, feeling a quiet release in your words, but the fear still remained, tangled stubbornly within his heart.

And even as he pulled the car slowly into your driveway, the silence between you softening, Aaron knew he’d laid his fears bare, his heart open—

Completely vulnerable. 

The words had been said, and now, nothing could ever quite be the same again.

Not much was said--or done--after that conversation. A few goodnights to Jack, the quiet domesticity of getting ready for bed unfolded, but little words were said between the two of you that night. 

Exhaustion weighed far heavier on Aaron’s shoulders and he felt as if he had revealed so much--partly worried too much to you. He didn’t want to push it…push you. 

Aaron woke suddenly, sharply, his breath catching painfully in his throat as his eyes snapped open to the cold emptiness beside him. The sheets on your side of the bed were wrinkled but cool, evidence of your absence already lingering heavily in the room.

A wave of raw panic surged through him, immediate and overwhelming, twisting his stomach into painful knots. Aaron’s heart began to pound fiercely, hammering in his chest as he quickly sat up, scanning the bedroom for any trace of you. But the silence around him was oppressive, mocking, thick with dread.

He called your name hoarsely. 

No response. 

His mind flooded suddenly with memories—

Painful, vivid recollections of another empty bed, another empty room years before, and the heartbreaking absence Haley had left.

He was too late then, too stubborn, too closed-off. He’d pushed Haley away, and now—he’d pushed you away too.

Aaron felt completely unraveled, breath shallow, panic rising painfully in his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperately trying to steady himself, fighting the pressure building behind them.

He’d finally done it. He’d pushed too hard, said too much, and now you were gone.

Gone because he couldn’t bend. Couldn’t compromise. Couldn’t allow himself to trust you fully, even after you’d given him everything. He’d selfishly forced you to carry his fears, his grief, his trauma—

And now he was alone.

He had no idea how long he sat there, paralyzed, heart painfully clenched, completely lost in the dark spiral of his thoughts until—

The quiet sound of the front door opening downstairs pulled him sharply from his despair.

Aaron froze, heart hammering with sudden hope. 

Or maybe fear. 

He couldn’t be sure.

A moment later, your footsteps echoed gently up the stairs, followed by the soft rustle of bags and a familiar, comforting scent of coffee drifting into the room. Aaron rose unsteadily, his pulse erratic, relief blooming tentatively beneath layers of anxiety and pain.

You stepped through the doorway, arms full—one hand gripping a bag from your favorite bagel shop, the other balancing a cardboard tray of coffees. When your eyes met his, you paused, startled by his clearly shaken appearance.

“Hey,” you said gently, surprise softening your expression, your voice filled with cautious warmth. “I wanted to surprise you with makeup bagels and coffee. Figured we both needed it.”

Aaron didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t. He simply crossed the room in a heartbeat, bridging the painful gap between you, and pulled you fiercely into his arms.

You gasped softly, taken aback by the intensity behind his embrace, but your body quickly relaxed against him, sensing something deeper, more vulnerable in the way his arms clung desperately around you.

“Aaron?” you whispered, uncertainly at first, then tenderly as you felt him tremble slightly against you. “Hey, I’m right here.”

He tightened his hold, burying his face against your shoulder, his voice rough and barely audible. “I thought you left.”

You set the bags carefully aside on the nearby dresser and gently cupped his face in your palms, forcing him to look at you. The emotion in his eyes nearly undid you—

Painful vulnerability, haunted by old ghosts, old fears.

“Aaron, listen to me,” you said softly, firmly. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise you, I’m here. I didn’t leave you.”

He shook his head slightly, eyes closing for a brief moment, unable to fully trust his voice. When he opened them again, his expression was raw and achingly sincere.

“You could have,” he whispered brokenly. “You could have left, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. I was—I’ve been so unfair to you.”

You shook your head gently, your eyes filled with quiet strength and compassion. “Aaron, I need you to understand something—I chose you, knowing exactly who you are. Knowing your past, your fears, your stubbornness—all of it. And I’d choose you a thousand times over.”

He exhaled shakily, eyes glistening with unshed tears, his chest rising and falling rapidly as your words sank deeply into him. Still holding his face tenderly in your hands, you pressed your forehead gently against his.

“I’m begging you,” you murmured softly, voice steady and filled with gentle pleading, “Please start believing me.”

Aaron nodded slowly, trying desperately to internalize every word. His heart was still trembling, still afraid, but your unwavering warmth anchored him back into reality.

“I’ll try,” he whispered, the words thick with emotion. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Good,” you breathed softly, thumb brushing tenderly across his cheek. “Because I love you far too much to let you keep fighting these ghosts alone.”

His lips curved faintly; finally, the relief washed over him in waves. He tilted his head slightly, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead. He silently vowed to himself, again and again, that he would learn to trust—to accept the gift of your promise without fear.

And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to fully believe that the quiet future you’d promised him was real. That maybe, this time, the ghosts could finally rest.

Weeks turned quietly into months, the heaviness that had once shadowed every quiet moment slowly lifting, replaced instead by a gentle warmth—

A sense of ease Aaron hadn't felt in years. The ghosts still lingered, but they were softer now, quieter, fading slowly into the background noise of a life filled instead with laughter, steady reassurance, and you.

The team’s latest case had brought you all to Las Vegas. After the successful resolution, Hotch had surprised everyone by suggesting you all take an extra day before returning to Quantico. It was unusual—perhaps even out of character—but the team had been thrilled, quickly dispersing into the bright lights and bustling energy of the city.

After briefly checking in with Reid—who eagerly took off to visit his mother—the rest of the team scattered into various plans. It left Aaron alone with you, wandering the city, a soft and easy silence settling between you as you navigated colorful streets bathed in neon and laughter.

As the afternoon sun warmed your skin, you glanced up at Aaron, catching the thoughtful expression lingering on his face. “You’re quiet,” you murmured gently, sliding your hand into his, fingers interlocking effortlessly. “Everything okay?”

Aaron smiled softly, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “Yeah, everything’s good. Just... thinking.”

You raised a playful eyebrow, gently nudging his side. “You’re always thinking.”

Aaron’s gaze flickered down to your intertwined fingers, thumb brushing gently over yours. His voice softened thoughtfully. “I suppose I am. But today, I’m thinking about something specific.”

Your eyes met his curiously, noticing the quiet intensity and subtle apprehension in his gaze. “And what’s that?”

He paused, taking a steadying breath, his voice quiet and measured. “I’ve been wondering if you’d be open to something.”

Your heart fluttered slightly, curiosity and anticipation sparking warmly through your chest. You nodded gently, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “I’m listening.”

Aaron slowed his steps, gently pulling you aside, away from the bustling crowd, into the quiet shade of a small alcove near an ornate fountain. He reached carefully into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, his movements steady but cautious.

Your breath hitched softly in your throat as you watched him slowly open the box, revealing a delicate, vintage-inspired sapphire ring—

Exactly the kind you’d described that night at Penelope’s bridal shower. Your heart swelled warmly, emotion rising suddenly and powerfully within you.

Aaron’s eyes held yours steadily, soft yet vulnerable. “I know I’ve made things complicated. That I’ve let my fears dictate how I approached all of this.” He swallowed quietly, his thumb running gently over the small box. “But despite all that fear, all that worry—I’m old-fashioned. I want to marry you. Not because you expect it, but because I do. I want to do right by you. I want to promise myself to you openly.”

He hesitated slightly, voice quieter, gentler. “So, I was thinking… maybe we should just elope? Here. Today. Just us. No fuss, no expectations—just you and me.”

Emotion tightened your throat, eyes shimmering with unshed tears of joy as you gazed back at him, your voice warm and steady. “Aaron, of course. Of course I’ll marry you—today, tomorrow, whenever you want. I don’t need the ceremony or fuss. All I’ve ever wanted was you.”

He exhaled softly, tension visibly leaving his shoulders, relief flooding his expression as he gently slipped the delicate sapphire ring onto your finger. “Are you sure?”

You laughed gently, pulling him into a warm, reassuring embrace, your voice filled with love, confidence, and sincerity. “Aaron, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. You are it for me—always have been, always will be. Nothing else matters.”

Aaron’s arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, and you felt the steady thud of his heartbeat against your chest. 

In that moment, beneath the shimmering Vegas sunlight, surrounded by the gentle sounds of laughter and splashing fountains, Aaron felt a deep, profound sense of peace.

All the lingering fear, the hesitation, the self-sabotage—

They vanished instantly as your reassuring words echoed gently in his ears, resonating deep within his heart.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, smiling warmly against your skin as he whispered, “Then, let’s go get married?”

And just like that—

Quietly, easily, and perfectly.

You both stepped forward together, leaving behind fears and ghosts alike, moving instead toward the joyful certainty of forever.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @superlegend216

[gf2bellamy]

heyyyy

i love love love the sunshine!reader x post!prison spencer fics, they’re so so cute

If you could, could you write one with them where they’ve gotten together recently and they’re coming back from a case that hit reader particularly hard, and she kinda just shuts off which is so unusual for her. So spencer’s so concerned and confused and he wonders if he did anything wrong and when he asks her about it, she just completely breaks down and cries her entire life’s hurt out to him and he finally realizes why she tries to be the sunshine in everyone’s life (cuz she grew up without it) and he just wants to protect her from the world

(im so so sorry if this is so detailed and long) (also i really yearn for angst/ hurt comfort if you cant tell) (you can totally ignore this, i dont really mind <3)

thankyouuuu smm <3

unhappy — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader crying , mention of a rough case , spencer making food for reader a/n: hiii !!! i hope you like this <3 ( also i love flangst too <3 )

Spencer stood beside you in the small kitchenette of the jet, watching as you absentmindedly stirred honey into your tea. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“Do you want to solve a Sudoku?” 

Normally, it was the other way around—you were the one who pulled out your puzzle book with a bright smile, nudging him until he joined in. But tonight, you hadn’t even reached for it. Spencer had noticed how quiet you’d been since the case wrapped up.

You barely glanced at him before shaking your head. “No, I’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice exhausted. Then, without another word, you picked up your cup and walked away. 

Spencer watched you retreat to your seat, concern settling deep in his chest. You were always the one who tried to lift his spirits after a hard case, the one who made sure he wasn’t drowning in his own thoughts. For you to be this withdrawn… it wasn’t like you. 

For the rest of the flight, he didn’t press you.

Instead, he simply sat beside you, letting his knee rest lightly against yours—a small offering of comfort. You didn’t react, but you didn’t move away either. He kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, wondering if he had done something wrong. Had he been too wrapped up in the case to notice you struggling? Had he missed something? The thoughts gnawed at him. 

When the jet finally landed and everyone gathered their things, Spencer, as always, carried your bag to your car. Normally, you’d roll your eyes playfully and tease him with a “What a gentleman.” But tonight, there was no teasing. No light chatter. Just silence. 

Spencer placed your bag down beside you, studying your face as you unlocked the car. 

“I came with Emily,” he said carefully. “Is it alright if I drive with you?” 

It wasn’t entirely true—he could have easily gotten a ride home another way—but that wasn’t the point. He just needed to be next to you, to make sure you were okay. Pretending to need a ride was just an excuse. 

You looked up at him, and the sadness in your eyes made his heart clench. He hated seeing you like this, so unlike yourself. 

“Yeah, sure,” you murmured, trying to force a smile, but it faltered before it could fully form. You gave up and just got into the car, and Spencer followed, settling into the passenger seat. 

The ride was quiet. Spencer made a few attempts at conversation—small observations about the case, about a book he’d read recently, about how Rossi had nearly fallen asleep with his head against the window—but you only responded with a few short words.

Eventually, he gave up and just stared out the window, worried. 

When you pulled up to his apartment building, Spencer hesitated before unbuckling his seatbelt. He turned to you, studying the way your fingers gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. 

“Do you want to come up?” he asked softly. 

You blinked, barely meeting his gaze. “I-uhm…” Your fingers tapped absently against the leather of the wheel, the hesitation clear in your posture. 

Spencer scrambled for another reason, another way to make it easier for you to say yes. “You can come get that book I told you about,” he added quickly, even though he didn’t really care about the book. He just wanted to get you inside, to keep you from going home alone to sit in silence with your thoughts. 

For a moment, he thought you might say no. But then, you let out a quiet sigh, too exhausted to argue. 

“Yeah… okay,” you whispered, turning off the engine. 

Relief washed over Spencer as he stepped out of the car, waiting for you to follow. 

The two of you walked quietly into his apartment. As soon as you stepped inside, you toed off your shoes, your movements sluggish with exhaustion. Spencer set your bag down near the door, watching you carefully. 

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked gently, already thinking of what he could make you. 

You shook your head without hesitation. “No, that’s fine,” you murmured, your voice quiet.

Spencer frowned slightly but didn’t push. Instead, he watched as you stepped toward his bookshelf, running your fingers lightly over the spines of his meticulously arranged collection. 

“Which one was it again?” you asked, tilting your head as you scanned the titles. 

“The one on the second shelf, third from the right,” Spencer supplied, stepping closer. “But you don’t actually have to give it back. That was just an excuse to get you up here.” 

Your fingers froze on the book spine, and for the first time that night, you turned to look at him fully. His honesty caught you off guard.

A small, tired smile ghosted over your lips. “Yeah, I figured.” 

Spencer’s gaze softened as he took a slow step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to talk about it?” He watched you closely, his eyes filled with concern, as he waited for a response. 

You bit your lip. Spencer could see you trying to hold it together, but he knew you weren’t fine—not by a long shot. Without another thought, he moved closer and gently pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

That was all it took.

The moment you felt his warmth, the dam you had built up inside cracked. Your tears came in a rush, soaking the fabric of his shirt as you clung to him tightly. Spencer’s heart tightened at the sight, but he held you even closer, one hand moving to the back of your head, threading through your hair in soft, steady motions. 

“It was so awful, Spencer,” you whispered between sobs, your voice shaky as you gripped his shirt.

Spencer pressed his cheek against the side of your head, his other hand moving in slow, soothing circles across your back. He didn’t need to say anything, not yet. He knew you just needed to be held, to let it out.

His voice was gentle when he spoke, full of understanding. “I know," he murmured. "I know. I know it was hard” 

You clung to him, your face pressed against his chest. You let out a shaky breath, your voice muffled. “Everything is,” you whispered. 

You couldn’t stop the tears. Spencer felt his heart tighten in his chest at the sound of your pain. His instinct was to hold you tighter, to shield you from the world’s cruelty, and he did just that, tightening his grip around you as though he could absorb some of your suffering. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for just a moment before he whispered, “I’ve got you.” 

The simple words were a promise, a vow. And he meant them with every fiber of his being. He didn’t let go of you—not for a second. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to offer solutions. He just held you. Let you cry. Let you feel. 

Time passed. Your sobs became softer, less desperate. His hands gently stroked your back.

Eventually, the tears began to slow, and you pulled back slightly, your face flushed with emotion. Spencer’s hands were immediately there, his fingertips brushing away the last of your tears, his touch tender and careful. 

You sniffed, trying to gather yourself. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice small, fragile, as you wiped at your eyes. 

Spencer’s eyes softened even more as he cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. He made sure you met his gaze, wanting you to see the sincerity in his eyes. “Don’t apologize,” he said, his voice soft. “You have nothing to apologize for.” 

His voice grew even softer as he added, “I’m here for you, always.” 

A small, shaky breath escaped your lips. You stared up at him, still feeling vulnerable, but in a way that felt safe now.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, but filled with the depth of gratitude that words alone couldn’t capture. 

Spencer’s gaze softened even more. He shifted slightly, his hands still resting gently on your face, and then he let out a soft chuckle.

“You know, crying is actually a biological response that releases endorphins, which are natural painkillers. So technically, you just gave yourself a free therapy session. Pretty efficient if you ask me. ” he said, giving you a sheepish grin. 

You couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle of your own, your lips curling into a smile.

Spencer looked down at you, his eyes warm and soft. “See? I can still get a smile out of you, even if it’s just a little one,” Spencer said, his voice teasing but gentle, his lips curving upward in a small, knowing grin. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out, the small smile not leaving your face. You kept your hands on his waist, absentmindedly toying with the fabric of his shirt.

Spencer’s fingers brushed a loose strand of your hair from your face, his touch soft and tender.

“Do you want something to eat now?” he asked, his voice gentle. His hand lingered on your cheek, thumb continuing to make slow, soothing circles along your skin. 

You paused for a moment, realizing you had been so caught up in everything that you hadn't even thought about food. As the thought crossed your mind, you realized you were hungry.

“Yeah, sure,” you smiled weakly, the exhaustion still in your voice, but it felt a little more like your usual self. “I think I could eat something.” 

Spencer’s smile softened, reaching for your hand, as he gently led you toward the kitchen. 

His kitchen was small, but organized, just like everything else in his apartment. He pulled out a chair for you at the tiny table , his hand lingering on the back of it as you sat down.

Spencer moved quietly, pulling open cabinets.

“I could make grilled cheese,” he offered, glancing over his shoulder. “Or, if you’re not in the mood for that, I have ingredients for pancakes. Though I should warn you, my flipping technique is… inconsistent.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Spencer’s chest tightened at the sound. There it was. That little spark of you—the one that had been missing all night.

“Grilled cheese is perfect,” you murmured, resting your chin in your hand. Your voice was still quieter than usual.

Spencer nodded, turning back to the stove to hide the way his lips twitched upward. He could feel your eyes on him, studying his movements.

“You’re staring,” he said lightly, not turning around.

“Am not,” you lied, but he heard the smile in your voice.

“You are. And statistically, people who deny staring are actually staring 87% of the time.”

You snorted. “You just made that up.”

“Maybe.” He peeked over his shoulder, grinning when he caught your amused expression. “But you can’t prove it.”

The playful banter was familiar. It was you—the real you, the one who always found a way to smile even on the hardest days. The one who had, more times than he could count, pulled him out of his own spirals with nothing but a joke or a gentle nudge.

Spencer flipped the sandwich with only minimal cheese casualties, then slid the plate toward you. You took it gratefully, your fingers brushing his for just a second.

“Thanks,” you said, taking a small bite.

He leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed, watching as you ate. He wanted to memorize this—the way your nose scrunched slightly when you chewed, the way your fingers tapped idly against the plate when you paused to think.

“You’re doing it now,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“Doing what?”

“Staring.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he tilted his head, his voice softening. “I’m just… glad you’re feeling better.”

You looked down at your plate, but not before he caught the faint pink dusting your cheeks. “Me too,” you admitted. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to just… let it out.”

Spencer hummed in understanding. He knew better than anyone how easy it was to lock things away, to pretend you were fine until the weight of it all became unbearable.

And then, halfway through your plate, you spoke.

“I think I scared Emily today.”

Spencer paused, glancing up. “How so?”

You toyed with your fork, avoiding his gaze for a moment before sighing. “I just… didn’t say anything the entire day. And you know how she is—she kept trying to get me to talk, but I just… couldn’t.”

Spencer nodded, understanding. Emily wasn’t one to let things go easily.

“She’ll get it,” he said softly. “She knows how these cases can get under your skin.”

You hummed, pushing a piece of food around your plate absently. “Yeah. I just… I hate being like this.”

Spencer studied you for a moment before stepping closer, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. “You’re allowed to not be okay sometimes,” he murmured. “Even sunshine has to set.”

The words were quiet, but they made you look up at him, your eyes softening.

And then—

A real smile. Small, but real.

“Since when did you get so poetic, Spencer?”

Spencer felt his cheeks warm, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “I read a lot.”

You laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Spencer’s chest tightened. There she is.

You finished your food, then leaned back in your chair, finally looking more like yourself—your usual brightness seeping back in, bit by bit.

Spencer couldn’t help the small, private smile that tugged at his lips. 

You caught his expression and narrowed your eyes playfully. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he said, though the fondness in his voice betrayed him. “Just… it’s good to see you smiling again.”

Your grin softened, something warm flickering in your eyes. “Well, I do have a pretty great grilled cheese chef.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but he didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Flattery won’t get you a second sandwich.”

“Are you sure? Because I do have a very convincing puppy-dog stare.” You demonstrated, widening your eyes exaggeratedly.

He groaned, but he was already standing up to make another.

Because for you he’d do anything , if it meant that he got to see that light in your eyes again.

[reiding-writing]

CONGRATS ON THE 3K!!!!!

For the event thing can I request boyband!spencer + "where are they? where are they?!" + forehead kisses, soft love confessions, peppering kisses all over their face, promises that are kept, hands held with a gentle love and hugs that engulf the heart too.

Thank you and take care!

THE REUNION. /spencer reid/

“Where are they? Where are they?!”

forehead kisses, soft love confessions, peppering kisses all over their face, promises that are kept, hands held with a gentle love and hugs that engulf the heart too.

s6! spencer x gn!reader 0.9k h/c event page. event masterlist. main masterlist.

You hear the sirens first. They wail down the street, slicing through the heavy quiet of the late evening. You’re still in the parking lot, phone in hand, eyes locked on the barricades and the blur of flashing lights.

Red and blue flood your vision, painting streaks over the scene that’s already branded into your mind—the reports of gunfire, the chaos over the comms, and then Spencer’s voice cutting out.

You had to stop listening after that. It was either that or let yourself fall apart completely.

Your feet are moving before you realise it, carrying you toward the edge of the yellow tape, toward the wall of uniformed officers ushering people away. You barely hear them telling you to step back. Your voice is shaking when you ask.

“Where is he?”

No one answers fast enough. Your eyes are already darting from face to face, searching for lanky limbs and soft eyes, for messy brown hair that still carries traces of boyishness despite the years and the darkness he’s seen.

“Where is he?!”

You scan the crowd frantically, searching. Your chest tightens with each passing second. You think about the last thing you said to him before he left—the half-smile, the promise of dinner, the way he squeezed your hand as he left.

And then you see him.

At first, it’s just his silhouette—a little hunched, moving slowly. But then he turns, and his eyes meet yours. Wide and tired, but alive. Alive. You stumble forward before you can stop yourself, shoving past someone who mutters an annoyed hey, but you don’t care. You’re already running.

And then Spencer’s arms are around you, and you’re clinging to him so tightly you can feel the tremor in his hands as they clutch the back of your jacket.

His breathing stutters against your neck, and your fingers tangle in his hair—soft, long enough now that it brushes his collar and curls slightly at the ends. You fist your hands into it, trying to memorise the texture, trying to reassure yourself that it’s real, that he’s real.

He says your name like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world. His voice is raw, trembling slightly. “I’m here. I’m okay,”

You pull back just enough to see his face, but you can’t stop touching him. You trace your fingers over his jaw, his cheekbones, the cut on his temple—dried blood staining the edge of his hairline. Your hands are shaking as you cup his face. Your breath catches on a sob you hadn’t realised was coming.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, barely a breath. Your thumbs sweep over his cheekbones, brushing away the dirt smudged there. “You’re okay,”

And then you’re kissing him. Everywhere. His forehead first, a desperate press of your lips to his skin, then his nose, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth. You scatter frantic kisses over every inch of him, trying to imprint yourself onto him, to chase away the violence that clings to him.

Spencer’s hands find your waist, trembling slightly as he holds on, grounding himself in your touch. His eyes fall shut, and his lips part with a shaky breath when you kiss the spot just below his ear. His fingers tighten on your jacket, and you feel the weight of everything he isn’t saying in the way he buries his face against your shoulder.

“I was so scared,” you whisper, your voice cracking. Your hand cradles the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close.

He leans into your touch like he might fall apart if you let go. And then he’s kissing you back—slow and unsteady, his lips brushing over yours in a broken rhythm. It’s not rushed, not frantic, but tender. Reverent. Like he’s making a promise with every press of his mouth.

“I’m here,” he breathes against your lips. His hands slide down to cradle your face. He kisses you softly—once, twice, and again—like he’s afraid to stop. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise,”

Your hands find his again, and you lace your fingers together, squeezing tightly. His knuckles are still scraped and raw, but you hold him like he’s something fragile, something worth protecting. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and you both just breathe.

And then he smiles—barely there, but real—and brings your joined hands to his lips. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand, then each of your fingers, slow and soft, like he’s memorising every detail. His lips linger there, whispering promises into your skin. Promises that will be kept.

And when he pulls you back into his arms, you let him. Because the weight of him—the warmth, the steadiness of his heartbeat against yours—fills the hollow space in your chest.

[rabidwormswrites]

Characters: Spencer Reid and reader 🫵

Word count: 1k if you squint

Warnings: reader is a former addict, drugs, drug use, addiction, descriptions of track marks, needles, the whole shabang, the Hankel case

Tags: hurt/comfort, harm reduction, drug use, fix it fic (because I fucking HATE that none of the others did anything), autistic he/they Spencer, she/it Garcia

Summary: Spencer has been calling in sick a lot lately. You go to check and find that he’s not the kind of sick you thought.

Notes: @missmitchieg this is for you for giving me the confidence by telling me to do it myself on the ‘let Reid be strange’ post on my main, uhh a beginning to some more maybe, I’ve given up on formatting take it or leave it (please take it I really like this one), I love Garcia and I love Spencer

The clicking of keyboard keys could be heard all the way into the hall, despite Garcia trying to soundproof her room multiple times so as to not annoy anyone. You grabbed the handle and slowly cracked the door open.

“Garcia..?” You asked gently, then flinched when you were met with a loud crash and a screech.

“Oh my sweet golly goodness, you scared the crap out of me! Didn’t your parents teach you not to sneak up on beautiful ladies?!” Garcia yelled as you made your way into it’s room and began picking up the pens and the cup that she’d pushed off her desk when she jumped up.

“Yeah sorry, I’ll write them a letter saying they did a bad job raising me,” you chuckled. She sighed dramatically and sat back down, patting your head.

“Oh don’t even think about it, I’ll smack you.”

You stood back up and leaned over the back of her chair, staring at the kitten pictures on her many screens.

“I actually came to ask you for a favor,” you said, smiling apologetically down at her. You knew the case you’d just finished had been hard on it, and you felt bad that you had to bother it while she was trying to get back to her usual cheery self.

“As long as it doesn’t involve creeps and/or anything that isn’t cute and fluffy, the queen is at your service,” she said and swiftly rolled it’s chair closer to her desk, causing you to stumble a little.

“Think I can do that. I just need Spencer’s address.”

“Oh that is cute. But a little creepy. Why do you need it?” It looked suspiciously at you.

“I just wanna stop by and check on him. I didn’t feel like jumping him while at work,” you said with a slight shrug.

“Smart choice, cute creep. And it's good you’re doing that, you’ll update me when you’re done, right? He’s been… off, ever since that Hankel guy. He even called in sick today. People don’t get sick on Mondays, they get hangovers, and Reid’s not a drinking guy.” It was typing away on the closest keyboard while she spoke, and soon picked up a pink notepad and a glitter pen.

“Of course I’ll update you, my Queen.” You smiled and bowed while she handed you the note she’d written and lightly smacked your shoulder.

“Oh you flatter me, my fine friend. Now go! Go check on our Einstein junior!” It got up and quickly ushered you out of it’s office.

“Actually Spencer is much smar-“ you began, but was interrupted by Garcia.

“Don’t wanna hear it! Go!” She pointed sternly at you before closing the door, leaving you standing alone in the hallway with your pink stickynote.

Soon, you stood in front of Spencer’s light brown front door, eyes flickering between your raised hand and the note you’d gotten from Garcia. You were certain that you were at the right address, but still you felt a bit silly standing there, trying to muster up the courage to knock. What if Reid was actually fine? Or he wasn’t home? Or worst of all: what if they wouldn’t let you in?

Finally, you knocked. After a few knocks, a violent scrambling ensued from within Spencer’s apartment, and you could hear their voice, though it was too muffled to make out the words. However, it quickly got louder and the door was cracked open, though the inside chain lock was still on.

“-told you I’d call, don’t-“ Reid said, but trailed off when he saw you standing in front of him. He was wearing a brown checkered bathrobe.

You both stood in silence for a while, staring at each other, waiting for the other to say something. Finally, you broke the silence.

“I uhm, I just wanted to stop by and say hello, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” you mumbled, looking down at your feet and awkwardly rubbing the back of your neck. Spencer tilted their head and kept staring.

“Why are you here?” They finally said. His brows furrowed and he stepped back slightly, still leaving the lock on. You looked back at him, and now that you were trying to figure out his expression, you could tell that something was wrong. The young man’s pupils were much smaller than they were supposed to be in the dim hallway, his hair was greasy, and he had dark bags under his eyes.

“Spencer, are you high?”

Suddenly, it all made sense. The spike in sickdays, the withdrawn behaviour, and the snappy attitude. Reid looked down and tightly gripped their left underarm, then shook their head.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered and quickly closed the door. You stood outside the apartment in silent shock, then made your hand a fist and aggressively started knocking. You knew that Spencer most likely had a massive headache, and that the loud pounding would make it worse. You continued knocking until the door was ripped open again, still with the chainlock on.

“I told you to go away and you try to break down my front door?!” He yelled, wincing at his own volume.

“Open the door and let me in.”

“This is incredibly unprofessional behaviour.”

“And you calling in sick to continue your bender isn’t?”

Reid stared at you with disgust. Their lower lip quivered in anger.

“How did you get my address?” He finally asked.

“Garcia gave it to me. She’s worried about you.” Your voice softened, and you slowly stepped closer.

“Let me in. I won’t take your drugs, at most I’ll help you clean up a little. At least it's not one of the others.”

Spencer let out a grunt, then closed the door. There was a metallic rattling, and when it opened again, the chain lock was off and you were finally let in.

[aswanlake]

“The victims had no defense wounds, which means it was a blitz attack. we’ve confirmed that they all didn’t know the same person so it couldn’t have been a person of interest and so far none of them have anything in common.” Spencer Reid was truly stumped, the BAU following suit. it was unusual for the BAU to get stuck on a case especially for a week, they would have at least had a profile by now or a suspect in mind and yet they were all stumped, completely unaware of what could connect them to one another.

Morgan had given up on brainstorming an hour ago, going through a book that they had found in a victim’s house, it was just a normal book, the occasional annotations from the victim but that was it. it was ironically a murder mystery set in the same place as the first victim. Spencer’s eyes glanced over from the board that he had used to capture his time and escape from his own guilt and inability to solve this case to examine the book that Morgan had before it clicked. “Morgan, give me that.” Morgan chuckled but handed it to him, “What happened to your manners, pretty boy?”

Spencer raised his hand in apology but never said any actual words, scouring through the book, taking it apart by removing the sleek cover as his fingers grazed over the author’s name. “I’ve read some of her books before.” He mumbled, Morgan heard it, as did everyone else but they knew that wasn’t the point he was trying to make so they let him continue. “You read a lot of books, pretty boy. What makes this one so special?” Spencer’s body turned towards the box of evidence, splaying the photos they had from the crime scenes onto the table.

Just as he had suspected, skinny fingers pointing to something in three different photos. “They all own the same book- this book. Same author just different covers, I knew I’d seen it before, I just didn’t remember where.” That was the downside of his withdrawal and recovery symptoms, a boy with a usually spot on, unbreakable mind now has cracks and slips every now and then. He was normal and hated it. Hotch nodded at his observation, the coincidence not leaving his mind anytime soon. “That is true but Garcia already checked for book clubs, libraries, anything that would have been in common with these people, any indication that they would be in the same place at the same time.” He spoke, voice rough with lack of sleep but Spencer responded with a shake of his head, pulling a book out of his bag— different cover, same author.

“This author does something different, instead of doing meet and greets or book clubs she does one on one meetings with whoever applies.” He swallowed, hating to admit this about a good author, a well respected author who had collected a lot of fame in a short amount of time but it was the only sensible option on the table. “Our unsub is the author. She kills people and then uses them in her books, getting close to them with the one on one meets which is why no one fought back because they were so excited to meet their idol that-” “they let their guard down.” Morgan finished, immediately grabbing all of his stuff, the team following in short. “We need to meet this author.” JJ said, confident in Spencer’s word. “Well you’re in luck. Boy wonder applied for a one on one meet and greet.. and it was just approved.” Garcia’s hands glided from her computer, showing the accepted letter. A computer automated thank you message along with promises of a signed book and your face right next to it.

a/n : if you’d like to be added to the taglist please comment below. reblogs appreciated!! 🤍

[mggslover]

spencer and readers first fight ! can you possiblyyyy do something along the lines of spencer said something sassy/petty/mean which results in reader giving spencer the silent treatment and he crashes out begging for her to speak to him 🤓☝🏼

your first fight with spencer genre: slight angst, fluff word count: 1,7k a/n: i've been so excited to write this one! honestly way too long for a drabble, but i hope you enjoy it

“That’s okay. Your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend a concept like this."

Spencer didn’t understand the gravity of his words before you huffed out a sigh, placing your hands on your knees as you lifted yourself up from the spot next to him on the couch. His eyes followed your body as you walked straight toward your shared bedroom, opening the door before shutting it behind you with a bang. The click of the lock echoed through the now silent living room.

Spencer sat frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the door as if you’d magically reappear in front of him.

Everything about your body language hinted at you being angry, but he couldn’t grasp why. He replayed the situation back in his head in an effort to decipher the reason.

You had cheerfully greeted him when he entered the apartment. He’d been away on a case for several days, not having had the time to speak to you over the phone or give you any updates on how he was doing.

As much as he preferred keeping clear boundaries between his personal and professional life, Spencer couldn’t resist telling you the details of some of his cases when coming home. Not when the psychology behind the unsubs fascinated him so much. And especially not when you eagerly pulled him toward the couch, pushing him down onto the soft cushions as you handed him a cup of freshly brewed coffee, ready to hear about his day.

You sat cross-legged in front of him, eyes twinkling with admiration as he told you about today’s case. He explained how he discovered a pattern in the way the unsub took his captives, using the numbers 11235 — the first five numerals in the Fibonacci sequence.

He noticed the frown forming between your brows as he got into more detail.

“Can you explain that to me? I don’t get it,” you asked.

“That’s okay. Your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend a concept like this.”

Spencer wasn’t lying. He remembered how his coworkers had blankly stared at him when he analyzed his theory — how Emily made eye contact with JJ, their silent looks saying there he goes again, and how Hotch had to cut him off to tell him to get to the point. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to explain it to you, he just didn’t see the point in doing so, not when he knew this was a connection only he could understand.

After a couple of minutes, there was still radio-silence. Spencer got up and walked to the bedroom, knocking softly on the door. “Angel? Can you open up for me?”

“Just go away, Spencer.”

Your voice cracked, like you had been crying, and the sound made his heart sink.

“Please open the door so we can talk. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” Your scoff vibrated through the door. “I don’t even want to talk to you if you can’t understand what’s wrong.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his hands turning clammy. He didn’t like confrontations and especially not with you. You’d never fought before. Rationally, he knew fights weren’t necessarily a bad thing — conflicts usually stemmed from deeper fears and feelings that get triggered, and confronting these feelings could lead to creating an even stronger bond. But right now, all he wanted was to turn back time and make sure those words never left his mouth.

His mind blanked in situations like these, so the only logical fix he could come up with was to call Derek.

“Hey,” Spencer spoke through the phone, balancing the device between his ear and shoulder as he nervously paced through the living room.

“Hey man. What’s up?”

“I messed up.”

Morgan’s chuckle sounded through the speaker. “Our genius making a mistake. Who would’ve thought the day would come?”

Spencer sighed, losing his patience. “It’s serious.”

Derek paused before responding. “Alright, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

Spencer repeated the conversation for what felt like the hundredth time that day, his guilt accumulating with each repetition. He gulped when he heard Derek take a sharp inhale at the other side of the line. He could almost see him shaking his head.

“Okay,” Derek began. “Now listen to me. When it comes down to it, all women are the same, they just need some loving and appreciation. Go buy her some flowers before the store closes.”

Spencer didn’t need to be told twice. He glanced one last time at the still-locked bedroom door before heading out.

Thankfully, Spencer’s apartment was close to downtown. He hurried into the first flower shop that he spotted, his eyes scanning the bouquets until they landed on a pair of bright colored lilies. The outer corners of the petals shone with a radiant shade of pink, fading into a soft white at the center.

He cleared his throat as he placed the flowers on the counter. “Can I have these, please?”

The woman behind the counter started wrapping them in pink paper, reaching out for lint to tie a bow. “Trouble in paradise?”

Spencer blinked, not often experiencing someone seeing right through him. Besides his coworkers. And you.

“Ya know, I see so many men come in here on the daily. You can just tell they got in trouble with their lady; sweating bullets and rushing to pick a bouquet the second before the store closes.” She twirled the bouquet in her hand as she pulled on the strings of the lint bow. “At least you picked a nice one.”

“Do-,” Spencer hesitated, his voice softening in an uncertain whisper. “Will she forgive me after this?”

“Depends on what ya did,” she answered with a lift of her shoulders. “What I can tell you is that flowers don’t do much fixing.”

Damn it, Derek.

The florist turned around, rummaging through a drawer, before pulling out an envelope and sliding it across the counter.

“Write,” she stated in a single syllable. “We need words. We need to know that you care, and we need you to put more effort into it than paying ten dollars.”

With a new plan in mind, Spencer hurried home. The apartment was still silent when he returned, the door firmly closed and no signs of you having left the bedroom. He sighed and made his way to his desk, shoving aside piles of books and papers until he had enough space to write. He opened the envelope the florist had given him, and carefully pulled out a sheet of blank stationary.

My Lover Dearest,

It is ironic that I have read so much poetry and so many books in my life, and yet I cannot find the words to describe how much you mean to me.

Sometimes, I find it difficult to believe that someone as wonderful as you would want to be with me. That I’m allowed to deserve the love that you give me.

My mind works in strange ways, and as much as you’ve praised me for it, it can work as a curse as well. I am scared to overwhelm you, to talk your ears off (which would be a shame, because you have beautiful ears) to the point that you grow tired of me.

I never had the intention to cause you pain, or to initiate that you’re any less brilliant than you are. You are the brightest part of my life. I feel grateful every time I get to talk to you, and I would love nothing more than to explain any concept you’d want me to. I’m sorry for not having understood that before.

I love you. I love you. I have been wanting to tell you this in a special way, please know that I am not just saying this to ask for your forgiveness. I love you.

Sincerely, Spencer

The clock chimed 03.00 a.m. by the time Spencer finished his letter. His hand ached and he could barely keep his eyes open as he stumbled to the bedroom door. He turned the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. With a resigned sigh he slid the letter under the door and sat down against it. It didn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake him.

The repeated knocking of the door against his back woke him.

“Spencer?”

Your voice sounded like a siren, and he instantly scrambled away from the door, allowing you to open it fully.

You stood there, holding the envelope in your hand as your eyes softened when you glanced over him, mouth forming a small oh. “What are you doing here?” you asked in worry.

“The door was locked,” he answered, voice still hoarse from sleep.

A curse escaped your lips as you pressed your hands against your face. “I am so sorry. I must have fallen asleep with the door still locked.”

Spencer’s lips lifted into a small smile, relieved that you hadn’t locked him out intentionally. “It’s okay. Orthopedists actually recommend sleeping on the floor from time to time. Sleeping on a hard surface encourages a more natural position for your spine, which can reduce back pain. It even strengthens certain muscles, so the pressure on your body evens out. As a matter of fact, anthropological studies have shown that-”

He stopped mid-ramble, blushing when he noticed the faint smile tugging on your lips.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll stop,”

“Don’t you ever stop,” you replied as you lowered yourself on the ground next to him. You reached for his hands, placing them into your lap.

Spencer’s blush deepened, and he struggled to suppress a grin. Your encouragement reassured him, and he went on about groups in Japan and Tanzania who experience significantly lower rates of back pain due to their minimal use of furniture.

“Spencer,” you gently interrupted after a while.

He blinked at you, seeing the gleam in your eyes as you adoringly stared at him. “Hm?”

“I love you too.”

[atlabeth]

the prodigal daughter masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

status: in progress

finally putting a masterlist together bc i’m tired of linking the parts on every fic lmao. enjoy the fire moodboard and the thrill of convenience!

warning(s): gideon is not a good dad. reader has daddy issues and argues w/ him and spence constantly. angst, hurt/no comfort and hurt/comfort, fluff scattered around sparingly. more specific warnings on each chapter

spotify playlist

-

plastic hearts ↳ 1.1k words, the original fic | spencer gets a front row seat to some gideon family matters.

the stalker arc (set in s1)

heat lightning ↳ 4.1k words | you end up at the heart of the bau's latest case.

family line ↳ 3.8k words | you're stuck in a safe house with the guy you hate and everything is perfectly fine.

(please) spare me indignity ↳ 5k words | you and spencer spend more time together. it's bad, then it's good, then it's something else altogether.

in over my head ↳ 5k words | between all the arguments, you and spencer begin to understand each other a little bit more.

something about her ↳ 5.3k words | you’re reminded why you’re really here while spencer does some unwanted self reflection.

[pathologicalreid]

too violent for tears | s.r.

in which you get a Secret Service agent assigned to you after receiving a threat against your life (Spencer is less than thrilled)

who? spencer reid x fem!reader content: angst content warnings: death threats, jealous/protective!spencer, blood, guns, snipers, emetophobia warning, anxiety, trauma/shock. word count: 3.53k a/n: this was supposed to be like 1k, not sure what happened there.

You were tapping the toe of your shoe against the carpeted floor in the elevator, the fibers stomped down by FBI agents over the years. When the door dinged, Felix, your newly assigned Secret Service agent, nudged you behind him, leading the way out of the elevator and to the bullpen.

Giving a wave to the familiar face who held the door open to you, you and your escort quickly garnered the interest of the BAU. Members had started trickling out for the day, but the A-team was still around. The last to leave, as always.

Your boyfriend was flipping through a book when he glanced up to see you, his expression softening at your arrival but morphing into confusion when he noticed the well-dressed man who would under no circumstances let you walk in front of him. Instead, you followed him single file until you could lean up against Spencer’s desk. “Hey,” you greeted him casually, hoping he’d ignore the six-foot former football player standing in his midst.

He peered up at Felix, sizing him up before rising to his feet, “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m borrowing a member of the president’s goon squad,” you offered, half-heartedly trying to make a joke.

Shifting on your feet, you watched as the two men reached across the desk between them and shook hands. “Agent Felix Sheffield, United States Secret Service. I’ve been assigned to Miss Y/L/N’s detail for the foreseeable future.”

“Detail?” Spencer responded quizzically, raising a brow at you as if to say What the hell is he talking about?

Your shoulders slumped forward helplessly. “You didn’t answer your phone when I called,” you tried to explain yourself. In your defense, you’d called his cell three times before deciding to put it off.

Knowing Spencer, his cell was probably buried somewhere, covered by enough papers and pens to fully muffle the sound of your ringtone. “What is going on?” He asked, glaring at your assigned agent as if he was the enemy.

“So, I was checking my email this morning, and I found an email that made me laugh, so I showed it to my boss, and it turns out it’s a death threat, and they take that stuff seriously,” you told him, your voice fading to a whisper toward the end. Even with your hushed tone, you felt the eyes of every member of the BAU train on you. To your embarrassment, Hotch and Rossi were now peeking out of their respective offices, trying to see what was going on.

Spencer’s eyes shifted to you. “You showed a death threat to the White House Press Secretary because you thought it was a joke?”

“Actually, she showed it to the Chief of Staff,” Felix interjected, playing the devil’s advocate.

You frowned at the Secret Service agent. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

“I’m just supposed to keep you safe,” he clarified, nodding as if he was proud of himself. He smoothed out his suit jacket, fixing the button before he looked back to Spencer. “Don’t worry, I’ve got her.”

Spencer crossed his arms in front of his chest, straightening up and staring Felix down. “Well, you don’t need to stick with her while she’s here,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket so his firearm was visible.

Felix tilted his head to the side. “I have orders.”

You took a step back, wary of the turf war that was beginning—over you, no less. “Hey, guys—”

“I understand that,” your boyfriend interrupted, “but your UnSub isn’t going to get in here.”

The invading agent gave Spencer a dubious look. “No one armed has ever gotten in here when they weren’t supposed to?”

You cringed, recalling a few stories Spencer had told you about people in the bullpen, including an incident where the glass door needed to be replaced. “I’ll keep her safe,” Spencer assured him.

He didn’t like that answer. “My orders are not to leave her unless she’s safe inside her home.”

“And when I go to the bathroom, hopefully.” You tried to get yourself back into the conversation, but the two men had resorted to glaring at each other.

You glanced over your shoulder, sending a pleading look to JJ, but she didn’t seem any more ready to jump in than you were.

Mercifully, Felix’s phone rang just when you thought he was going to break. You took the opportunity to get closer to Spencer. “I thought you guys were seconds from breaking out the ruler.”

“What?” Spencer asked, furrowing his brows.

You shook your head. “Nothing. Hey, it’s just an email, but they have to take this stuff seriously. I was visible in a briefing today, and people had things to say.”

Spencer didn’t respond, waiting for you to elaborate on the content of the email you received.

Swallowing thickly, you shifted on your feet as you recalled the message that you would not soon forget. “I just… we made a statement about the NRA, and they took it personally. Sent some photos of a rifle and what they wanted to do to me,” self-consciously, you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. “People get, uh, creative,” you told him, though you were sure it wasn’t new information to him.

Spencer looked pale, but if he had any concerns, he didn’t voice them to you. He didn’t have time because once Felix was off the phone, he was back to torment him. “I definitely recognize you from somewhere,” he said, pointing at Spencer with his cell phone.

Hesitantly, you sat down on the edge of Spencer’s desk, his warm hand resting casually on your shoulder. “He scored the winning runs at the FBI-Secret Service game last year,” you said.

Felix’s smile dropped from his face, recalling the loss that had been personal to many on the opposing team. “Are you ready to go?”

To his chagrin, you ended up sticking around the BAU for another hour, waiting for Spencer to finish some paperwork before the Secret Service drove you home. You’d been warned against the metro. You’d been warned against most public places.

Ditching Felix at the front door, you were introduced to Caleb and Sally, who would be positioned at your front door and balcony, respectively. In an exhausted haze, you and Spencer ended up on the couch, pressing yourself against him so closely that you were practically sitting on his lap.

You were supposed to be reading; that’s what you usually did after dinner. Your book lay open in your hands while you stared at the jumble of letters on the pages, next to you, Spencer turned yet another page, keeping his place with his fingertips.

Nothing was making any sense to you; even the familiar leather of your couch felt foreign beneath your legs. Things like this were never supposed to happen to you. You were a low-level staffer in the White House, but the one time you end up on camera, it turns into a case.

Spencer turned another page, so invested in his book that he hadn’t noticed your bookmark was still in place.

Your eyes flickered to the balcony. Sally was facing the street, and you knew that Caleb was right outside the front door. Thumbing the worn corner of your book, you considered asking Spencer if you could just go to bed, but his eyes seemed so affixed to his book that you didn’t want to interrupt him. You didn’t want to go alone.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you tried to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything. People in the public eye received them all the time. If you ever wanted to further your career, you’d have to develop a thicker skin.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you repeated to yourself, shifting slightly on the couch. You moved away from Spencer, cheeks warming when he moved his placeholder hand to pull you back to him. Squeezing your thigh before returning his fingertips to the page he was on.

It’s just a guy with a sniper rifle; you leaned your head on Spencer’s shoulder, smiling despite yourself when he placed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You relaxed into him, looking back at your book when it happened.

A loud popping sound came from the street. You practically tossed your book in the air in panic, looking around for a place to hide while Spencer calmly set his book down on the side table. “Hey,” he said with no harshness in his tone. His voice was so gentle that it was almost a coo. “It’s okay,” he put his arms around you while you watched Sally talk into her radio, “It’s just a car backfiring.”

You tried to take a deep breath, air catching in your throat and leaving you to choke on nothing. You erupted in a fit of coughs, covering your mouth with your arm while Spencer rubbed your back.

“You’re safe in here,” he whispered, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “No one’s going to get in,” he reassured you, propping his chin on top of your head, enveloping you in him.

Feeling like a fool, you’d forgotten that your first line of defense was Spencer. He wasn’t going to let you get hurt. “I’m okay,” you muttered, keeping your eyes wide open when all you wanted to do was close them.

He hummed like he didn’t believe you, and he was right to think so. “It’s alright to be scared.”

You shook your head, pulling away from him and wiping a hand down your face. “I’m not; it’s just a guy with a sniper rifle,” you said your mantra out loud this time.

Spencer’s gaze narrowed at you. “Just a guy with a sniper rifle?” He was clearly bothered by your lackadaisical attitude toward your current set of circumstances, but letting him think you were indifferent was better than letting him know you were terrified. “You do know what sniper rifles do, right?”

His question was rhetorical, but that didn’t stop you from lifting your chin to respond, “They’re like giant party poppers.”

Relaxing his posture, you watched as recognition flashed in his eyes. You didn’t mind the fact that he was actively profiling you, so long as it meant he’d stop asking questions. You were afraid that with too many more questions, you’d break, and that was something you couldn’t afford right now.

So, he let you deflect, leading you into your shared bedroom with both hands, keeping your fingertips in his. You wondered, not for the first time that night, if asking to get his gun from the safe and leave it on the nightstand was too much.

Refraining, you laid down on the bed, sighing as Spencer dragged his hand up and down your spine, waiting for you to fall asleep before he considered it for himself.

“Really?” Felix asked, putting his hands on his hips while you crouched to tie the laces on your shoes for the nth time that day. “You’ve spent more time tying your shoes than we have walking,” he observed.

You hummed in response, “They keep getting untied.”

“Double knot them,” he suggested unhelpfully.

Rising to your feet, you took your coffee cup from the Secret Service agent and took a sip. “Then I wouldn’t be able to get them off. They’re new; the laces just need some grip.”

He didn’t look impressed with your explanation. “You should’ve worn different shoes then,” he chided you, turning around when you motioned for him to keep moving through Quantico.

Unfortunately, these were the only non-work shoes you owned, and they’d be easier to run in than any of your heels. That was, after all, the reason why you elected to wear them today. “Have you always been this way?” You asked begrudgingly, “Or have you been jaded by years on the job?”

“I’m not jaded; I’m just doing my job,” he responded, looking out warily for any sign of danger. Oddly enough, you felt safer here than you did at work; the presence of people you’ve known for years brought you comfort. It helped that your boss suggested you take a day off—a rarity in your line of work.

You stumbled slightly, a flash of light out of the corner of your eye disoriented your vision, exacerbated by your untied shoelace. “Wait,” you said to Felix, getting him to turn around and handing him your coffee again, but he refused to hold it, leaving you to set the cup on the pavement.

Crouching again to tie your shoe, you were pulling on the laces when you heard a sharp whistle. It’s only ever been described to you before, but you looked up from your shoes to see Felix just before he toppled over. You ducked out of the way of his body, frantically holding your hands over the fresh wound on his chest before you realized he wasn’t moving.

If you had been anywhere else, you would’ve been surrounded by chaos, but all around you were agents pulling their weapons from holsters and looking to the sky. You stood on shaky legs, allowing them to carry you to a corridor. You stumbled over your shoelace and rounded a brick column, gripping the cold stone as you hurled into the bushes, the distinct burn of coffee poisoning the foliage in front of you.

Dry heaving, you slid down the column, covering your hyperventilating chest with your palm and trying to listen to the cacophony of the world behind you. Everything was muffled, and your eyes had blurred despite the lack of tears in them—why couldn’t you cry? Someone had tried to kill you; you should be inconsolable. Instead, you were numb, so remarkably unfeeling that you might as well be dead. Your nose stung, and you moved your hands, the blood covering them had begun to dry, sticking a violent handprint over your heart.

You started to hear things, your name being called, familiar pet names thrown into the wind, but it all felt so far away. People were speaking in an entirely different universe than the one you were currently residing in. You tugged your skirt over your knees, your eyes pausing on the dried blood, encrusted between the ridges and fine lines of your hands. It was like you’d been through some sort of gruesome fingerprinting ritual.

Brown hair curtained in front of you; someone ducked their head behind your column, relief flooding her eyes as she knelt next to you. It took you a moment to recognize that Blake was speaking to you. “Huh?” Your voice felt like it was coming from someone else; a doppelganger sat on the concrete next to you.

She held her phone to her ear, inspecting your eyes as she talked on the phone. Her fingers pressed to your wrist, checking your heart rate. You weren’t sure if it was racing or slowing, you wanted to ask, but it felt as though your mouth had been filled with cotton.

You couldn’t get yourself to stand; the dexterity that you’d developed as an infant escaping you while you sat limply on the ground, flinching when footsteps seemed to shake the earth around you.

The golden eyes in front of you glowed in the sunlight, your cheeks cupped by familiar palms, forcibly pulling you out of whatever hell you’d buried yourself in. The world seemed to move very fast before it completely stopped, your head lolling to the side for a moment before Spencer righted it for you.

You didn’t remember much of the interim, and somehow, you’d ended up on a bench. Spencer was on the ground in front of you, gingerly cleaning debris from scrapes on your knees before bandaging them.  

“Do you guys need anything?” JJ stopped by to ask. You knew everyone was trying to keep their distance from you, giving you space to breathe. Rossi draped a blanket over your shoulders in silence.

Placing a gentle kiss on your knee, Spencer looked up at you before responding, “Could you try to find a water? Or juice, something cold.”

The blonde nodded, giving you a concerned look before walking back into the building, taking Penelope with her. The technical analyst had come out after the all clear was declared; everyone wanted to check in on you. Even Matt Cruz was out, over by an ambulance talking with Hotch and some agents that the Secret Service had sent out.

You took off your shoes, sock-covered feet touching the concrete in an attempt to ground yourself while Spencer tried to take one of your hands in his. You had a death grip on the bench beneath you, and he peeled your fingers off of the metal one by one so he could start to wipe off the dried blood. “He said he always had to be in front of me,” you spoke, your voice nothing more than a mumble, but Spencer had years of practice decoding it.

“That’s protocol,” he reminded you softly. Of course, you knew that. Somewhere in your trauma-addled mind were the rules that the Secret Service had presented you.

You pursed your lips, “But if he’d—”

“Honey, you’ll drive yourself crazy if you try to think of what could’ve been different,” he told you. A sharpness emerged in his voice, one you only heard when he was worried about you.

When your instinct was to run, you hadn’t thought what it would be like for Spencer to run outside and find your protection dead and you missing. He hadn’t yet had the opportunity to read the initial email, but he’d likely figured enough to know that the person who was after you had no interest in keeping you alive. “I didn’t…” You gasped, “I wasn’t…”

Spencer’s face fell, pulling himself up so he was sitting next to you on the bench. “Hey, it’s okay,” he hummed. “Just breathe, I’ve got you.”

You looked around frantically. “Did they get the shooter?”

He nodded. “You’re completely safe.”

Behind him, Felix’s body remained under a sheet, preventing anyone from taking photos, but outside of the cover, you could see his blood. It had seeped out of his body, mixing on the concrete with the coffee you had knocked over during your escape. When Spencer reminded you not to look, you went back to watching him meticulously clean your hands. “I threw up,” you told him, why you felt it was pertinent, you weren’t entirely sure, but you told him anyway.

“That’s okay,” he reassured you. “It’s a manifestation of stress when you go into fight-or-flight.” He didn’t add the fact that you hadn’t consumed anything other than coffee, which likely didn’t help your nervous stomach.

Confused, you frowned at him. “I didn’t fight.” You corrected him, “I ran.”

He paused for a moment, squeezing your hand even though feeling hadn’t returned to your extremities, “You told me you tried to help Felix before you hid, and that’s a fight in and of itself.”

“I did?” You asked, not remembering that prior conversation.

Spencer was solemn in front of you. “You’re in shock,” he observed as if your question had been the final clarification he needed to diagnose you.

You shook your head. “I’m not bleeding.” Though, looking at all of the blood that had gotten on your clothes, it would be easy to make that assumption.

“Emotional shock, baby,” he reminded you gently. “That’s why you can’t feel your hands,” he said.

The memory of telling him you couldn’t feel your hands evaded you, trying to think of the moment you’d told him you were numb, but nothing rose to the surface. You couldn’t even remember the moment your hearing had returned; at some point while Spencer and Morgan helped you walk to the bench, you thought. “My head hurts,” you murmured, shifting uncomfortably on the bench.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you hit it when you fell?”

“I don’t remember,” you admitted. You didn’t even remember falling until Blake had brought Spencer bandages for your knees.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer set down the damp towel he had been using and looked at your eyes, probably checking your pupils before he carefully wrapped his arms around you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck while he spoke to you gently, “I’ll keep an eye on it. You don’t have to worry about anything, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

You hiccupped back a sob, moving your face to allow for easier breathing. Tears seared your lash line before you finally blinked them out, quiet cries muffled by Spencer’s shoulder as your body finally felt the release it had been seeking.

“Oh, honey,” Spencer cooed, pulling you closer to him. He didn’t care about who was watching; he only worried about being there for you. “I’ve got you.”

His words rang in your ears as you sobbed, your trembling arms reaching around him, pins and needles striking your fingers as you gathered the fabric of his jacket in your hands. Oddly enough, a sigh of relief escaped your lips.

[foxy-eva]

Warm Embrace

Summary: Spencer and his wife explore ways to be intimate with each other after a traumatic event

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Smut

Please read the CW, this story contains potentially triggering topics! 

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) referenced past SA of Reader (non-graphic), implied flashbacks, trauma related sexual problems, conversations about sex and intimacy, nudity, kissing, mutual masturbation, handjob, thigh riding

Word count: 5.4k

Masterlist

“Spencer?” Your voice echoed through the apartment when you stepped through the door and found no sign of your husband. 

A distant sound came from the bathroom. “In here!” 

After a quiet knock on the door and his confirmation that you could step in, you found Spencer sitting in the bathtub. The room was filled with the lavender scent of the bath soap and what you could see of his body was covered in bubbles. It almost looked comical how his knees stuck out of the water, making it obvious that the tub was not big enough to accommodate his long limbs. 

“I was too tired to take a shower,” he explained after discovering your curious expression. 

“I can see that,” you laughed. “I thought you hated taking baths.”

“Honestly, I think I’m starting to understand why you like them so much. This isn't too bad.”

You stood there for a few moments, smiling at the sight in front of you. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, you slowly began shedding your clothes. 

“Mind if I join you?” you wondered.��

Nothing about this situation would be unusual for any other married couple. Just a few months ago neither of you would have questioned your actions. Back then initiating any form of intimacy with each other felt natural and familiar. 

Things were different now, though. 

Spencer cleared his throat and shifted his position. “Are you sure about this?”

There was a reason to ask. For the past months any attempt to get close to each other resulted in you crying for the rest of the night. Something as simple as him placing his hand on your thigh was enough to startle you. 

A sigh rolled over your lips as you dropped your shirt to the floor. “No,” you confessed. “But I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” he reminded you.

That was not what you meant and he knew that. Of course he understood the meaning of your words. Spencer was well aware of the fact that ever since that son of a bitch hurt you, you fought a constant battle between wanting his nearness and pushing him away. 

Your husband gave you the space you needed and was there to hold you whenever you’d let him. It couldn't have been easy for him either but he never once complained about this new reality you had a live. 

A reality where that person took something from you that you’d never get back. It was hard to shake this feeling of being tainted after having your physical integrity stripped away like that. You were distant and closed off when it came to intimacy, despite your best efforts to get back to what once was normal. It had been months since Spencer even saw you unclothed.

That was about to change. 

Slowly, you pulled down your pants before reaching back to undo your bra. Spencer's sight followed the piece of clothing as it dropped to the floor before settling on your face again. 

“Stop profiling me,” you warned him with a playful undertone in your voice. 

“Sorry, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

By pulling down your panties, you shed your last piece of clothing, leaving you completely bare in front of your husband. It was a strange feeling to reveal yourself to him. It felt new yet familiar to allow him to see you. 

However, he didn't dare to look, even when you approached the tub. It wasn't clear whether he just tried to be respectful or if seeing you like this for the first time after months was too much for him to bear. His reaction reminded you that he never answered your question about you joining him. Maybe he was the one who wasn’t okay with this. 

Spencer’s eyes widened as he noticed the change of your mood before you did. Within a split second your heart started pounding and you stepped back to reach for your bathrobe. 

“Sorry, this was a stupid idea,” you muttered as you turned around to shield your body from his sight and your heart from the rejection. 

“My love,” he cooed from behind you.

The sound of splashing water gave away that he was exiting the tub. From the corner of your eyes you saw how he reached for his own robe. 

You felt his presence behind you. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded as you turned around, finding him wrapped in his robe with water still dripping from his jawline. Spencer reached out his hands to pull you into his arms. 

“What just happened?” He wondered, his voice laced with concern. 

Before you could think about it, you mumbled, “You didn't want to look at me.”

Your husband thought about your words for a moment, replaying the scene that had just unfolded in his mind. What you said wasn’t true. He wanted to look at you, to admire you fully like he had done countless times before. 

“I was afraid it would make you uncomfortable,” he confessed as he pulled back to be able to find your eyes. 

It was hard to read your expression which was not surprising considering you were mostly confused about your current state yourself.

“I miss the way you used to look at my body. I miss being close to you,” you whispered and paused for a moment. “I miss… sex.”

He closed his eyes before placing an innocent kiss on your forehead. “I know,” he breathed. Me too, he thought.

“Do you still think about it?” You wanted to know. 

“Sex?” 

Nodding, you watched his facial features intently. Ever since your attack, there were many occasions when the two of you had tiptoed around this subject. But never before had you been so blunt about it. 

It seemed like he was looking for the right words. “Yes, I do,” was what he settled on.

Raising your eyebrows, you asked, “With me?” 

The insecurity in your question wasn’t lost on Spencer but he still couldn't hold back a breathy laugh. “Of course, silly girl. You're my wife.”

“It’s just been so long that I would understand if you ever thought about doing it with someone else.”

“Stop that right now,” he said with a firm yet loving tone. “I would never cheat on you.” 

A shaky breath escaped your throat before you dared to say what had been bugging you for weeks now. “What if I’ll never be ready? What if things won’t ever be like before?” 

“That would be okay, too,” he reassured you. “There are many ways to create nearness and intimacy. Sex is just one way but it’s not necessary. At least for me it’s not.” 

“So you’d be okay to live without sex?” 

“Before I met you I thought that was my only option,” he quipped. 

You knew there had been a handful of women before you but you appreciated his joke nonetheless. It made you smile. 

Spencer let his fingertips brush over your cheeks. “But to answer your question, yes, I would be okay with that.”

His words were genuine. The way he looked at you with the most loving expression made your heart jump. The amber of his irises radiated a warmth you could get drunk on. You nestled your head against his chest and he held you even closer against his body. He was right. Sex wasn’t necessary to create nearness. However, you were still curious about what else you felt safe enough to try. 

“I want to get into the bathtub with you,” you whispered. “And I want you to look at me.” 

Loosening the embrace, you looked at your husband. With a nod he confirmed that he wanted that, too. 

With shaking fingers you brushed over his robe before gripping the material. “And I want to see you, too.”

Together you helped each other out of your robes until you stood bare in front of each other. You took a moment to admire the man in front of you. It had been a while since you had seen him like that. Unlike you he didn't deliberately hide his body from your sight but there hadn’t been many occasions in the past few months that allowed you to see him unclothed. 

His body looked familiar yet different at the same time. His tummy was a little bit softer than you remembered and you imagined what it would feel like underneath your palm. 

Spencer dared to let his eyes drop down to take in every inch of skin within sight. The way he looked at you made your skin tingle and you noticed how it broke out in goosebumps. 

“You're so beautiful,” he purred as he tentatively brushed over your arms. 

Tilting your head, you placed a soft kiss on his lips before breathing against them, “So are you.”

He took your hand in his to walk you over to the bathtub. Your husband got in first, bending his knees in an attempt to make himself smaller than he was. There was enough space to join him, a relieved sigh falling from your lips when you felt the warm water enveloping your body. 

First you sat a little awkwardly opposite one another for a few moments before you felt confident enough to get closer. Gently, you placed your hands on his knees to part them before moving closer to lean against his body sitting between his legs. Spencer’s heart pounded rapidly against his ribcage as you nestled against his chest. 

“Is that okay?” You wanted to make sure. 

“Yeah, I uh… I’m not sure where to put my hands,” he chuckled and you noticed how they hovered above the edge of the bathtub. 

Taking his hands in yours, you guided them towards the water, placing them underneath your chest. Even though you expected his touch, you still jerked when you felt his palms make contact with your body. 

Instinctively, your husband wanted to retract his hands again but you held them still with your own palms pressed against them. Once the initial shock faded, you were certain that you wanted to be held exactly like that. 

A part of you still wanted to fight this vulnerable situation but a much bigger, much more confident part longed to be close to the love of your life. 

It was as if Spencer sensed your ambiguity. “You okay?” 

“Yes,” you confirmed. Then you thought about the way your body flinched when he touched you. It had happened before each time Spencer had touched you in places that he had touched, too. “I just feel like my body has to relearn a couple of things.”

Spencer nodded before finally being able to relax a bit. He leaned back while holding you against him, relishing the sensation of having you close without any barriers between you. Just for a moment he forgot about what had happened to you and to your own surprise, so did you. 

For the following weeks you made it a new habit to take baths with each other. There was something so sweet about getting clean together, it became a sacred ritual you wanted to repeat over and over. 

Slowly but surely you got more comfortable around Spencer. There was a time when you didn't think it was possible that the two of you would cuddle every night and every morning without constantly having to fear that you’d freak out at any given moment. 

But just like that it happened. Spencer didn't have to think twice about hugging you from behind and leaving a feather-light kiss on your neck. He didn't hesitate to pull you into his arms when he woke up before you. 

He did however wake up in shock and almost jumped out of bed when one morning he realized he had sleepily pressed his erection against your thigh. Having woken up before him, you had noticed it, too. You could have easily moved away but found no reason to do so.

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer murmured as he moved away from you, his voice still sounding raspy from his slumber.

“You don’t have to apologize for that, Spencer. I know basic biology,” you snickered. “Now come back here.”

Hesitantly, he moved back towards your open arms. The warmth you radiated was too hard to resist so it took very little convincing for him to find his place inside your embrace again. 

Gentle fingertips danced along his arms, making him hum in contentment. It had always amazed you how his skin felt so particularly soft and tender in the morning. His curls hung unruly from his head and you couldn't resist intertwining your fingers with them. 

You thought back to the many times you had woken up like this. Back then when it still was normal for your hands to become curious enough to explore every curve and dip of each other’s bodies. 

It was odd to think about before. Sometimes it felt like a lifetime away, other times it felt like nothing had ever changed. It made you feel like the man who hurt you had the power to bring a new time reckoning upon you. You didn't want him to. 

It only spurred you further on to fully reclaim your body again. 

Your fingers found Spencer’s jaw to tilt his head just enough for you to be able to kiss him. His lips felt so soft as he slowly reciprocated your actions. It was sweet and innocent at first but your desire to feel more of him only grew the longer you kissed. Slightly shifting your leg you could feel his hardness again, making him whimper at the sudden pressure against it. 

As your hand found its way under his shirt, you brushed over the softness of his tummy. Shaking fingertips followed the trail of hair leading further down before changing their direction and moving upwards to feel his chest. The beating of his heart was faster than usual, almost erratic. 

With cautious motions he mirrored your eagerness and let his palm wander beneath your shirt as well. You deepened the kiss when you felt his fingers wander over your waist, leaving goosebumps on their path. Spencer became hungry, almost desperate as his tongue brushed over yours, melting into you in a way he hadn’t for too long. 

It was what you longed for too, what you had been hoping to finally be ready for. 

Then he touched your breast and it all came crashing down again. 

“Stop!” 

Healing really wasn’t linear. 

In an instant Spencer retracted his hand and leaned back to give you some space. Widened eyes looked back at him and it took both of you a second to realize what had just happened. Before he could apologize, you did. 

“I’m sorry… I really thought I was okay with that.”

For a moment Spencer closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Then he looked at you again, a soft expression on his face. “Please don’t ever feel the need to apologize for that,” he cooed. 

Unlike other times, you were able to calm down quickly. Instead of pushing your husband further away, you still yearned for his proximity. He seemed surprised when you moved closer to him again to lay your head down on his chest. Content to still have the privilege to hold you close, he wrapped his arms around you before a relieved sigh fell from his lips. 

There was no need to leave the comfort of your shared bed just yet, so you just lay there together, basking in each other’s warmth. 

Spencer placed a gentle kiss into your hair before breathing, “I love you.” 

“I love you more.”

You tried your best to be kind to yourself in that moment. It was a learning opportunity for you. Just a few weeks ago lying close to your husband like that was unthinkable. Even if they felt like baby steps at the time, it was still progress. 

The images of recent intimate encounters flooded your mind and let a pleasant calmness spread through your body. Spencer’s kisses tasted sweet and made you feel insatiable, always longing for more. Feeling his skin pressed against yours as he held you close in the bathtub enveloped you in a safe feeling unlike anything else. 

You thought back to those rare moments when you considered taking things further lately, just like you had tried just now. There was something you had wondered about. 

“I have noticed that when we cuddle…,” you began your sentence, unsure of how to continue. “Even when we’re naked in the bathtub together, you uhm… never get aroused? That was very different before.” 

Spencer cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he let out an awkward laugh. “I try really hard not to. I think about baseball a lot.” 

His response confused you. Propping yourself up on one elbow, you raised your eyebrows at him. “You think about baseball when we’re taking baths together? You don’t even like sports.” 

Spencer just shrugged and added, “Sometimes I try to solve equations, too.”

“Please don’t do that anymore,” you pleaded as you laid back down beside him. “It makes me feel good to see you’re still interested in me.” 

“Of course I am still interested. I just really do not want to make you uncomfortable or feel pressured in any way.”

Your words were genuine when you said, “I don’t think that will happen. I actually really liked seeing you in all of your morning glory earlier.”

Your husband smiled at you. “Yeah?”

A smirk formed on your face. “It reminded me of the countless times we were both late for work because we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves after waking up.” 

“That was fun,” Spencer chuckled. “What wasn’t fun though was the conversation I had to have with Hotch after being late four days in a row.” 

His words made you laugh, too. Then, after a few moments of comfortable silence, your husband hesitantly asked, “Can I ask you something?” 

Tilting your head to find his eyes, you responded, “Of course.”

“You don’t have to answer this but I’m wondering… Do you ever get aroused in those moments, too?” 

You were used to talking openly about intimacy with your husband, that had always been a normal part of your relationship. His question didn't feel odd and you wanted to respond to it. 

For a long time after what happened, your longing to feel his nearness wasn’t connected to any sexual desires. At times you even felt like your libido had gotten lost entirely. Recently that had changed. 

More and more you had become aware of the little spark inside you that was ignited when you were with him. It was very different from the burning flame that was there before but your desire grew each time you were together. 

“Lately, yes,” you sincerely answered. Thinking about it some more, you decided to share another detail with him. “I even started uhm… touching myself again.”

Spencer seemed a little surprised by your response. “You did? That's good to hear.” His palm brushed gently over your arm when he added, “I can imagine that's a good way to feel a connection to your body and your needs.” 

For a second you thought he might start one of his ramblings to share all his knowledge about the health benefits of masturbating. He didn't, though. 

“Yeah, it feels nice. Almost normal,” you said instead. “I obviously still have a long way to go when it comes to sex but… I finally feel like I’ll actually get there, eventually.”

“There's no rush,” he reminded you. “We have all the time in the world.” 

Your lips met his in a tender kiss. “Thank you for being so patient with me.” 

After a few more moments of enjoying each other's company, it was time to get up and get ready for the workday. That night you found yourself tangled up in bed with your husband again. 

As you breathed in his scent and felt the heat radiating off his skin, you noticed it again – the little spark inside your chest flared up and spread a tingling sensation through your body. 

Your mouth found Spencer's neck to leave a trail of kisses along it, before it moved over his jawline and found his lips at last. He hummed when you kissed him and you could feel his fingertips twitching against your waist. 

It didn't take long until you deepened the kiss, a quiet moan slipping through your lips when Spencer’s tongue found yours. 

With your body pressed against his you didn't allow any distance between the two of you. It still wasn’t enough for you, though. There was too much fabric in the way of really feeling close to him. 

Your hand moved to the hem of his shirt to grip it and impatiently push it upwards. Spencer moved with you as you pulled it over his head. When your fingers moved to the waistband of his pajama pants next, he interrupted the kiss to find your eyes. 

A smile was painted over your face when you nodded, reassuring him that you were okay. You weren’t sure yet where exactly this was going but you felt safe enough to explore your options.

“We can stop or slow down at any point,” he reminded you.

“I know.”

After kissing him again, you sat up so you could continue undressing him. Slowly you pulled down his pants, an audible breath falling from your lips when you saw he was already half-hard. 

Spencer scanned your face for any sign of discomfort but found none. What he saw instead was excitement and curiosity. It made him smile. 

He sat up and brushed his hands over the fabric of your shirt. By lifting your arms over your head you gave him the sign he needed to remove the piece of fabric. He gently motioned for you to lay back down before he made contact with your hips, carefully brushing over your pajama shorts. 

There was no hesitation to be found when you lifted your hips for him to pull them down, without ever breaking eye contact. You thought about how different this situation was from being naked with him in the bathtub. Some parts of you remained hidden from him even then. 

You wanted him to see you, even when being exposed to him like that still felt a little scary.

After he had dropped the last piece of clothing on the floor, you dared to open your thighs for him to see every part of you. A rosy shade spread over his cheeks as he dared to look at you. It reminded you of when you were with him for the very first time many years ago. 

Just like then, he breathed, “You're so beautiful.” 

You could feel how some arousal had already gathered at your center and wondered if Spencer could see the glistening. By the way his pupils dilated you had a hunch that he did. 

Then, after he had fully taken in your beauty, it was as if he was frozen in place. He used to be so confident in situations like that, knowing your body better than his own and never questioning his next move. Things were very different now and you both sensed it. 

His eyes met yours and it became obvious how unsure he was of how to proceed. 

Opening your arms, you cooed, “Come here, love.” 

He seemed relieved when he lay back down beside you again. You wanted to kiss him but he hesitated. 

After a moment, he suggested, “I think it would be helpful if you talked to me more. I need you to tell me exactly what you want to do.”

“I’m figuring this out as we go, too,” you explained. “Right now I don't know where this is going. I only know that I really want to kiss you.”

His nose brushed against yours. “I would really like that, too.”

Just a split second later you got lost in another kiss. The way your bodies were pressed against one another while your lips were connected let you briefly forget where your body ended and his began. After shifting your position, you became well aware of that again. 

Spencer was fully hard now and his erection was firmly pressed against your thigh. You moved your leg slightly, prompting him to whimper into your mouth. The hand on your waist moved down to your hip and his fingertips pressed into your skin. 

“Hey,” you mumbled against his lips. “Can we slow down for a moment?” 

His grip on your hip lightened immediately before he moved his hand back up to your waist. Spencer placed one last peck on your mouth and pulled back. “Do you want to stop?” 

You shook your head. “No, I just need a little break. To make sure it doesn't get too much.” 

The truth was that you felt really good in that moment. Excited, loved and so, so turned on. It just felt safer to take things slowly. Gently you pushed against his shoulder until he was lying on his back. You found your home inside his arms. 

Your lips grazed over his cheek as you breathed, “How are you feeling, Spencer?” 

He chuckled at your question. “You have no idea how good I’m feeling right now.” 

As you let your head rest on his shoulder, you dared to look down at his body. The extent of his desire laid on his stomach and you noticed how a bead of precum had formed at his tip. Your fingers itched to touch him, to remember how hot and heavy his cock always felt inside your palm. 

A curious hand made its way down his chest, over the side of his stomach, brushing along his thigh. For a second you hesitated but then you let your palm hover over his hardness. 

Then you felt a pit form in your stomach and decided to retract your hand again. It might have just been your nervousness but that didn't change the fact that you couldn't continue in this moment. 

Your husband had watched each of your motions intently. It was obvious that he was burning to find relief. 

Tilting your head to find his eyes, you purred, “I want you to feel good.”

“It’s okay, my love. You don’t have to,” he reminded you.

You knew that, of course. There was still something else you could do together. 

As you began kissing his neck, his throat vibrated under your lips and a moan escaped his mouth. Then, you whispered into his ear, “I want you to touch yourself.”

Spencer’s eyes widened at your request and the rosy color on his cheeks turned a shade darker. It seemed like he needed a little more encouragement, so you lay back down inside his arm and opened your legs to give yourself access. 

“Okay, I’ll start,” you teased as you let your hand wander down your own body. 

Mesmerized by the sight, his eyes followed the path of your fingers. When you parted your folds to access your most sensitive spot, Spencer hissed a curse. 

The honeyed wetness between your legs made it easy for your fingertips to move through your folds. It felt relieving to touch yourself like that. Just like Spencer you were yearning for release. 

When your husband heard your heavy sighs as you pleasured yourself, he couldn't hold back anymore. You watched as his hand found his cock, a view that let your heart pound inside your chest. 

First, he wrapped his fingers around his shaft and squeezed, prompting droplets of his arousal to run down his tip. Then, he swiped his thumb over the leaking head before he slowly began moving up and down. Your mouth hung open as you watched that sinful scene unfold in front of you. 

As Spencer accelerated the pace of his fist, sounds of pleasure filled the room. His eyebrows were scrunched up and desperation was written all over his face. 

He had never looked more beautiful.

Distracted by the mesmerizing view, the hand at your core stopped moving. Instead of continuing, you let it wander away from your body to touch Spencer’s thigh. Before you could overthink it, your hand kept moving to his center. 

A heavy breath fell from his lips as your fingertips cautiously brushed over the velvety skin of his balls, making his body jerk underneath you. Smiling to yourself, you remembered how sensitive he was. 

Spencer stopped moving his hand, waiting to see how you’d proceed. When you touched the soft curls at his base, he whimpered. It was then that you realized that you were not scared anymore and that your nervousness had turned into excitement. 

“Can I continue?”

Spencer audibly gulped before removing his hand. “Yes… please.” 

When you wrapped your fingers around his length, both of you moaned in unison. Holding him in your hand like that felt both familiar and novel at the same time. You started moving your palm and quickly remembered how exactly he liked to be touched. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Feels good!” 

With all the built-up tension and those months of abstinence, it only took a few moments until Spencer was getting close to reaching his point of no return. Familiar with all the telltale signs of his impending climax, you continued caressing him. Coming closer to his undoing, his cock twitched inside your palm and his entire body started quivering. 

His release began spilling over your hand and onto his stomach while he kept pulsing against your fingers. You kissed his jaw and his neck before you reached for the tissues on your nightstand to do some damage control of the mess you had created. 

Your husband’s chest was still heaving when you finished cleaning him up. Concern was written all over his face when he found your eyes.

He pulled you back into his embrace as he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah I am. That was really fun,” you snickered. 

Spencer's hand brushed over your back as he placed a soft kiss on your mouth. “Do you want me to touch you?”

The truth was that your entire body was aching for his touch. You could feel the heat burning between your legs and were aware that your arousal had started coating the insides of your thighs. It had been a long time since you’d felt so turned on. 

And yet, the thought of him actually doing something about it made you nervous. 

“I’m not sure,” you admitted. “I would like to kiss you again, though.”

He let out a breathy laugh before finding your mouth once more. Feeling his lips on yours only blazed up the fire burning inside you. You shifted your position until you were hovering over your husband, one of his thighs pressed between yours. 

Tentatively you began rocking your hips against his leg, sighing as you realized how pleasant the friction was. 

“Is that okay?” You breathed against his lips as you kept moving. 

“More than okay,” he reassured you. “Use my body however you like.”

You sat up as you ground against his skin, feeling him tense his thigh underneath you. Taking his hands in yours, you placed them on your hips so he could help you move. Soon you had created a mess on his leg as you spread your wetness along his skin. 

With your entire entire body twitching, your motions became erratic. Looking down at Spencer, you found him staring at you with lust-filled eyes and a wicked grin painted over his face. 

As you danced along the edge of euphoria, you forgot your surroundings. It was only you and him right then. “I love you,” you whimpered and before your husband could respond, you collapsed into his arms as pleasure overcame you. You kept pressing your core against his leg as your whole body shook. 

Spencer held you firmly inside his arms as you came down from your high. He kissed your forehead and whispered, “I love you more.”

After your heart rate had come down to a normal frequency and you weren’t panting anymore, you kissed your husband. 

“How are you feeling?” He wanted to know. 

“Good. And also a little sticky,” you snickered, hinting at the mess you had created between your legs. 

“Yeah, me too,” Spencer chuckled. “How about I run us a bath so we can get cleaned up?” 

The prospect of that made your heart flutter. “That sounds wonderful.”

Author's Note: Writing this story took me two years and I am so relieved I was finally able to get it to paper. I hope reading it felt as cathartic for you as writing it was for me. Thank you for reading! I would really appreciate a reblog and a comment.

Taglist: @adoredfromafar @grumpyy-bearr @frickin-bats @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @xserenax-13 @alexxavicry @samuel-de-champagne-problems @evvy96 @reidsbookclub @lover-of-books-and-tea @sebs-oxygen @nomajdetective @kobaltdragon @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @castiels-majestic-wings

[reidmotif]

I’ve Got My Eye On You

Summary: Reader is a Special Surveillance agent assigned to spy on Spencer. He manages to see through her cover, and thoroughly enjoys the confrontation that follows.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: voyeurism, oral (f!receiving), unprotected penetrative sex, f!masturbation, slight dubcon regarding recorded sex, heavily based on that one scene in scandal, iykyk.

Word Count: 3.5k

Masterlist

I’d always been good at watching people. 

My life had been spent mostly to myself, divulging the information people offered without even realizing. When you talk less, you learn that body language, passing remarks, or even the quirk of an eyebrow gives away more than anyone ever realized– maybe more than an actual conversation at times. 

And I took it all in stride, not a single detail left unanalyzed. People were always surprised when I’d mention my observations, finding a way to explain a seemingly unexplainable situation, those around me wondering how on Earth I could’ve been privy to that. I’d always shrug at their queries. 

Pay more attention, I guess. 

It wasn’t a surprise that I’d ended up here, I suppose, in the end, as an Investigative Specialist for the FBI. I doubt that my listening skills were exactly what landed me the job, but I’d like to believe they contributed more than they actually did. Regardless, I’d never expected the result of the decisions I’d made over the years to lead to this– involved in spying on an agent of our own. 

The infamous "Dr Reid".

His specific circumstances had been shrouded in secrecy and mystery, apparently having just been let out of prison. (Prison? How’s he an agent then? Anyway, not my problem).

 The Bureau had been curious about erratic behavior on his part, and the string of discrepancies involving the unit he was involved in. Apparently, there had been multiple unforeseen and unprecedented events all occurring under the same team in a relatively small time-frame, and despite smaller investigations, nothing came out of them to warrant any real disciplinary action.  Probably why they brought me in, in the hopes of changing that. 

I’d been assigned to put up small, virtually undetectable cameras and listening devices within his apartment. 24/7 home surveillance, no exceptions. I couldn’t help but think that the guy really should invest in better apartment security, despite how easy his naivete made my job. His lack of caution surprised me, given the details I’d been given. For a guy who had a penchant for being framed by the ghosts of his past, he sure didn’t live like it.  Even as an FBI agent, he essentially had no technology to counter my own, and the height of his protection was a standard deadbolt. Was he insane? Unaware, somehow? Only time would tell, I suppose. And I had plenty of that, to watch and deduce the nature of his mind on my own terms. 

My time spent with Spencer resulted in one, overwhelming conclusion. Spencer Reid lived a relatively quiet life. His apartment was barely used, honestly, given the sporadic nature of his job. (Which was a shame, in my opinion, because it’s a nice apartment).  When he was at home, he seemed to remain quite unassuming. The positions I’d see him assume often were that of being hunched over on an aging leather sofa, pouring himself into grading papers, or creating lesson plans for his students. Oh, right. Did I mention he was also a professor? He is. I’d assume he likes the job, given how much of himself he gives into it, or maybe that was just who he was as a person. I wasn’t sure yet. 

I monitored his life outside of the apartment occasionally as well, just to see what intel I could gather with further investigation. There wasn’t much. Coffee shops. Book shops. Coffee. Books. Coffee- God, does the guy do anything else with his life? 

Most days, though, I’d liken him to butter spread too thinly over toast. Sleepless from nightmares that would have him walking around his apartment until daylight broke through the window panes. I felt exhausted just watching the guy, and it seemed insane that he could continue to live on when he left that apartment at the break of dawn. It didn’t seem like he had anyone to talk to, honestly. From what I was seeing, he wasn’t a threat to the Bureau, just a sad, middle-aged man who’d been dealt the most unfair of hands in life. 

I’m sure there’s a moral somewhere in all that. To waste your potential on something that gives so little back. Oh, well. My report was nearly finished at this point, and the most I could recommend the higher-ups was to get Spencer a better therapist, maybe. This one wasn’t really helping, it seemed. Besides that, his personal behavior wasn’t indicative of anything worrying to the interests of those managing him. 

At long last, it was my final night of watching him. Coincidentally, the date lined up with Halloween, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to finally be free of this specific survey job. Don’t get me wrong, Spencer seemed nice- but God, his life was boring. I don’t want to say it was like watching paint dry,  out of respect, but previous targets had offered at least some part of their life to be interested within. Spencer had nothing. No friends over, no gossip-like phone conversations, no drunk wanderings home. Nothing! I know he didn’t sign up to be watched, but God. 

Like, come on. Give me anything here. 

Needless to say, I’d become accustomed to the quiet, and this night was no different. If he was following schedule, he should be home right about … now. 

Now? 

Now… 

Silence. 

Spencer was definitely a creature of habit, so to not see him adhere to the routine he’d so meticulously stuck to in the past was a bit jarring, but I assumed he was just running late. 

A few hours later, I reasoned he must be running really really late. It was bordering on midnight, and he still wasn’t home. I checked train schedules, possible reports of a car crash, just about anything that could keep him from his scheduled appearance at home. 

I was just about to call my supervisor to look into whether or not he’d been called out on a surprise case, but that’s when the door of his apartment creaked open, and I felt my shoulders deflate in relief. Okay, he was home. He was going to go to bed and- 

He wasn’t alone. 

Spencer was dressed in all black, a leather belt adorned with a gold belt buckle being the only color his outfit brought. He wore tiny devil’s ears upon his head, the headband pushing down on the mop of curls that sat atop his head. He looked absolutely delicious, if I must say myself, and it seemed the woman in his arms would agree with me. 

He practically pulled her into his apartment, kicking his door in with his leg before slightly fumbling with the lock. As soon as the mechanism slipped into place, his hands were all over her, pressing her flush against his body, as if he couldn’t bear to have any space between them. 

For all the time I’d been watching him, none of his behavior indicated the presence of any kind of significant other, so this girl must be a stranger. If this is how Spencer treated strangers though, I was surprised he didn’t have a barrage of women lining up at his door every night. 

His lips absolutely devoured the girl, his hand cradling the side of her face, before his thigh slipped in between her legs, possibly to soothe a building ache that had built up there in the time they’d spent together, which I found entirely possible, considering I, personally, was heated from simply watching. 

I watched the pixels on the screen with such precision, innocuous shades of red, green and blue painting the most sinful of images. I found myself noting the way his hand snuck up the girls’ dress, the way her breathing hitched as she pulled back, watching as Spencer presumably played with her clit. I could feel myself squeezing my thighs together, recognizing just how wrong it was to be turned on by the scene in front of me, but I couldn’t stop myself. It wasn’t as if this was the first time a target had behaved sexually in front of me. (Or in front of the camera, I suppose.) I’d seen and heard just about anything you could think of, but this was different- in a way. To see Spencer so filthy, so confident, so- interesting. It lit a fire in me that burned with every passing moment he touched this girl. 

I’m able to watch him circle over her panties in a way that has her groaning directly into his ear, a smug grin plastering his face as he watches her every reaction. 

“Like that?” He murmurs, and I’ve never heard his voice so fucking deep.

She nods frantically, and it only serves to widen his grin. I can feel myself rocking slightly in my own chair, doing anything to try and soothe the fast growing arousal within me, unable to stop from imagining myself in her place. His hands, the feel of hot breath down my neck- 

I’m stopped dead in my tracks, however, when his eyes suddenly shift to the camera closest to him, his eyebrow raising, as if in challenge. He continues to whisper in the girl’s ear, and has the galls to wink. I’m horrified, a very sudden and intense heat rising to my cheeks. I can only watch for a second more, before he’s suddenly pulling her away, and I realize he’s taken her  within one of the only blind spots within the apartment. 

I’m scrambling to turn off the feed, stunned into silence whilst, my heart beating uncontrollably and eccentrically. Oh god. He knew. He knew and he did that?! 

I stare into the empty space, a multitude of thoughts inhabiting my brainscape. On one hand, the aplomb shown in that situation was commendable, since most people would react to the knowledge that they’d been secretly watched in their own home for the past few months in a much more hostile way. On the other hand, how did he even acquire that knowledge? The cameras were virtually undetectable, and he’d never let on that he was aware of their presence, and I’d know, considering how closely I’d watched him. 

I shake off the thoughts, focusing on something other than the overwhelming mortification coursing through me now.  

Alright, tomorrow, get into his apartment, remove the cameras, and hopefully never have to look at the man again. In any capacity, honestly. 

When daylight broke, I turned on the cameras for the final time, a bit more sheepish, knowing he was aware of the devices plaguing his home. However, it seemed like he was once again pretending like he wasn’t aware of the looming existence of them, sending his female companion off her merry way once they woke up, before going about his normal routine, heading out of the apartment for what was most likely his morning coffee and then afternoon lecture at the university. 

That was my cue. I turned off the cameras,  quickly making my way out to sneak into his residence, the heavy door offering little resistance to my advances, my movements quiet and undetectable. 

I’m  in the process of removing the final camera I had placed in his bedroom, hidden behind a copy of  The Sign of Four. Doyle. He had good taste, I could give him that. 

I’m just about to turn around and get the hell out of there, when I hear a voice behind me. 

“I noticed that one first, you know.”

I turn around slowly, embarrassed and slightly fearful to find Spencer’s eyes meeting mine. I’d watched him for so long, but seeing him now– his eyes were so beautiful. The camera didn’t do him justice.

He continues, despite the silence. “The other ones were harder to spot, I’ll give you that, but once I knew where they were, it was a bit obvious, don’t you think?” 

I’m speechless. My mouth is agape, and all he seems to do is smile at my lack of prose. 

“Don’t look so surprised. I know this apartment. I’m not here a lot, but I spend enough time to know when things have been shifted around.” His tone is cheeky, and he pauses, almost theatrically to add on:

“I’m sure you knew that though.”  His smile turns into more of a smirk. 

God, did he have to be so hot?

“Are you going to complain to the Bureau?” I manage out, keeping my eyes steady on him. 

“Did you find anything of note to tell them?” He responds, tilting his head with curiosity. 

I shake my head vehemently. “No, um. Nothing pertinent to say.” I get my words out in a hurry, my gaze continually trained on him. 

He meets my eyes with the same stare. “Then I don’t have much of a reason to complain.” 

I nod solemnly. I’m wondering where this situation will lead- what either of our next moves are. Before I can ponder long though, he surprises me and takes a step closer.

“I saw you, you know.” He says. “Thought I was going insane when the same pretty girl kept showing up at the bookstore and coffee shop out of the blue, but I’ve never been one to believe in coincidences.” 

“Oh.” I whisper. I really wasn’t as good as I thought I was. 

“You really shouldn’t beat yourself up.” He says, chuckling with some mirth. “Again, I’m observant. I notice these things. That, and you’re pretty.” He says, forward. “So, more of a reason to notice.” 

“Oh.” I reply, yet again, dumbfounded by the events currently transpiring. 

“Yes, oh.” He chuckles, before he starts to move closer yet again. “Tell me. Were you watching last night?” He murmurs, his voice dropping a bit deeper as he directly addresses the elephant in the room. 

I give a movement of affirmation, because at this point, what could he do? What could I do? 

“So you saw.” He mumbles, moving to position himself right in front of me, his eyes darkened and laser focused on my figure. 

“Yes.” I whisper, my voice hushed as our proximity decreased, his breath fanning out over my face now. I’d be uncomfortable, if I wasn’t so distracted. 

“Tell me.” He whispers, letting his calloused finger finally touch my skin, running down my neck. “Did it turn you on? Watching me with her?” 

I feel the familiar heat of embarrassment rise to my cheeks, my eyes suddenly widening not only due to the sudden proximity, but also the scandalous nature of his words. Did he mean for me to watch? Was that his plan all along? What was this sick and twisted game he was playing?

“Did it.. get you off?” He whispers, his lips leaning in to kiss lightly at the side of my neck where his finger once was. 

I freeze, leaning into his touch and going statue-like all at once. I can’t help the shakiness of my voice when I reply. “I.. wasn’t neutral.” 

“Mm.” He murmurs, kissing now at my jawline. “Did you get off? When she did?” He whispers.

“I didn’t watch that long.” I reply, helplessly, as I feel his hands start to envelop my waist, pulling me closer to him. 

“What a shame.” He mumbles. “I think you would’ve liked the show. I did it for you.” 

At this point, I can barely speak, a slight moan escaping me instead of a coherent reply as his lips continue to leave warm, wet kisses on the expanse of my flesh. 

“I’m sure you’re curious.” He says, his voice soft and seductive. “Would you like me to show you what we did?”

There’s no hesitation, finally, a resounding thought I can translate from brain-to-mouth for him, in complete certainty.

“Yes.” I manage out, breathlessly. 

He makes a noise of satisfaction, quickly pushing me onto the bed. 

“I’d already gotten her wet by touching her before, but if my suspicions are correct.” He murmurs, his hands working deftly to undo my jeans and feel the wetness that had accumulated in between my thighs. “You already are.” He finishes. 

I let out a small whimper as his fingers touch the heated flesh, unable to help my sensitivity to his small, calculated strokes over my clit through my underwear. His fingers starts to move a bit more aggressively, upon feeling the wet patch that had formed there, the flimsy fabric doing little to hide the stickiness he was now collecting on his fingers. He quickly pulls them off as well though, bringing his slightly damp fingers to his mouth, tasting the hint of my arousal that had accumulated there. His eyes were dark, watching my face for any reaction, and in that moment, I know all he can see is pure want. 

I can see the same hunger within his eyes, and I feel a rush of pride as the approval radiates off of him. 

“What next?” I whisper, already desperate for his next slew of ministrations. I don’t care how needy I looked. I was needy. I’d spent so long watching him, and now he was here.

“She wanted my mouth.” He murmurs, kneeling at the edge of the bed. His thumb brushes over my clit, his tongue running against plump, pink lips, wetting them, watching over me with a predatory gaze. 

Before I can respond, he’s suddenly everywhere, ducking his head and allowing his tongue to brush over my sex in broad, wet strokes. My response is immediate, my hips bucking up to meet him in a frenzied motion. It seems that he relishes in whatever control he can have in this situation, because he quickly holds down my hips in a firm grip, squeezing the fat there while he continued to ravage me. 

I can barely look at him, pretty brown locks splayed in his face, his lips moving hypnotically against my cunt. Little whimpers escape me, absolutely aching for more. He seems to catch on, and flicks his tongue over me, before suckling against my clit. It’s wet, messy, and the picture of debauchery– and it’s enough to drive me over the edge, my hands gripping the sheets as I cry out his name. 

He seems to be unaffected, getting off his knees, his mouth glistening with my release. The sight makes me wish he could do it again, but before I can get a word in, he’s positioning himself over me, caging me against the bed. 

“Then I fucked her.” He whispers, starting to undo his belt with his free hand. “Can I?” 

I nod, feeling a wave of anticipation, before registering the sensation of the head of his cock nudging my entrance. I feel my chest tighten, watching him with bated breath, absolutely exhilarated. 

“Relax.” He whispers, kissing the lobe of my ear. “You’re in good hands.” 

He utters the last word, before sliding into me, a hushed gasp leaving the both of us. He groans in pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut as he takes in the feel of my warm, wet cunt around him. He takes a moment, before he’s setting a steady pace, his hips bucking rhythmically into me in a way that’s designed to bring us both so much pleasure. 

I can’t help the string of moans that come out with every slide of his cock inside me, my legs wrapping around his waist, urging him closer than he already is. My hands grip onto his shirt, clawing onto the fabric to find any purchase, wanting– no, needing him on me. 

Is it odd to wish a stranger could crawl into your skin itself? 

“Fuck, Spencer.” I moan, unabashedly. “You feel so good.”

“You do too.” He groans, his arms braced on either side of my head before gently lowering himself to crash his lips against mine in a messy kiss. 

I can feel myself barreling towards release, as is he, if the twitch of his cock inside me were to mean anything. It’s not long before his hand reaches in between where our bodies are met, rubbing my clit in fast, small circles. It’s intense in the best way possible, my body barely being able to process how good it felt in the moment. 

“Come for me.” He moans, in between kisses. “Wanna feel you around me. Please.”

I can’t help but obey his words, my cunt convulsing around him in obedience as he subsequently finds his release inside me, groaning loudly as his hips thrust erratically. 

He pulls out, and we’re a tangle of limbs, sweaty and sated, breathing heavy. 

Of course, it’s him, yet again, to break the silence. 

“Two things.” He mumbles, breathlessly. 

“Mm.” I reply, weakly, my head a mess of airiness and complacency after the orgasm he’d just brought me to. 

“One. I want your name.” He says, rolling to his side to get a better look at my face. 

“That can be arranged.” I murmur, nodding dreamily. 

“Second.” He whispers, kissing my cheek. His voice takes on a teasing quality to it, before leaning to brush his lips against my ear.  

“You missed a camera. Behind the plant. They don’t stop recording, do they?” 

okay wowww. clearly this was meant for halloween, if you couldn't tell! this is one of those pieces where i'm like.. hmm .. do i like this? question mark? do i want to put it out? hmm .. but regardless, i hope you guys enjoyed it!! please, please like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed!!! it is sooo important as an author that i get some feedback and know what you guys think, in any capacity. i truly appreciate all of it <33 thank you for reading, thank you for everything!!!

[gf2bellamy]

drunk — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer is drunk and is spilling things about your relationship content warnings: established relationship, drunk spencer, the team mocking them a/n: i've never had a sip of alcohol so if i made any mistake i'm very sorry honestly i just went of what i've seen in tv shows, movies and books

The neon glow of the bar cast a warm haze over the room as you sat nestled in the corner booth, sipping your soda.

The ice clinked softly against the glass as you absentmindedly swirled the straw, half-listening to Garcia and Emily’s gossip.

Their conversation faded into the background, however, as your attention drifted elsewhere—specifically, to the two men across the room. 

Spencer Reid, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, was talking at a rapid pace, gesturing wildly with his hands as Derek Morgan grinned at him, clearly entertained. Your brows furrowed as Derek slid another drink into Spencer’s hands. 

You sighed, not bothering to hide your disapproval. 

“What’s up with you?” Emily asked, her head tilting slightly as she sipped from her drink. 

“That.” You nodded toward the scene unfolding across the room. 

Emily followed your gaze just in time to see Spencer take another eager gulp of whatever Derek had handed him. A second later, Derek’s mouth dropped open before he burst into laughter, clapping Spencer on the back like a proud older brother. 

“Yeah… Morgan’s having way too much fun with drunk Spencer,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at them. 

Spencer, completely unaware of your scrutiny, continued rambling, his hands moving faster than his words. Meanwhile, Derek's smile just grew bigger and bigger.

Garcia snorted. “Oh, come on, it’s adorable.” 

You weren’t sure if you’d call it adorable. More like mildly concerning. Because if history had taught you anything, drunk Spencer Reid was unpredictable—and God help anyone who had to deal with him when the alcohol finally hit its peak. 

And from the looks of it, the moment was about to happen or based on Derek's grin , has happened already.

“What is he doing?” you mumbled, eyes narrowing as you watched the two of them. You had a bad feeling about this. 

Garcia glanced at you with a smirk. “Sweetheart, we are at a bar. That’s what people do. You know… drink?” She gestured pointedly at your own glass. 

You scoffed, lifting your soda in mock acknowledgment. “Yeah, well, some of us have to drive,” you muttered before taking another sip. 

Before Garcia could quip back, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Derek had turned toward you, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.

Oh no. 

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god,” you muttered. 

Oblivious to what was happening around him, Spencer continued rambling, hands flailing dramatically.

You watched, unamused, as Derek made his way over to you, his smirk growing wider with every step.

Trailing beside him, Spencer was entirely oblivious. He barely paid attention to where he was walking, nearly stumbling into Derek at one point, but that didn’t stop him. 

When they finally reached your booth, Derek didn’t even bother with pleasantries. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on you, his grin downright devious. 

“You don’t say?” he mused, clearly continuing whatever conversation Spencer had been having—though it was obvious his real focus was on you. 

Spencer finally seemed to register where he was, his hazy eyes flickering to you. He blinked, as if surprised to see you there. 

“Hi,” he said, his voice slightly softer than before. 

Before you could respond, he slid into the booth beside you—well, more like half on top of you. He scooted in so close that his thigh was practically draped over yours. 

You stared at him. “Hi.” 

He grinned, leaning in ever so slightly, the scent of alcohol and something distinctly Spencer clinging to him. His eyes, glassy but bright, studied your face with open admiration, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. 

His curls were a mess, strands falling over his face, making him look even more disheveled than usual. You reached up instinctively, tucking a stray lock behind his ear, but he barely seemed to notice. 

“Seems like you’re having fun,” you murmured, shifting your gaze to Derek, who was watching the interaction with barely contained amusement. 

Derek simply shrugged. “Guess so.” 

You turned back to Spencer, who was still staring at you—completely dazed, his hazel eyes glassy and unfocused, like you were the most fascinating thing in the room. 

With a chuckle, Derek turned his attention to Garcia and Emily, leaving you to deal with your very drunk boyfriend. 

“You okay?” you asked softly, tilting your head as you brushed more of his hair out of his face. 

Spencer hummed in response, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before he blinked them open again. “Mhm.” 

You let your fingers linger in his curls, absentmindedly threading through them, and Spencer melted under your touch. 

“What were you telling Derek back there?” you asked, keeping your voice gentle, watching as his eyelids drooped slightly. 

He mumbled something incoherent before finally managing, “M’don’t remember.” 

Before you could press further, he sighed contently and let his head drop onto your shoulder, his body going slack against yours. 

Your hand was still tangled in his hair and you felt his breath fan against your neck as he let out another sleepy hum. 

Now Garcia and Emily were both staring at you, matching grins on their faces. You frowned. 

“What?” you asked warily. 

Emily’s smile widened. “Oh, nothing. It’s just… Spencer had a lot to say about you.” 

On cue, Spencer lifted his head from your shoulder at the sound of his name, his movements slow and a little clumsy. You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. 

His brows furrowed in concentration, as if trying to grasp onto a fleeting thought. “I remember now,” he said, dragging out the words, squeezing his eyes shut like that might help jog his memory. “I think.” 

You waited, not sure if you wanted to hear whatever was about to come out of his mouth. 

“I told them… about how much you like touching my hair,” he finally said, his voice a little too loud, like he was completely unaware of the fact that everyone was now hanging onto his every word. 

Your mouth fell open. “What?” 

You whipped your head toward Emily, Garcia, and Derek—who were all watching you with knowing smirks, looking way too amused for your liking. 

“Oh, and I told them about how you—” he paused, blinking a few times, “—always trace patterns on my back when you think I’m asleep.” 

Your face burned. 

Spencer, oblivious to your horror, continued, his voice dreamy and soft. “And how you always steal my cardigans, even though you claim they drown you and make you look ridiculous. But I know you secretly love wearing them.”

Derek let out a full laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, this is gold.” 

Garcia sighed dramatically, clutching her chest. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Spencer, why—” 

He leaned in even closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he whispered—though it wasn’t much of a whisper at all, given his current state—“And I told them that you—” 

You slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything else. 

Spencer blinked at you, wide-eyed, and you felt his lips curl into a grin against your palm. 

“Okay, Spence, I need you to stop talking now,” you said firmly, your hand still covering his mouth. 

Spencer blinked at you, his hazel eyes glassy with amusement. Slowly , hesitantly , you removed your hand, watching him like he was a ticking time bomb. 

Then you turned to your friends. 

“Don’t,” you warned, narrowing your eyes as Derek parted his lips, no doubt ready to deliver some smart remark. 

Derek smirked. “But—” 

“Don’t say anything,” you groaned, already exhausted, cutting him off with a pointed look. 

Emily took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink, her expression entirely unreadable as she observed the chaos unfolding in front of her. 

Penelope, however, was a different story. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, placing a hand over her heart as she looked between you and Spencer like you were her new favorite romance novel come to life. “This is adorable. I mean, we knew you were soft for our resident genius, but this?” She gestured at Spencer, who was still pressed against you, his head once again finding its way to your shoulder. “This is next-level domesticity.” 

You sighed, “I am never letting him drink around you guys again.” 

Spencer hummed sleepily against your shoulder. “M’not even that drunk.” 

Derek let out a loud laugh. “Oh, you so are.” 

Spencer attempted to lift his head in protest but gave up halfway and settled deeper into your side. “M’just happy,” he mumbled, and if your heart didn’t squeeze at that, you’d be lying. 

Emily set down her drink, eyes glinting with mischief. “So, what else does our drunk genius have to say about you?” 

You shot her a glare. “Emily.” 

Spencer, on the other hand, perked up slightly, as if the question had unlocked another memory. 

“Oh!” he said suddenly, lifting his head, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I also told Derek about how you always fall asleep on my chest when we watch movies, even though you swear you never fall asleep during movies.” 

Derek actually clapped at that one. “Man, you are so whipped.” 

You buried your face in your hands as Garcia gasped dramatically, reaching for Emily’s arm like she might faint. “They’re so disgustingly cute! .” 

Spencer, now clearly on a roll, turned his dopey, love-struck gaze back to you. “And I told them—” 

You groaned. “Spencer!” 

He grinned, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “Love you,” he mumbled sleepily. 

You patted Spencer’s thigh three times—a silent I love you, too, acting as if you weren't melting completely on the inside. You weren’t about to give your friends any more teasing material. 

“We’re going home,” you announced, realizing how sleepy Spencer was getting. 

Derek groaned dramatically. “Oh, come on. We wanna hear more.” His grin was absolutely wicked. 

At that, Spencer lifted his head slightly, as if he was about to continue his drunken confessions. 

You shot him a look—a playful but very clear don’t even think about it kind of look. “Spence.” 

His lips parted like he was going to argue, but instead, he let out a soft hum and dropped his head back onto your shoulder, completely surrendering. 

Derek laughed. "Man, he's totally wrapped around your finger."

You ignored him, instead rubbing soothing circles into Spencer’s back. His eyes fluttered closed, and he was half-asleep, his weight pressing into you completely. 

“One word about this at work,” you warned, shifting your gaze between the three of them, “and I’m never talking to you guys again.” 

Emily smirked over the rim of her glass. “Oh, sure. No words at work. Can’t promise about the PowerPoint presentation Garcia is definitely going to make, though.” 

Garcia gasped, scandalized. “Emily, you know me so well.” 

You groaned. “I hate all of you.” Derek chuckled, waving you off. “Nah, you love us.” 

Spencer hummed sleepily. “Mhm. Love them.” 

You sighed, adjusting him slightly. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get you home, Dr. Love-Confessions.” 

“Okay, come on,” you sighed, scooting Spencer out of the booth. He stood—well, wobbled—barely managing to keep himself upright. 

You steadied him with a hand on his arm as he instinctively laced his fingers through yours, clearly unwilling to let go. His drunken state had made him extra clingy, but you weren’t exactly complaining. 

Turning back to your friends, you gave them a pointed look. “I’ll see you all at work,” you said, voice laced with warning. “Where we’re only going to have professional conversations. Got it?” 

Emily smirked, raising her glass in mock agreement. “Oh, sure. Definitely professional.” 

Garcia let out a dramatic sigh. “No gossip whatsoever,” she said, not even trying to sound convincing. 

Derek just grinned, shaking his head. “Yeah, good luck with that.” 

Meanwhile, Spencer was barely paying attention to any of this. His eyes had glazed over, staring blankly into the distance as if lost in thought—or maybe just lost in general. 

You exhaled, already exhausted and thinking of calling in sick. 

“You,” you said, pointing a finger at Derek, “you get to pay for both our drinks.” 

Derek’s eyebrows shot up, realization dawning on him. “Whoa, hold up—” 

“Nope,” you cut him off immediately, shaking your head. “Not happening. You let him get like this, you pay for it.” 

Derek let out a laugh, looking at Spencer, who was still in his own little world. “Man, I didn’t force him to drink.” 

You shrugged. “Don’t care. Enjoy the bill.” You tugged Spencer’s hand, leading him toward the exit. 

“Bye,” he mumbled sleepily, barely loud enough to be heard. His steps were slow, and his body felt heavier against yours.

You pushed open the door with your free hand, the cool night air rushing past you. Spencer let out a quiet sigh at the change in temperature, his grip on your hand tightening just a little.

Without thinking, you started tracing slow, comforting circles with your thumb over his skin. 

Spencer hummed softly, leaning into you as you walked toward the car. “Feels nice,” he mumbled. 

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” he nodded lazily, his curls falling into his face again. “You always do that.” 

“I guess I do,” you smiled softly at your boyfriend, your heart warm as he squeezed your hand tighter. 

Spencer didn’t seem to notice how tightly he was holding onto you as you arrived next to your car. But when you tried to pull your hand out of his grasp, he made a small noise of protest, a soft whimper that almost made you stop in your tracks. 

“Spence,” you said gently, “I need to look for my keys.” 

His hand reluctantly loosened, but his gaze never left you. You opened your bag, rummaging through the contents, your eyes scanning for the keys. 

“You usually keep them in your front pocket,” Spencer mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You froze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, right.” 

Without missing a beat, you reached into your front pocket, feeling the familiar jingle of your keys. “Thanks, Spence,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, as you unlocked the car. 

You quickly moved to open the passenger door, holding it wide. “Okay, come on. Sit down.” 

Spencer gave you a sleepy, lazy look but you gently tugged him towards the car, your touch soft yet insistent. His steps were slow, and as he started to get into the car, you reached up to guide his head down so he wouldn’t hit it on the top of the doorframe. 

“Head down,” you instructed, your voice a little more authoritative than usual, though the affection in your tone made it clear you were only looking out for him. 

Spencer let out a soft, obedient hum as he finally slumped into the passenger seat. His body collapsed back into the seat like a ragdoll, eyes heavy. 

“Good,” you said, closing the door behind him, watching as he settled into the seat, already half-asleep. 

As you slid into the driver's seat and closed the door behind you, you glanced over at Spencer. His head was resting against the seat, eyes shut, his expression soft and peaceful. You couldn’t help but feel a little bad for disturbing his rest. 

“Do you want to go to your apartment?” you asked quietly, glancing at him as you started the car. 

Spencer’s voice was barely above a whisper when he replied, “I wanna stay with you.” 

You paused, looking at him—his face relaxed, eyes still closed as if he were half in a dream. Your fingers itched to reach out, and you gently brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. He hummed contentedly at the contact, leaning into your touch without even realizing it. 

You smiled softly, your heart melting at how utterly endearing he was. “Okay. We’ll go to my apartment, then.” 

You drove in silence for a few minutes, just listening to the soft hum of the engine and Spencer’s breathing. It wasn’t long before you arrived, and as you parked in your spot, you glanced over at him.

He hadn’t moved, still in the same sleepy position, his head leaning against the seat. 

“Spence,” you said gently, turning off the car. “We’re here.” 

All he did was hum in response, barely acknowledging you. 

You sighed softly, knowing this was going to take a little effort. Stepping out of the car, you closed your door quietly before making your way to the passenger side. 

When you opened the door, Spencer was practically asleep, his head resting against the seat, lips slightly parted. He looked so peaceful, you almost felt bad for waking him. 

“Spence,” you muttered, reaching out to touch his shoulder lightly. He didn’t budge. 

You frowned, leaning in slightly—careful not to hit your head on the car frame—as you gave his shoulder a firmer shake. Still nothing. 

“Spencer,” you said a little louder, this time with a touch of amusement in your voice. 

Finally, he stirred, cracking one eye open lazily. 

“Hi,” you greeted with a soft smile, watching as he blinked sluggishly. 

He let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with one hand. “We’re here?” he mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion. 

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” 

Spencer groaned lightly, shifting in his seat as if even the thought of moving was too much effort. 

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’ll help you, but you have to stand up, Spence.” 

With a deep sigh, he finally nodded and let you pull him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and you immediately steadied him, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“Whoa there, genius,” you murmured, adjusting your grip. “Let’s not face-plant in the parking lot.” 

Spencer huffed out a sleepy chuckle, leaning into you more than he probably realized. “You’re warm,” he muttered. 

You rolled your eyes, but your smile never faded. “Yeah, well, let’s get you inside where it’s actually warm, okay?” 

“Okay,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper as you guided him inside the building. He leaned into you slightly, his steps slow and heavy. 

As you waited in front of the elevator, the only sound was the distant hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional ding from the floors above. You tapped your foot lightly against the tile, watching the numbers slowly descend. 

Then, out of nowhere, Spencer spoke again, his voice soft but certain. 

“I like you a lot, you know that?” 

You turned to look at him, surprised by the sudden confession, but the sincerity in his hazel eyes made your heart melt. His gaze was a little unfocused, heavy with sleep and alcohol, but the emotion behind his words was crystal clear. 

“I know, Spence,” you said, smiling warmly as you reached up and brushed his curls away from his face again. It was something so simple, yet something you always found yourself doing.

He leaned into your touch instinctively, his body seeking out your warmth. 

The elevator doors finally slid open with a ding, and you gently tugged his hand to lead him inside. As soon as the doors shut, Spencer sighed and rested his head on your shoulder, his body completely relaxed against yours. 

“You smell nice,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your jacket. 

You let out a soft laugh, wrapping an arm around him for support. “Thanks, Spence. You smell like alcohol and bad decisions.” 

He chuckled sleepily, barely lifting his head. “Bad decisions? No, no. Liking you is the best decision.” 

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you just stared at him, warmth spreading through your chest. Even drunk and barely coherent, Spencer Reid somehow managed to be the sweetest person alive. 

The elevator doors opened, and you shook your head fondly, guiding him toward your apartment. “Come on, Casanova. Let’s get you to bed before you pass out in the hallway.” 

Spencer let out a hum of agreement, still clinging onto your hand like he never wanted to let go. 

You let go of him just long enough to unlock the door, pushing it open before guiding him inside. As soon as you shut it behind you, Spencer immediately reached for you again, clinging onto you like he had no intention of letting go. 

You sighed fondly, helping him shrug off his jacket while he clumsily toed off his shoes.

“Okay, Spencer, just a couple more steps,” you encouraged, wrapping an arm around his waist as you led him toward your bedroom. 

When you reached the bed, he sat down heavily, sighing as his body sunk into the mattress. His eyes scanned the room, though they were hazy with sleep. “I like your room,” he mumbled, as if just realizing where he was. 

You smiled softly, watching as he flopped back against the pillows, his head sinking into the plush fabric. 

“Me too,” you murmured, standing by the edge of the bed as you watched him. 

Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, but then, with a small, sleepy smile, he peeked up at you again. 

“You know… I think my favorite thing about your room is that you live in it,” he said, his voice thick with exhaustion but filled with sincerity. 

Your heart swelled at the unexpected sweetness of his words. 

You shook your head with a soft laugh, brushing his curls out of his face once more. “You’re such a sap when you’re drunk, Spence.” 

His smile grew just a little. “M’not drunk,” he mumbled, already halfway to sleep. “Just in love.” 

You felt warmth spread through your chest as you pulled the blanket over him, watching as he relaxed further into the bed. 

“Go to sleep, Spencer,” you whispered, but the smile on your lips never faded. 

[reiding-writing]

cold!reader used to work with VCAC? the idea that she's good with children despite just hating everyone is so funny to me

would you consider writing a fic where the BAUs main witness is a kid and cold reader is the only person to get through to them? and then the kid becomes like super attached and the rest of the team is just like 'hm, strange' because they never expected her to be good with kids? thank you!

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

A family annihilator who's killed three families in two months makes a fatal mistake. He leaves behind a witness, a child, and she's the only one that can help solve the case.

cold!reader ❅ 10.0k ❅ series masterlist. ❅ main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, violence against children, mentions of trauma and ptsd, you do not know how tempted i was to kill this child but i didn’t

The scent of burnt coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the sterile chill of the air conditioning.

The conference room is dim, the overhead lights casting a dull glow against the crime scene photos spread across the table. Three families, their faces smiling in old photographs, juxtaposed with the horror of their final moments.

You sit stiffly in your chair, arms crossed, watching as Hotch stands at the head of the table. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders speaks for itself.

The team is silent as he clicks to the next slide on the projector, displaying the most recent crime scene. Blood splatters across beige carpet. A broken picture frame. A child's shoe, left in the doorway.

“This is our unsub's third family in six weeks,” Hotch says, his voice steady but heavy. “All killed in their own homes, in the middle of the night. No signs of forced entry, no clear connection between the families. Each time, he’s managed to evade security cameras and forensic evidence. He’s methodical, careful, and fast.”

“Spree killer tendencies, but controlled,” Spencer interjects from across the table. His fingers drum against the tabletop as he speaks. “He escalates quickly, but there’s no erratic behaviour at the scenes. He’s not disorganised—he knows exactly what he’s doing,”

“Until now,” JJ murmurs. She leans forward, her brows drawn together, eyes fixed on the next image—a little girl. The survivor.

She’s small, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, pressed into the corner of what looks like a hospital bed. A police officer stands nearby, talking to her, but there’s no recognition in her eyes. She looks… empty.

“She got away,” Emily says, glancing at Hotch. “How?”

“The unsub killed her parents and older brother before she managed to escape through a back door,” he explains. “The neighbours called 911 when they heard screaming. By the time officers arrived, the house was quiet, and the suspect was gone. She was found hiding in their backyard shed.”

“A survivor,” Morgan says, shaking his head. “That changes things. This guy has a pattern—he wipes out the entire family unit. That means she wasn’t supposed to make it out alive,”

“Which means he might try again,” Rossi adds grimly.

A beat of silence. The weight of the statement settles over the room like thick fog.

“Local PD has had no luck getting her to talk,” Hotch continues. “She hasn’t said a word about what happened. Refuses to answer questions. She’s traumatised, barely verbal, and right now, she’s under police protection until we can confirm if she has any extended family who can take her in.”

You shift in your seat, already sensing where this is going. A slow dread creeps up your spine as Hotch’s gaze flickers toward you.

“We need to get through to her,” he says. “She’s the only witness we have, and if the unsub left anything behind—a name, a face, a detail—she’s the only one who can give it to us.”

His words hang in the air for a second too long. You feel everyone’s eyes move toward you.

And then Hotch says it.

“I want you to talk to her.”

You inhale sharply, jaw tightening. "Hotch—"

“You have a PhD in Psychology,” he cuts in smoothly, as if he already anticipated your pushback. “And your time in VCAC makes you the most qualified person here to work with child victims.”

The mention of VCAC makes your stomach twist. You fight the urge to grimace.

“I moved to the BAU for a reason,” you remind him, keeping your voice measured. “Children can be… difficult. Especially ones dealing with trauma this severe. She’s not just going to start talking because I ask her to.”

“I know,” Hotch says. “But if anyone can get her to open up, it’s you.”

Silence stretches between you.

You don’t want to do this.

You hate working with kids. Not because you don’t care, but because they feel too much.

They cry, they panic, they cling, and their emotions are messy—unpredictable in ways adults rarely are.

You spent years in VCAC, watching helpless children break apart under the weight of their own trauma, and it wore you down in ways you never admitted.

That’s why you left.

You’re not the nurturing type. You don’t coddle, you don’t reassure with empty promises, and you don’t have the patience for endless sobs and incomprehensible explanations.

And yet.

You glance at the image of the little girl again. She looks so small. So completely alone.

No one else in this room is going to be able to reach her. And if she doesn’t talk, if she doesn’t tell you what she saw—

The unsub will keep killing.

You exhale slowly, forcing the tension out of your shoulders.

“Fine,” you say finally. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Hotch nods. “Wheels up in 30.”

The meeting disperses, chairs scraping against the floor as the team gathers their things. You stay seated for a moment, staring at the blurred-out image of the girl on the screen.

A hand brushes against your arm.

You look up to see Spencer standing beside you, concern flickering in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You almost say yes, but stop yourself. Instead, you shrug.

“It’s just… not my favourite thing to do,” you admit, voice quieter than usual.

He nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does.

“You’ll be good at it,” he says. No hesitation. No doubt. Just quiet certainty.

For some reason, that makes your chest tighten.

You swallow, push back your chair, and stand.

“Let’s hope so,” you mutter, grabbing your case file.

And then you follow the team out the door.

—

The jet touches down in Minnesota under a dull, overcast sky, the kind that promises rain but never quite delivers. The air outside is biting, cold enough that you pull your coat tighter around you as the team steps off the plane.

The local PD is already waiting for you on the tarmac, their unmarked cars idling, exhaust curling into the frigid air. Hotch exchanges quick introductions, then splits the team without hesitation.

“Rossi—you’re with me at the latest crime scene. JJ, you’ll work with the department’s media liaison to handle the press. Morgan, Prentiss, you’re going to the ME’s office to go over autopsy findings.”

His gaze lands on you. “You’re going to the station to talk to the girl.”

You nod, ignoring the way your stomach tightens at the assignment.

“I’ll go with her,” Spencer says, stepping forward.

Hotch gives him a brief look, then nods. “Keep me updated.”

You don’t say anything as you and Spencer break off from the group, climbing into the backseat of a waiting squad car. The officer driving doesn’t speak much, just gives you a curt nod before pulling out onto the highway.

You spend the drive flipping through the case file, rereading the details you already know.

The survivor’s name is Madelyn Carter. Eight years old. No prior history of abuse or neglect. No suspicious activity leading up to the night of the murders. A completely normal kid—until the night she lost everything.

The police reports are frustratingly sparse. Non-verbal. Unresponsive to questioning. Won’t engage.

You tap your fingers against the file, jaw tight. She’s just a child, but already, you can feel the weight of the challenge ahead of you.

The police station is small, tucked into a sleepy suburban district, the kind of place that probably never sees much worse than drunk and disorderly charges.

But today, it’s buzzing with quiet tension.

You and Spencer are led to a small interview room at the end of the hallway. The walls are a washed-out shade of blue, meant to be calming, but the effect is ruined by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

And there, curled up on a chair too big for her, is Madelyn.

She’s impossibly small, arms wrapped around herself, knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair is tangled at the ends, her clothes a size too big, probably donated by someone at the station. A stuffed rabbit sits limply in her lap, its fur worn and patchy.

She doesn’t look up when you walk in.

The officer standing in the corner—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes—gives you a look that’s equal parts sympathy and frustration.

“She hasn’t said a word since we brought her in,” she murmurs.

You nod, but your focus is on the girl.

You know better than to overwhelm her right away, so you take your time settling into the chair across from her. No sudden movements. No clipped, authoritative tone. Just careful, deliberate quiet.

“Hi, Madelyn,” you say gently.

She doesn’t acknowledge you.

That’s fine. You expected this.

You shift slightly in your seat, keeping your posture relaxed as you introduce yourself to her. “I’m a Doctor, I’m going to try and help you,”

Still nothing.

You glance at Spencer, who watches the interaction closely, hands tucked into the pockets of his cardigan.

“That’s a nice bunny,” you say, nodding toward the stuffed animal in her lap.

Madelyn doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flick her eyes toward you. She just tightens her grip on the rabbit, her small fingers curling into its worn fur.

You exhale slowly, adjusting your approach.

“I used to have one kind of like that when I was little,” you continue, keeping your voice soft, conversational. “Mine was a bear, though. His name was Theo. I took him everywhere.”

Nothing.

Not surprising, but frustrating nonetheless.

You lean back slightly in your chair, glancing at Spencer, who watches the exchange with quiet patience.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs under his breath, just for you to hear. “Just be patient,”

You barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. “She hasn’t said a word, Spencer.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s not listening,”

You don’t respond, but his words linger in your mind as you turn back to Madelyn.

She’s still curled up, still silent, but you notice the way her fingers twitch slightly against the rabbit’s ear. It’s a small movement, but it tells you one thing, she’s aware of you.

That’s something.

You decide to change tactics. Instead of talking, you lean forward, resting your arms on the table between you. Then you take out your notepad and a pen, clicking it open.

Madelyn doesn’t look up, but you catch the smallest flicker of movement in her posture—curiosity.

Good.

You start to doodle. Simple things. A flower, a star, little patterns in the margins.

Still nothing from her.

But when you glance up a few minutes later, her eyes are on the notepad.

Just for a second. But she was looking.

You resist the urge to smile. Instead, you gently slide the notepad across the table toward her, placing the pen on top.

“You can draw something, if you want,” you say simply. “You don’t have to, but sometimes it helps.”

Madelyn doesn’t react immediately. But then, slowly—so slowly—her fingers twitch again, and she reaches out.

She doesn’t grab the pen. But she touches it.

Your heart stutters slightly in your chest.

Progress.

You let her take her time. You don’t push, don’t rush. You just watch as her tiny fingers trace the edge of the pen absently.

You glance at Spencer again, and his expression is warm. Encouraging.

After a long silence, he speaks, his voice gentle.

“Do you like stories, Madelyn?”

She doesn’t answer.

But after a moment, she nods. Barely. But it’s a nod.

You share a look with Spencer, and for the first time since walking into this room, you feel the smallest spark of hope.

She’s in there.

You just have to find a way to bring her out.

—

You don’t know how long you sit there, watching Madelyn’s fingers trace absent shapes against the edge of the pen. Time moves strangely in moments like this—slow and thick, like wading through molasses.

Spencer stays quiet, offering his presence but not overwhelming the space. You appreciate it more than you’d ever admit.

Madelyn doesn’t speak. But she nods. And she touches the pen.

That’s more than you had ten minutes ago.

So you build on it.

“You like stories,” you say, keeping your voice soft. “What kind of stories?”

No response.

You lean back slightly. “I like mysteries.” A pause. “Not the scary kind, though. More like… puzzles. Things that make you think.”

Nothing at first. But then—so subtle you almost miss it—Madelyn shifts. It’s small, just the faintest movement of her shoulders, but it’s acknowledgment.

Encouraged, you try again.

“I think you might be really good at puzzles,” you say casually. “The way you were looking at my drawings earlier—that was you figuring things out, right?”

She still doesn’t answer, but this time, you catch the way she avoids your gaze, like she’s fighting the urge to react.

She’s engaged. Even if she won’t admit it yet.

So you take another risk.

“Do you want to play a game?”

That gets her attention. Not fully, but her head tilts just slightly—like she’s listening more closely.

You grab the notepad again, flipping to a fresh page.

“It’s really simple,” you tell her. “I draw something, and you guess what it is. If you guess right, it’s your turn to draw something for me.”

You don’t expect an immediate response, so you keep moving. You draw a cat. Just a simple, messy sketch, the kind a kid might do. Then you slide the notepad back toward her and wait.

Silence.

You don’t push.

Then, after an agonising pause—Madelyn reaches for the pen.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you.

But she writes one word in the space beneath your drawing.

Cat.

Something in your chest unclenches.

“Yeah,” you say, voice even softer than before. “It’s a cat.”

Madelyn’s fingers tighten around the pen.

Then—hesitant, almost reluctant—she starts to draw.

It’s shaky, unsure, but after a moment, you recognise it.

A rabbit. Her stuffed animal.

You don’t rush to answer. You let the moment sit, giving her control.

Finally, you say, “Is it your bunny?”

Madelyn nods.

Not small. Not hesitant. A real, full nod.

Your breath catches. Spencer’s posture shifts beside you, like he can feel the significance of it, too.

You’ve got her.

—

It takes another hour before she agrees to talk.

You don’t push her. You keep playing, keep gently pulling her out of the dark space she’s been locked in. She tells you her bunny’s name is Milo, that he’s red because it’s her favourite colour, about things that don’t hurt to answer.

She tells you her friends call her Maddie. You ask if you can. She agrees.

And slowly, carefully, she leans into it.

Finally, when the moment feels right, you set your pen down.

“Maddie,” you say gently. “I need to ask you about what happened that night.”

Immediately, she shrinks in on herself.

You don’t reach for her. Don’t move too fast.

“I know it’s scary,” you continue. “And I know it hurts to think about. But you’re the only one who knows what he looks like.”

Her grip on Milo tightens.

You lean forward slightly. “I want to stop him,” you say. “I don’t want him to hurt anyone else. But I can’t do that without your help.”

She’s trembling. But she’s listening.

Spencer speaks for the first time in a while, his voice quiet but steady.

“We can do it in a way that’s not so scary,” he tells her. “You don’t have to remember everything at once. We can do it piece by piece, and you can stop whenever you want.”

Maddie hesitates.

Then, after a long, agonising pause—she nods.

You take a slow breath.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s do this together.”

—

The cognitive interview is exhausting. For her, for you, for everyone in the room.

You guide her through it carefully—asking her to picture the house, to focus on what she remembers before things got bad.

She whispers about the TV being on. About how her brother was playing a game on his tablet. About how her dad was in the kitchen, and her mom was upstairs.

Then—the noise.

Something breaking.

Screaming.

Maddie shakes violently, curling in on herself, and you immediately pull back.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “You’re safe. You’re here with us.”

She nods, but her breath is coming too fast, her body trembling too much.

Spencer places a gentle hand on your arm, meeting your gaze. You understand what he’s asking. Back off. Give her a moment.

So you do.

You wait.

Finally, she whispers, “He—he was big,”

You go still.

She’s talking about him.

You nod encouragingly. “Okay. Big. Can you tell me anything else?”

A shaky breath.

“H-he had a… a hat.”

You glance at Spencer, who’s already jotting this down in the case file.

Maddie’s voice is barely audible.

“I think it was red.”

Your heart pounds.

Piece by piece, she tells you more. His height. His clothes. A scar on his arm.

By the time she stops, she’s crying.

You reach forward, gently—so gently—and brush a piece of hair from her face.

“You did so good, Maddie,” you tell her. “So, so good.”

She hiccups, her tiny body wracked with exhaustion.

And then—before you can react—she throws herself into your arms.

You freeze.

You’re not the nurturing type. You don’t know how to do this.

But right now, this kid trusts you in a way she doesn’t trust anyone else.

So you let her cling.

You let her cry.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t pull away.

—

The interview is over, but somehow, it feels like the work is just beginning.

Maddie doesn’t leave your side.

Not even for a second.

You’d thought that once the interview was done, you’d be able to hand her over to someone else—maybe the police, or someone from her extended family who was supposed to arrive soon. But instead, Maddie just… clings.

After the interview, she refuses to let go of your hand. You try to tell her she can go with one of the officers to get something to eat, but her grip tightens.

When you tell her it’s time for you to go back to work, she just looks up at you, her eyes wide with that quiet, vulnerable desperation that makes you want to soften, but you can’t.

Her tiny fingers dig into your sleeve when you stand, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You can’t blame her.

You’ve been the one who’s been there for her, the one who’s gotten her to speak, the one who’s made her feel safe for the first time in days.

But the child is persistent.

Everywhere you go, she follows. To the small break room where the team is gathering, to the bathroom when you briefly step away, back to the conference room where they’ve gathered for a case update.

She’s your shadow now.

And the team notices.

You try not to make it awkward, but it's impossible when she insists on sitting at your side, her tiny body almost engulfed by the chair next to you. Her stuffed bunny sits in her lap, its fur nearly as frayed as her nerves, but she holds it tightly. It’s like her last link to some semblance of safety.

Morgan raises an eyebrow as he walks in. “I thought we were done with the interview?”

“We are,” you say, keeping your tone neutral. “She just… she doesn’t want to leave me.”

No one teases you—at least, not directly—but there’s a quiet amusement in the air as they all take in the sight of Madelyn curled up in her oversized chair, the edges of her blanket practically touching the floor, with you sitting across from her.

Hotch is the only one who doesn’t seem particularly surprised. He’s worked with children before—he knows how attachment works, especially after trauma.

But the others? They’re bemused.

JJ glances over at you as she sips her coffee, a smile pulling at her lips. “She seems to have taken quite a liking to you,”

You tilt your head, barely acknowledging her. “I’m just doing my job.”

Maddie, of course, doesn’t let go of you, even as the case discussion begins. She stays glued to your side, her small hand clutching the sleeve of your jacket, her eyes darting from one agent to the next as they go over the details of the unsub’s pattern.

You keep your voice even, answering questions when necessary, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to focus when you feel the weight of her gaze fixed on you, like she’s waiting for something.

Spencer notices.

He’s been watching the whole scene unfold with quiet fascination, his arms crossed, his head slightly tilted, like he’s trying to puzzle out the situation. Finally, when the meeting breaks up, he sidles up next to you as you get ready to leave the conference room.

“She’s really latched onto you, huh?” he says, his voice low, but the smile tugging at his lips is evident.

You glance at him, your expression unreadable. “It’s nothing. Just transference.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

Maddie hasn’t let go of you once during the discussion, and now that it’s over, she’s still following you around, pressing close to your side as you move toward the exit.

“Are you hungry, Maddie?” you ask her gently, glancing down at her with a touch of exasperation. “You haven’t eaten, and I’m pretty sure there’s a café close to here.”

Her head nods almost imperceptibly.

Spencer watches, his eyes softening slightly as he observes the quiet bond that’s developed between the two of you. It’s not obvious at first—just the way the girl clings to you like you’re the only thing tethering her to some kind of reality.

“Maybe we can grab lunch,” he suggests, his tone more teasing than anything. “I mean, you’ve earned it. Getting the kid to open up like that? Not easy.”

You roll your eyes, though there's no malice behind it. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“You’re good at it.”

You mutter something under your breath about it not being a permanent situation, but Spencer just chuckles.

He walks with you as you lead Maddie toward the small café a few blocks away. As you cross the threshold of the restaurant, you notice the oddity of the whole situation.

It’s strange to have someone at your side like this. A small, vulnerable child who insists on being with you despite everything that happened.

The waitress gives you an odd look when you request a secluded booth, but she doesn’t say anything. You slide in, Maddie immediately beside you, her fingers still clutching your sleeve.

Spencer orders for everyone, giving Maddie a soft smile as he does. You can’t help but notice the way his expression softens around her.

“She seems to like you,” Spencer comments as you sit, his voice light but carrying a certain warmth.

You cross your arms and shoot him a glance. “What can I say? I’m just a magnet for clingy children.”

Spencer laughs quietly, but it’s warm. “You’re good with her. I think she feels safe around you. And you are good at what you do.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, but there’s something unsettlingly genuine in your voice.

Spencer raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press you. Instead, he changes the subject, discussing the case with you as if nothing’s out of the ordinary.

But in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the feeling that something has changed.

As you eat, Maddie picks at her food, her gaze flickering from you to Spencer and back again. She looks at you with a certain familiarity, like she trusts you completely, like you’re the one person who’s made her feel safe in the whirlwind of everything that happened.

After a while, she speaks.

“Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Your fork stops halfway to your mouth. Spencer looks at you from across the table, just as surprised.

You freeze. How do you explain the whole weird mess that is your and Spencer’s relationship to an eight-year-old? How do you explain the not-together-but-kinda-together situation that doesn’t even make sense to you half the time?

So you side-step the question.

“No, sweetie,” you say, “Not quite.”

Maddie doesn’t seem disappointed by that answer. She just nods, although a little confused.

You glance at Spencer, who’s trying to hide a smile behind his cup of water.

“It’s okay to be curious,” he tells her gently.

You roll your eyes and take another bite of your food. “It's just complicated,”

Maddie shrugs, her focus shifting back to her plate. She doesn't press any further, and for a brief moment, you almost feel normal again—just two adults eating lunch with a kid. Like a proxy family.

But normal doesn’t last long. The reality is that she’s still attached to you, and you're still the one she turns to. For now, at least.

And despite all your reservations, there’s a part of you that’s starting to understand why.

—

The evening sets in with an oppressive stillness that mirrors the tension in the air.

Maddie has been tucked into a small cot, an officer stationed outside her door to ensure her safety. She’s asleep now, her face still flushed from the day’s events, her small form curled tightly under the blankets. The moment she closed her eyes, a quiet kind of peace settled in the room, but the unease in your chest hasn’t subsided.

The case isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The team has reconvened, sitting around the large conference table in the BAU’s temporary Minnesota office. The maps, photos, and notes are all spread out before you, the room filled with the usual quiet hum of focus.

They’re all working with urgency now—calculating, piecing together information, and drawing conclusions. But none of them, not even Hotch, seem willing to speak the one truth you’re certain of.

Madelyn is in danger.

It’s only a matter of time before the unsub comes back for her.

“Based on the pattern,” Hotch begins, his voice steady, “we can assume the unsub is going to strike again. He’s methodical. The way he works suggests he’s already been planning this next move. We have a window.”

You listen, but you’re not really hearing him. Your eyes are fixed on the girl’s picture—the innocent smile frozen in time, the eyes full of unspoken fear. She’s just a little girl.

“And our best bet,” Morgan continues, leaning forward as he studies the information in front of him, “is to get her back into her old house. Lure the unsub out with a setup that looks weak—something that’ll convince him to make his move.”

Your stomach churns.

“That’s what we’re doing,” Hotch affirms, his eyes briefly meeting yours. “We need to make sure he’s brought to justice, and we’re running out of time.”

You can feel it—the tension rising in your chest, suffocating you. It’s not just the decision they’re making. It’s the plan. It’s the idea that they’re considering putting Madelyn in danger again.

You can’t stay silent.

“Are you serious?” Your voice cuts through the conversation like a knife. “We’re going to use her as bait?”

There’s an edge in your tone, one you rarely let genuinely show. The room goes still, and all eyes turn toward you.

Hotch looks at you with that ever-steady gaze of his, the kind that’s usually so impenetrable, but you can see the frustration beneath it. “We don’t have many options here. If we can’t draw him out, we risk losing him completely.”

“By using a child?” You repeat the word like it’s a poison, something that doesn’t belong in the same sentence as the word justice. You stand, unable to keep still, the anger making your pulse quicken. “This isn’t some game, Hotch. This is a real little girl. She’s already been through enough. We can’t just—”

“You’re overreacting,” Morgan interjects, his voice quieter now but firm. “We’re not putting her at direct risk. The setup will be controlled, and we’ll have backup in place,”

You shake your head, the words slipping from you before you can stop them. “Controlled? How do you control something like that? How do you control what he does to her when he finds out she’s there?”

Spencer speaks up from across the room, his voice calm but carrying an underlying note of empathy. “We’re not doing this blindly. There’s a risk, yes. But we’re also talking about a chance to stop him, once and for all. This is what we do,”

You turn to him, frustration boiling in your chest. “This is not our mission. She’s not just some tool to help us find a solution to our problems. She’s a child!”

Spencer’s eyes flash for a moment, but he softens his tone, lowering his voice. “I know, but we’re doing this to protect her. We can’t just sit back and wait for him to come to her. That’s not an option anymore,”

The conversation swirls around you, their voices growing distant in your ears as the weight of the decision begins to settle over you.

The plan, the baiting, the manipulation of this little girl’s already broken world—none of it feels right. The thought of putting her in harm’s way, even with all the precautions in place, is enough to make your stomach turn.

But no one is listening to you.

And you know, in the back of your mind, that it’s already decided. They’re going to go through with it.

Hotch gives you one last look, his gaze unreadable but firm. “I understand your concern, but this is the best option we have.”

You hold his gaze for a beat, the frustration still burning in your chest, but you can’t push it anymore.

Instead, you take a breath and step back, your voice tight. “Fine. But don’t expect me to like it.”

The rest of the team doesn’t speak up—no one challenges the decision. They all know what needs to be done, even if it isn’t easy. Even if it feels wrong.

And in that moment, you realise just how far this has gone. You’re not just part of the team anymore. You’re now complicit in something that you can’t reconcile with the woman you thought you were.

—

That night, you sit at your desk, staring at the case file in front of you, though you’re not really looking at it. Your thoughts drift back to Madelyn—her fragile, trusting eyes, the way she’s clung to you all day.

You didn’t sign up for this.

Spencer walks past your desk, pausing when he sees the way you’re hunched over the case files.

“You’re really not okay with this, are you?” he asks quietly, his voice soft but knowing.

You don’t answer at first, focusing on the photo of Madelyn. Her smile, her bunny clutched tight in her hands, all of it makes you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

Finally, you speak, your voice barely a whisper. “I just—I can’t believe we’re doing this to her.”

Spencer’s silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you don’t expect him to. Finally, he leans in, his tone steady but sympathetic.

“Sometimes, we have to make hard choices,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we forget who we’re doing it for,”

You glance up at him, meeting his eyes. There’s something in his gaze—a quiet understanding, a recognition of the struggle.

“You’ll be okay,” He hesitates before setting a hand against your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “And so will she,”

—

The silence in the room is almost oppressive. Madelyn has been tucked into her cot for the night, her small body curled into the covers as if trying to make herself as small as possible.

You’ve been avoiding looking at her, because every time you do, the weight of what you’re about to ask her presses down harder on your chest.

You know that this is necessary. You know that this is the only way to stop the unsub and give her a chance at safety. But that doesn’t make it feel any less wrong.

The plan is set. Tomorrow, they’ll use her as bait. And you, the one person she trusts in the world, are expected to stand by and watch.

It doesn’t matter that you’ll be there to protect her. It doesn’t matter that you’ll be the one closest to her. The thought of her being used like this leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that no amount of logic can cleanse.

But there’s no getting around it. The team has made their decision.

So you sit at the edge of her cot, trying to steady the storm of conflicting emotions swirling inside you. You’re the one who has to make her understand, and that terrifies you.

Maddie is lying on her side, her bunny tucked into the crook of her arm. She looks so small in the dim light, so fragile, and it hurts to see her like this.

The trauma she’s endured is still written on her face, though the interview was a step forward. But that doesn’t mean she’s ready for what’s about to happen. None of you are.

“Maddie?” you say softly, your voice quieter than usual. She doesn’t respond at first, her wide eyes flicking from her bunny to you. She’s so still, almost as though she’s bracing herself for something worse.

“Hey, sweetheart, look at me,” you coax gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She hesitates for a moment, but then she turns, her face a mask of anxiety and exhaustion.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to hold her gaze. “I need to tell you something important. Do you remember what I told you earlier, about keeping you safe?”

She nods, her lips trembling. “You’re gonna stay with me?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, like she’s afraid of hearing the wrong answer.

Your heart aches. You can feel the weight of what you’re about to say hanging in the air like a storm cloud. But you can’t lie to her. Not now. She deserves the truth. Even if it breaks you to say it.

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” you promise, trying to keep your voice steady. “But tomorrow… tomorrow’s going to be a little different.”

She furrows her brow, her small hands twisting the edges of her blanket. “How?”

You take a slow breath, carefully choosing your words. “Tomorrow, we’re going to do something to make sure that bad man never comes back. Something that will keep you safe. But it’s going to be a little scary, and I need you to trust me, okay?”

She looks up at you, eyes wide with apprehension. You can see her processing, the fear bubbling under the surface, trying to break through. But she doesn’t pull away. She stays there, watching you, waiting for the rest of it.

“It’s not going to be easy,” you continue. “We’re going to go to your old house, the place where all this happened, and we’re going to make it look like it did before. We’re going to have people watching from close by, and I’ll be right outside. The whole time, okay?”

Her lips tremble again, and you can see that she’s struggling to understand. The idea of going back to that house—where so much horror happened—is almost too much for her to process. You don’t blame her. You’d feel the same way.

“I won’t leave you,” you say again, making sure she hears the sincerity in your voice. “You’ll be safe, Maddie. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The trust in her eyes is palpable, but the fear is too. Her small body stiffens for a moment, and she looks down at her bunny like it’s the only thing holding her together. “What if… what if I’m scared?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

You lean in, your heart breaking just a little more. “It’s okay to be scared, But we’ll make all the scary things go away.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you almost feel like you’re breaking. The responsibility is too much, the pressure too great. You want so badly to pull her out of this situation, to find another way. But you can’t. You have to do this, not just for her, but for everyone who’s been affected by this unsub.

Madelyn bites her lip, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “You promise?”

You nod, your voice thick with emotion. “I promise.”

She looks at you for a long moment, as if weighing your words, trying to decide if she can trust you. And then, just as you’re starting to doubt yourself, she nods, barely perceptible. “Okay. I trust you.”

The words settle between you both, and for a moment, you feel the quiet weight of the promise you just made. This isn’t just a case anymore. It’s her. It’s her safety, her future, and you’re the one who has to make sure she’s protected.

“Good girl,” you say softly, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her forehead. “You’re so brave, Maddie. I’m proud of you.”

Her eyes flicker up to you again, and this time, there’s a faint smile. It’s small, but it’s there. “I’m not scared if you’re with me.”

That’s the moment you realise: she’s not just trusting you to keep her safe. She’s trusting you to give her back a sense of control over her own life, something she hasn’t had since the night her family was taken from her. And you can’t let her down. Not now, not ever.

“I’ll be with you,” you repeat. “Every step of the way.”

And as you watch her settle back into the covers, her bunny tucked tightly under her arm, you make a silent vow to yourself that no matter what happens tomorrow, no matter what you have to do, you will keep that promise.

Because no one else is going to.

Not like you will.

—

The air inside the old house is heavy with tension, each creak of the floorboards under the team’s feet amplified in the stillness.

The plan is simple. Madelyn is placed in the house, under the guise of a minimal police presence, to lure the unsub into taking the bait.

Everything has been carefully orchestrated, right down to the smallest detail. Outside, the team is positioned in hidden locations, all eyes on the house. They’re watching for any signs that the unsub is approaching, but you know they’re all thinking the same thing—you hope this works.

You’ve spent the entire day getting Maddie ready, talking her through the steps again, reassuring her that this is the right thing to do, that she’ll be okay. And, despite your own misgivings, you’re trying to convince yourself of the same thing.

You’ve promised her that you would stay by her side, and you have to see that promise through.

The door to the house is left slightly ajar, a weak police presence positioned just inside. You take your position on the floor below Maddie’s bedroom, staying close, but not so close as to be obvious. Your heartbeat is a loud thrum in your ears as the time ticks by, every minute stretching into what feels like an eternity. The silence inside the house feels like a storm waiting to break.

Then, it happens.

The motion sensor outside the house triggers, and you hear it—the unmistakable sound of someone breaching the perimeter. Your stomach lurches. The unsub is here.

It’s go-time.

The team moves in quickly, and in that same instant, you spring into action, your focus singular. Your only thought is Maddie. The unsub can be handled by the others. They’ve got it covered. But you can’t take your eyes off the one person you promised to protect. You know exactly where she is, and you don’t even hesitate to run toward her.

—

You burst into her room, your heart pounding. The light is dim, casting long shadows across the space. Maddie is standing by the window, looking outside with wide, fearful eyes. The moment she hears the door open, she turns to you, her face a mixture of confusion and terror.

She doesn’t say anything, but you can see the fear etched into her small features, the tremor in her hands as she holds the bunny close.

Without thinking, you move towards her in two quick steps. You scoop her up in your arms, holding her tight to your chest, pressing her small form into you as though you can shield her from all the horrors in the world. The weight of her trust feels heavier than ever.

“Shh,” you whisper, your voice as steady as you can make it, though it cracks just a little. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m right here. See? I told you you’d be okay.”

She clings to you, her fingers curling into your shirt. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. In this moment, she’s not just the scared little girl caught in a nightmare. She’s the child who trusted you with her safety—and that trust is all that matters.

You stroke her hair gently, trying to soothe her with the rhythm of your hand.

Your heart is racing, but you can’t afford to let that show. She’s looking up at you now, her wide eyes full of questions, full of fear that you can’t quite banish. But she trusts you. That’s enough.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you say again, even though you can’t promise it. You hold her tighter, wanting to shield her from everything outside this room, from the danger lurking just beyond the walls. You’re not thinking of the unsub anymore—only of Maddie. She’s the only thing that matters.

For a moment, everything else fades away. The outside world is a blur of movement and sound, but you are anchored in this small, dimly lit room with this little girl in your arms.

You don’t hear the team’s voices anymore, don’t hear the chase or the shouting, don’t hear anything except Maddie’s breathing against your chest. She’s calm now, her body still trembling but no longer with fear—more from the shock, the exhaustion of the night.

It’s a strange thing, the weight of her small body in your arms. There’s something deeply instinctive about it, something that stirs in you like an echo from a past you thought you’d finally buried alongside your Professor.

In this moment, holding her like this, you can’t help but think of what might have been. If you’d had that child, if you’d stayed.

What would it have been like? To raise a child of your own? To care for someone who needed you as much as she does?

The thought catches you off guard. It’s a brief moment of reflection, one that passes as quickly as it comes, but the weight of it lingers, like the fading scent of something once held close. It’s not the first time you’ve thought about it, but it’s the first time it’s felt so… real.

You quickly push the thought aside, focusing again on Maddie’s presence. Not now.

This isn’t about you. It’s about her. Always her.

“Hey,” you murmur, pulling her back slightly to look into her eyes. “You did great. You were so brave. You’re okay. It’s over now.”

Her eyes are wide, still searching your face for reassurance, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. You know that she’s still processing everything, still trying to make sense of the danger, of the chaos, of everything she’s been through in the past few days. But she’s safe now. She’s in your arms, and you’ll keep her safe for as long as it takes.

“Do you trust me?” you ask softly, even though you already know the answer.

Maddie nods, her small hand clutching tighter onto her bunny.

“Good,” you say, giving her a small but sincere smile. “Then we’ll get through this together.”

—

The storm has passed. The danger is over. Madelyn is safe. The unsub is in custody, and the team is in the clear. You’ve done your job. You’ve kept her safe, just as you promised.

But now comes the hardest part.

Her grandparents are here, having arrived just after the house was secured, the paperwork signed, and the chaos of the operation settled.

They’re older, frail but warm, and there’s a visible relief on their faces when they see their granddaughter—safe, unharmed, and sound, despite everything she’s been through.

They approach her cautiously, with a tenderness that is obvious in their every move, but it’s clear that Madelyn isn’t ready to leave yet.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to you, staring down at her hands, her bunny still clutched tightly in her grip. Her eyes flicker toward the door every now and then, but she doesn’t look up.

She can hear the voices outside—her grandparents—her family—but she’s frozen. The transition from being with you, the one person she’s come to rely on, to a completely new environment is more than she’s ready for.

You move closer, kneeling beside her. Her head doesn’t turn, but you can tell she knows you’re there. The silence between you is comfortable, not awkward, but weighted with the realisation that this is the end of the road for you both. This is where you have to let her go.

“Maddie,” you say softly, your voice a little hoarse from the long hours. “Your grandparents are here. They’re going to take you home. You’ll be safe with them.”

She doesn’t say anything, but you can see her shoulders tense, just a little. Her fingers flex against her bunny’s fur, as if trying to hold onto some sense of control, some last shred of the familiar. She’s scared. You understand that, even though she’s made it through the worst of it, she’s still just a little girl. And little girls need security. They need the things they’ve trusted, and right now, that’s you.

“I know it’s hard,” you continue, gently brushing her hair back. “But you’re going to be okay now. You’re going to be with your family. You’re not alone anymore.”

Madelyn stays quiet, but this time, she finally turns her head to look at you. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable, and it’s all you can do to hold back the swell of emotion threatening to break free. She’s asking with just a look—Can I stay? Can you keep me safe?

But you can’t. You’ve done what you promised. You can’t be her protector forever, and you both know it. She needs her family now, the people who can be there for her in ways you can’t.

“I’ll always be here if you need me,” you say, your voice steady, though your heart is anything but. “But you’ve got your grandparents now. They love you, and they’re going to take care of you. You’ll be safe with them, just like I promised you.”

Maddie looks down at her bunny again, as if deciding whether to give it up. For a long moment, she just holds it, her fingers tracing the worn fabric. You don’t push her. She needs to come to this decision herself, in her own time. But eventually, she looks up at you, and her face is as serious as it’s ever been.

“I want you to have him,” she says quietly. “He keeps me safe. Maybe he can keep you safe too.”

Your throat tightens at the simple, honest offer. The bunny—her constant companion, the thing that has been with her through every terrifying moment, every flash of panic—is now being entrusted to you. You can feel the weight of it, of the trust in her small hands as she holds it out to you.

For a brief moment, you hesitate. You weren’t expecting this. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to accept anything from her, to make it feel like a goodbye, like this was the end. But the way she’s looking at you—her eyes filled with the kind of vulnerability that only a child could show—it’s a gift. A gesture of complete trust.

You reach out, slowly, your fingers brushing against hers as she places the stuffed animal into your hands. You don’t say anything at first. You don’t need to. The weight of the moment says it all.

“I’ll look after him,” you say finally, your voice soft. “I promise,”

Maddie gives a small nod, her lip trembling slightly, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t need to. She knows she’s safe now. She knows that the danger is over, even though it’s going to take a long time for her to truly feel like it. But she trusts you. That’s what matters most.

Her grandparents step forward now, gentle and patient. Her grandmother reaches out, her hand trembling slightly, but Madelyn doesn’t move. She looks up at you one last time, and it’s like she’s asking you for permission. You nod, brushing a hand over her hair one last time, offering her the comfort and security she’s going to need in the days to come.

“You’re going to be okay, Maddie,” you repeat, knowing it’s true. You’ve done everything you could for her, and now it’s time to let go.

Madelyn doesn’t look back as her grandparents gently lead her out of the room. She doesn’t cry, though you’re sure the tears will come later. For now, she’s holding herself together, with the knowledge that she’s safe, and that she’s going to be okay.

—

The hum of the office is soothing in its familiar monotony. You step inside, the heavy weight of the case finally lifting from your shoulders. It’s strange—part of you feels relief, the other part feels like an echo of something left behind. Something you didn’t quite expect to feel, but there it is, nestled in your chest, quietly tugging at you.

You take a deep breath and walk to your desk, setting down your bag and the files you’ve been carrying all day. Then, without really thinking about it, you place the stuffed animal on the corner of your desk, the soft bunny now a permanent fixture in the workspace that’s been both home and battlefield for so long.

It’s a small thing, but it’s a thing that means something. And as soon as you set it down, you feel a soft exhale escape your lips. A sense of finality, of closure, as if everything has settled into place.

The case is over. Madelyn is safe. But something about this—about the stuffed animal—feels like a piece of you that will always remain in that small room with her, in the moment when you promised to keep her safe.

You don’t realise Spencer is watching you until you hear his soft voice.

“She gave it to you,” he says, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

You glance over at him, momentarily surprised. His gaze is soft, understanding, and there’s a certain warmth in his eyes that you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You glance back at the bunny and then back at Spencer. It’s an odd feeling—the way he’s looking at you, almost as if he sees more than just the case, more than just the professional side of you. He sees the part of you that changed over the past 36 hours.

“She did,” you say, your voice low, not quite sure what to say after that. It’s true, but you hadn’t really thought it through. You hadn’t thought about what this moment would mean.

“You didn’t have to take it,” Spencer offers gently, taking a step closer. “But I think it’s... a good thing. That you did.”

You swallow, unsure how to process the mix of emotions stirring in your chest. It’s strange, this feeling. The feeling of having kept a promise, of having kept someone safe. You’ve done this kind of work before, but never like this. Never with this kind of personal connection.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice thick with something you can’t quite put into words.

Spencer steps closer, his posture relaxed, yet there’s an unspoken care in his movements. He looks at you—softly, steadily—and you feel the warmth of his presence settle around you. He reaches a hand out, his fingers brushing over the edge of your waist. It’s a gesture that’s comforting, gentle, not pushing, just there.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid of breaking the moment. His touch is subtle, yet you can feel the tenderness in his gesture.

You nod, but the answer feels incomplete. How do you explain that you're fine, but also changed? How do you explain that the girl who clung to you, who trusted you with her safety, left something inside you that you hadn’t expected to find?

“I’m fine,” you say finally, because it’s easier to say than to explain.

Spencer doesn’t press, doesn’t ask for more details. He just gives a soft nod, his fingers still lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he steps back slightly. He doesn’t push. He’s always been good at giving space when needed.

“Want me to take you home?” he asks, his voice gentle. “Or… we could just go somewhere. Get some food. Something to relax.”

The offer is simple, but you can tell that it’s more than that. It’s his way of letting you know he’s there for you, not out of obligation, but because he wants to be. Because he sees you in a way that not many people do.

The soft affection in his voice, the quiet care in his words—it’s enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you’ve felt in the past.

You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips. For a moment, the world outside the office fades, and it’s just the two of you. He’s standing there, so patient, so steady, and the weight of the last 36 hours begins to feel a little less heavy with him around.

“That’d be nice,” you say finally, surprising yourself with the answer. You don’t know why, but you do. You could go home, retreat into the silence of your apartment, but there’s something about the idea of being with him—of having someone there, someone who understands, someone who’s seen the way you’ve changed—that feels better.

Spencer smiles, a quiet relief crossing his face. He steps forward, offering you a hand, and you take it without hesitation. His fingers close around yours, warm and comforting. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like a promise, like something new is beginning.

“Let’s go then,” he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

[aliteralsemicolon]

We can't be friends, but I'd like to just pretend

Part 1 of We can't be friends (wait for your love) | See part 2 | See part 3

You and Spencer have convinced yourselves that you’re only meant to be friends despite the strong tension between you two. It only seems to intensify the longer you ignore it, eventually reaching its boiling point and forcing changes in the friendship.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

(but no mentions of pronouns in this so it can be read as gn)

DISCLAIMER This story is SFW but it’s intended for mature audiences only. You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read.

WARNING Mentions of: Indirect peer pressure, alcohol/drinking/being drunk, very slight implicated SA (it doesn’t happen), serial killer, kidnapping, torture, murder, stalking, and threats. It’s all barely there and doesn’t really matter to the story tbh. Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 9.3K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

Being in love is hard. Being in love with your best friend is harder. It’s a merciless form of torture really, devoting yourself entirely to the person you hold dearest to your heart, but they aren’t yours. It was almost masochistic, standing by to serve him in whatever way you thought he needed. Luckily, you weren’t a masochist. 

Not entirely, at least. 

You were there for him when he needed, offering whatever you had to give, but there were parts of you that you kept guarded. To protect yourself, but more importantly, to protect Spencer. It wasn’t uncommon for you to hear that you were ‘too much’ from passing lovers in your life. A certain level of detachment was necessary to ensure the safety of Spencer’s friendship. He was the most important person in your life. 

Maybe it was the multitude of degrees as a result of his intelligence. He never let you feel stupid or any less intelligent. 

Maybe it was the way his whole body lit up when he shared information he’d stored in that beautiful mind.

Maybe it was the charm in how goofily he carried himself. The way his hands would flail around when he spoke to keep up with the speed his brain moved at. 

Or maybe it was how he made you feel seen. 

How he always knew what to say, what to do. How he remembered little details about you, like how you preferred the window seat on the jet. And how he went out of his way to accommodate the details, like giving up the window seat just so you could sit in it. He was an unusually thoughtful man, with everybody he knew. 

That’s something you had to remind yourself of often. 

He’s like that with everybody. He has an eidetic memory, of course he remembers the little details. 

If only you knew how wrong you were. Spencer was a thoughtful man, there was no doubt about that. Sure he was gifted with an arguably incomparable memory, but unlike all the things he had no choice in remembering, he chose to remember the little details about you. To him you were the closest thing to a real life angel. 

It was the way you were the only person he’d ever met, willing to sit there and listen to him talk for hours. You’d go out of your way to show interest in the things he’d share, even if you didn’t actually have any interest in it.

The way he could swear he saw stars in your eyes whenever he stole an opportunity to stare into them. They would burn brighter if accompanied with the sweet sound of your laughter. 

He felt compelled to accommodate you. Especially when you light up the way you do from such minuscule actions on his part. Spencer loved being the person to bring out your smile, taking any excuse to try and coax one out of you. Even if he’d slightly inconvenience himself at times. His convenience mattered little to him because he knew how much you did for him too. 

Every morning before work you’d make the trip to his favourite coffee shop, getting him scones and coffee exactly to his liking because you knew he had a tendency to skip breakfast. His favourite coffee shop was a fifteen minute drive from your apartment and an extra twenty from Headquarters. You went out of your way to deliver it to him, even reheating the coffee yourself before handing it over. 

Spencer wasn’t alone in recognising your generosity. The entire sixth floor had noticed how both of you subconsciously performed acts of service for each other, even if nobody had brought it up to your faces. 

“I know that look.” Rossi remarks, turning his head towards his raven haired co-worker, eyes on you and Spencer.

“Yea..I just wonder if they know.” Emily mirrors his actions as she gives her own comment on the sight just a few feet in front of her. 

Neither of you realise you have spectators observing your conversation. You’re in your own little bubble at Spencer’s desk, the resident genius seated comfortably with his gaze on you as he speaks. Your focus is entirely on the man across from you, leaning in slightly, perched on the wooden surface. 

“Because stomach acid in the human body is typically 1-2 on the PH scale, it’s capable of dissolving metals such as certain types of stainless steels. Razors for example! The Gastrointestinal Endoscopy journal shared that scientists found that the thickened back of a single-edged blade dissolved just two hours of immersion in stomach acid!” His voice went up a pitch as he spoke and you couldn’t help but smile.

“So theoretically, an unsub could use a razor blade as a murder weapon and potentially eat it to dispose of it?” It was a relatively dumb question, but you just wanted to keep him talking. 

“Well, it’s possible, but realistically I don’t think a razor blade-” 

“Sorry to interrupt my younglings,” A colourful Garcia appears in your bubble and cuts Spencer off, “but I am here to let you know that the team will be going out for drinks, on Rossi, tonight! No exceptions!!”

When your head swivels to Garcia, you also notice the gawking pair not far behind her, shuffling off when they realise they’ve been caught staring. 

“I’ll come, but I won’t be drinking.” Spencer says with an awkward smile. They shift their sights on you for your response. 

“Sorry guys…I already have plans for tonight.” You purse your lips together apologetically. 

“What no! No, no, no! You know how rare these nights can be!” Garcia frowns and grabs your shoulders pleadingly.

“I knowwww…I’m sorry!!”

“Fine, fine, but at least share what’s keeping you busy tonight?” The blonde pokes.

You shift your eyes to Spencer, who’s just staring at you with a curious look and then back to Garcia. 

“Well I have a date-” You begin, but are interrupted by a whispered squeal.

Garcia begins a response, but stops herself when she spots a nonchalant Derek Morgan heading towards the elevators. “We will discuss this in detail during Saturday’s girls night. For now I will accept your excuse and remind you to dress your sexiest! Now excuse me while I go and intercept my sweet chocolate thunder.”

She grips you in a tight hug and scurries off after Morgan. The atmosphere shifts slightly, as you meet Spencer’s eyes awkwardly. 

“You have a date? Why didn’t you mention that” Spencer titters.

“I’m sorry, it just didn’t occur to me.” You try to lie, but Spencer’s expression gives away that he doesn’t believe you. “Okay, okay, I just didn’t wanna say anything because the last time I talked about one of my dates you got all weird and I didn’t want to upset you again.”

“Upset me? I was not upset.” He protests and folds his arms across his chest. 

“Okay what would you call it then?” 

“I wouldn’t call it anything.” 

“Oh really? So you’re not upset that I’m going on a date?”

“Nope. Not at all. I’m interested actually, tell me about him.”

You eye him carefully, trying to figure out where his head is at. Spencer has a tendency to get sassy when he feels defensive. 

“You’re interested? To hear about one of my dates?” You question with playful caution. 

“Yes. I’m always interested in things about you.” He spills. 

Your reaction to his words is immediate, a surprised jump in your features, but you manage to mask it almost just as fast. Spencer’s just as surprised as you. 

“I-I just mean- you know? Because yo-you’re my best friend.” He tries to play it off. 

There’s no way. 

You think to yourself. Spencer definitely didn’t mean it in that way. 

No he definitely didn’t. He just said so himself. You’re his best friend. Spencer Reid does not feel the same way about you.

It stings to admit to yourself, but it’s for the best. Spencer is a smart, handsome, wonderful man with so much to offer. You’re too much work, come with too much baggage, just too much.

“Yea, we’re best friends.” An affirmation more for yourself than him. 

A silence looms as you stare at each other stiffly. 

“Anyways, my date,” you decide not to linger on it for too long, “it’s with that guy I told you about, Nathan.”

“Nathan? Didn’t you go on a date with him last time?” A casual inquiry. 

“Yea!” You squeak enthusiastically, grateful that he had reverted back to his light-hearted self. 

This was something you deeply enjoyed about your friendship. The fact the two of you could flow back into casual conversation no matter what.

“So it’s a second date?”

“Yes! The first one went really well, so I thought why not agree to a second when he asked?”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you.” 

His approval should feel better than it does. For some reason, it makes you uneasy. Almost as if you don’t want him to approve. 

He has approved though, meaning he isn’t against you dating other people. He doesn’t want you the same way.

“Really?” You want to be sure, scared that you might put him off again.

“Yes! Really! If you’re happy then I’m happy for you.” A fib that you were unaware of. 

In truth, Spencer would rather crawl on the office bathroom floor than see you with some other guy. Fortunately for him, he isn’t actually going to be there to see you with this ‘Nathan’. So he doesn’t need to submit to such an awful torture. Maybe he’s being dramatic, you aren’t his girlfriend. He has no right to feel such a heavy drop in his gut. 

Part of him really is happy for you. He wanted you to feel loved, even if it wasn’t by him. God, how he wished it was by him. If friendship is what he has to settle for to be near you, then so be it. Though at times it feels like it might kill him, you being the closest person in his life, but not close enough to the point where he could call himself yours. 

“REID!”

Spencer jumps at the sound of Morgan’s voice, finding it difficult to focus on his current surroundings. He missed half the team scattering around to different parts of the bar, Morgan now his only company. 

“What’s up?” His expression shifts to a tight-lipped smile.

“Where’s your head at man?” Derek probes.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean I have never seen you this zoned out before. You haven’t checked back in since you sat down.” 

It wasn’t intentional, but since you walked out the doors of the BAU all Spencer’s been able to think about was your date. You probably went straight home to get ready, pulling out all the stops to feel as beautiful as you are. For somebody that can never truly appreciate it, not like he can. 

“I guess I’m just not feeling well.” A pathetic excuse. One Spencer finds himself making whenever he’s pulled out of his thoughts about you. 

Morgan doesn’t believe him. Hell, Spencer doesn’t even believe himself. 

“Kid. You know you can always talk to me right? About anything.” 

“I know. I’m really just tired. Actually- you know what, c-could- could you just tell the others that I’m just not feeling great, I’m- bye Derek.” Spencer stutters as he rushes out of his seat. 

He doesn’t even give the man a chance to respond as he makes his exit out of the bar. He’s lacking the capability to force himself to socialise. The knowledge of you on a date with another man was something he’s been able to handle, but a second date with a man was harder to stomach. You must like him if you’re willing to see him again. 

The ride home feels longer than it actually is. How far had the date gotten? Were you enjoying it? Did Nathan make you laugh the way he could? Spencer might lose his mind. He wondered if you had given Nathan the privilege of touching you. Your skin always looked so soft, his heart panged at the thought. He felt sick. 

You were his best friend. You trusted him. He shouldn’t think this way about you, feel this way about you. Unreciprocated feelings were something Spencer was entirely used to. He’d perfected being able to put the person at the receiving end of his affections in the back of his mind. To ignore until it went away entirely.

Why was it so much harder this time? There is no universe in which you would ever return his love for you. Which is why he needs to force himself to love you from afar. It was a fact Spencer reminded himself of repeatedly. And he would’ve kept at it, if he wasn’t interrupted by the sight of you standing in front of his door as he stepped up his apartment stairs. 

“Hi!” His voice alerts you softly.

“Hi!” You squeak back, turning on your heel to face him. 

He can’t help but note how heavenly you look. It almost knocked the air out of his lungs, except he noticed the poorly wiped tears glistening on your face. He didn’t ask about it, immediately. Instead he just pulled you in for a hug, something he rarely did with others, and unlocked his door as he motioned for you to enter first. Another thing to love about Spencer Reid. 

You step inside, more than familiar with the deep green walls surrounding you. If the stench of liquor wasn’t enough, then the way you stumbled on your way to his couch was all Spencer needed to deduce that you had been drinking. A lot. He walks past you towards his kitchen, returning with a glass of water and painkillers you would definitely need later. 

“Have you eaten?” He asks softly, handing you the glass of water. 

“Um..” you take a sip and pause as you sigh, “yeah.”

The two of you just sit there, silently, stealing small glances at each other and averting your gazes before the other can notice. You know he’s waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to speak first. Except you don’t know what to say. You feel so embarrassed. He probably had better plans for tonight, but here you are, pestering him again. 

“How long were you waiting?” He speaks up once he realises that you aren’t going to.

“Not long, I had actually just gotten there, your timing was really good.” You mumble, forcing an awkward chuckle. 

“Did Nathan drop you off?” Spencer hopes that bringing up your date might give you enough courage to vent. 

“No. No, I walked.” A resigned smile creeps on your face, not wanting to talk about your journey here. “How was your night?”

“Walked?? Alone?? Drunk??” The words seep out of him before he can hold his tongue. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

“I’m sorry! I just didn’t want to bother you!” You defend. 

But you are bothering him. You’re bothering him right now.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hold back tears. Guilt creeps inside him. He knows that he’s not the source of your tears, but he didn’t want to make you cry regardless. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he takes hold of your hand and squeezes ever so gently, “we don’t have to talk about it.”

“Why don’t we play chess? You’re getting better at it, you know?” He adds, thinking of a quick distraction. 

Chess was a favourite pastime of yours with Spencer. You pull your hand out of his grip and use it to rub the opposing arm, his touch overwhelming you. He was too soft with you. You suppose it’s why you seek him out so often. Out of all the men you’ve ever known, Spencer was the only one who knew you. It felt so nice to be known. 

“Y-yea..yes. Please. Let’s uh- let’s play chess.” You stumble on your words, eager to think about anything else. 

Spencer retrieves his mini chess board from his satchel and prepares the board between the two of you. Neither of you utter a word as you play your moves. You appreciate the silence, because you know that you can’t say or do the wrong thing. 

“You’re going easy on me.” You break the silence anyway, scared that the silence might bore him. 

“You’re holding back.” He argues and you finally meet his eyes for the first time since you started the game.

“No, I’m just drunk.” You counter.

“I was the one at a bar but you’re the one who’s drunk.” It’s a stupid comment, slightly cringy even, but he earns a genuine laugh out of you. 

His dorkiness was part of his charm. Your laughter makes him smile. A comfortable silence fills the atmosphere as your eyes meet again. Spencer’s eyes were so beautiful, you could drown in them. Spencer in general was so beautiful, in every way possible. 

“It’s your move.” He has to remind you, worried that if he’s allowed to look at you for two long he might do something really stupid.

“I-uhm- I had a shitty date.” You owe him an explanation for ruining his night.

He doesn’t respond, not wanting to say anything that might make you close up again. He wanted to be the person you talked to about your problems. He wanted to be your solace. 

“It started really well. I thought I could see something more, but it turns out he just wanted the same thing as all the others. Thought that maybe if he got me drunk enough..but it obviously didn’t work” You try to lighten the weight of your words by laughing with them. “It’s probably for the best, you know? I don’t think it would’ve worked out regardless, I couldn’t stop-”

Stop comparing him to you. 

Normally, Spencer is the one with the tendency to ramble, but the alcohol wasn’t making it easy for you to shut up. You just hope he doesn’t realise where you were headed with that statement. You kept comparing your date to Spencer. Everything Nathan did today was a direct reminder of things Spencer would never do. 

“Check.” You choose to stop making a fool of yourself there.

Spencer’s breath hitches. Not because he picked up on what you hoped he didn’t, rather because he was concerned by the possible implications of what you said.

“Did he..did he try to-” 

“No. Oh my God, no!” You cut him off before he can finish the thought. 

His shoulders relax and the silence resumes. For the first time since he met you, Spencer found himself speechless. He didn’t know whether to comfort you or give you advice. Part of him felt selfishly relieved, at least he didn’t have to worry about some other guy anymore. The other part, the part that felt disgusted with himself for even thinking about himself right now, felt a mixed range of hurt for you. 

It started with resentment for the negligence Nathan displayed with you and ended with sorrow for how easily you brushed off your hurt. While he ran all the possibilities of the best thing to say, you ran all the possibilities of leaving his apartment in the least inconvenient way for him, interpreting his silence as irritation. 

He should be irritated, you’re disrupting his night. 

You need to leave before he can tell you to. Just as you’re about to mutter some bull-shit excuse, Spencer gently cups your hand with both of his hands and locks eyes with you. His voice is so painstakingly gentle, your breath gets stuck in your throat.

“Nathan and anyone else who has ever allowed themselves to be blinded by their shallow urges is an absolute fool. Idiot. Moron. There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe how stupid they are for missing out on knowing you as you are. I’ve experienced a lot of good things in my life, none have ever brought me as much joy as you do. I can’t even begin to explain how deserving you are of love and it’s heartbreaking to see that you’ve convinced yourself of the opposite.”

It’s your turn to be speechless. Of the list of things you didn’t expect, this wasn’t even on the list. You should have expected it. It was in Spencer’s nature to prove you wrong for underestimating his tenderness. He felt perhaps he went too far. Said too much.

“I-I just mean-” 

“Why are you so nice to me?” Your heart feels like it’s lacking space inside your chest, tears threaten to build. 

“Because you’re my f-friend.” He struggles to utter the last word.

“Friend..” You nervously laugh.

The meaning behind his words don’t register in your drunken state. All your focus is diverted to the feeling of his calloused skin on yours. The liquor in your veins awakens dazed boldness. One you’d be too wary of displaying otherwise. You allow your fingers to dance against his, an act of intimacy not reserved for friends. He doesn’t stop you either. 

“You know…” 

it’s almost not even a whisper, 

“...if I wasn’t who I am…” 

but Spencer was an expert in tuning out everything else to focus solely on your voice,

“...maybe you could love me the way I love you.”

And the world, as Spencer knows it, stops. Your words ring in his ears and he’s sure his heartbeat has become audible. 

“Y-you love me?” He repeats, unable to suppress his need to hear those words again.

The validity of your confession doesn’t bear any weight until you hear it from him, your motions against his hand coming to an immediate stop. You shift line of sight to his face faster than you can blink, waiting for his reaction so you can scramble to save your friendship. 

Parroting your words wasn’t enough, Spencer couldn’t believe it. He had never considered it feasible for you to love him. He had spent so many sleepless nights tormenting himself over the fact. He wanted so badly to cup your face and tell you about all the thoughts of you that consumed his mind. To say those three words back. 

“You can’t love me.” Instead he said four words that strained your hope for salvation. He’d shoot himself if he had any realisation of what he had just done. 

“No, of-of c-course, I meant like an- a- amazing fr-friend. You k-know, like the kind of bes-best friend you only mean once in your lif-life.” And you unknowingly shattered that hope in him. 

Silence has never been more deafening. Neither of you can look away from each other. There’s so much to say but how can it be said now? 

“Right. No, yeah. Of course.” He forces out. 

A fake understanding between you two. The expressions canvassing both of your faces display anything but understanding. Though you’re no longer physically touching, you’re still holding each other in your view. A few moments pass and Spencer is the first to look away. 

“You must be tired-” He starts.

You were still disrupting his space.

“Right, I’ll go-” You stand, ready to rush out the door.

“No-no.” He sighs. “Stay please. It’s late and you’re drunk-”

“No I’ve alrea-” You try to protest, not wanting him to go out of his way for you any longer.

“Please. I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re safe.” He begs, not just with his words but his eyes. 

“Okay.” You murmur. “But I’m taking the couch.”

Under any other circumstances, Spencer would have resisted you taking the couch. Today? He was utterly drained.

“Alright. I’ll get you something comfortable to change into while I set up the couch. You know where the bathroom is.” He sports a weak smile, unable to meet your eyes again. 

He watches you disappear into the bathroom after handing you some spare clothes. He sets the couch with the pillows and blankets he’d reserved for you. He bought them after you’d slept over a few times at the start of your friendship, wanting you to sleep as comfortably as possible so you would keep coming back.

You’d just broken his heart into a million pieces, so fine that he’d never be able to put it back together whole, but he still couldn’t not exert the utmost care when it came to you. 

In the bathroom, you fight back tears again as you fumble into his clothes. You’d worn this particular sweatshirt before, because you didn’t anticipate staying the night. It was never planned, often you two just lost track of time because you spent too long engaged in conversations. After a while you started leaving things at his place so you had an excuse to keep coming back. 

You can handle just being his friend, but you don’t think you can handle not being anything to him. Was there something you could do so you didn’t have to stop coming back? 

When you came out and saw your makeshift bed for the night, you felt slightly fuzzy inside. Spencer had already gone to bed but he’d covered the cushions of the couch with a thick blanket and two fluffy pillows. A fresh glass of water was waiting for you on the coffee table with the pills from earlier. 

Maybe things were okay after all? Surely he wouldn’t have put as much care into your comfort if they weren’t. So why couldn’t you shake this feeling of dread inside you? Why did the air feel so thick?

You spend most of what’s left of the night awake, curled into yourself on his couch, muffling your sobs. You’ve ruined another good thing. Pushed away probably the most important person in your life. You knew he was too good for you, he could never feel the same way. You got greedy.

Just a few feet away from you, Spencer’s in the exact same position as you on his bed. No rejection has ever hurt as much as when it came from you. He knew you were drunk, he knew you could never actually feel the same way. But aren’t drunk words sober thoughts? Statistics definitely agree they are.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the pounding headache. Then the dry mouth. Spencer had left a glass of water, painkillers and a bagel on the coffee table. You reach for the pill first, hoping that the faster you take it, the faster it kicks in. As you practically pour the water down your throat, you see a little note next to the bagel. 

“Paper work day at the office. Make sure to eat and drink lots of water. Will tell Hotch that you’ll be late/taking the day off. - Spencer”

Thoughtful as ever. The bagel was still warm so he must’ve left recently. It was strange that he’d left without waking you up like he normally does. Your first bite of the bread jolts the memories of the night before and it hits you harder than the headache. Your appetite faded and the remorse set in. 

Shit. 

You and Spencer have always been able to bounce back, but the damage you caused last night might be irreparable. Say Spencer does forget about it, can you? You always knew he couldn’t love you back, but you never imagined that he would forbid you to love him in the first place. As much as you didn’t want to face Spencer right now, work was the best place for you to be if you didn’t want to go mad thinking about last night. 

You’d have to change into appropriate work attire first, so a trip back to your place was warranted. The whole uber ride back to your apartment you think of things to say when you see him. Things didn’t need to change. You had to apologise, obviously, but there had to be some way of apologising while maintaining normalcy. The best start was getting him his coffee and scones like you usually did. 

Meanwhile at the office, Spencer was stuck on the same page of his file. It had never taken him more than a few seconds to turn a page, but he wasn’t actually reading the words. You took up every thought in his mind again. He wondered if you were awake yet, if you remembered the events of the night before. 

“You know if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.”

When he initially heard you say it, all he heard was that you love him.

“You know if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.”

When he said it out loud to himself all he wanted to do was tell you how much he does love you, but the chance was ripped away from him just as fast as it was given to him. Did you even care? Or was it just an insignificant event to you? It was a lot easier to accept that you could never love him the same way before he had a taste of what it would be like if you did. 

There was this moment, when your fingers were fiddling with his and you said those words, just a second where he experienced what it could be like. He can’t go back to how it was, not now that he knows how it could’ve been. In order to protect himself from unravelling completely he has to let you go. An impossible task, considering you work together. 

“I brought coffee.” Your expression is tentative. 

Spencer looks up to see you standing above him, holding his daily coffee and scones in hand. There are no traces of the night before to be seen on you. Your makeup is fresh and you’d clearly changed clothes. You looked perfectly angelic, as always. If it were any other day, your gesture would’ve made him feel like the most special person in the world. Today, it felt like the cruellest thing in the world. 

“Do you wanna come with me while I heat it up? Or should I just bring it back to you?” You prompt. 

“No.” He rises from his seat and pries it out from your hand. “I can do it. Thank you.” 

Before you comprehend what’s happened, Spencer’s walked away. You try to follow him to the kitchen, but when you get there he’s nowhere to be seen. This seems to be a trend for the next few days. You find some excuse to try for conversation and he shuts it down after about one sentence. That’s if you’re able to get close enough to him for that sentence. It’s becoming more and more obvious that he’s avoiding you. 

You decide to give him space after about a week of it, wishing everyday that you could go back in time and change things. Around the two week mark, he starts giving you the cold shoulder, not even so much as looking at you. He couldn’t look at you. It was taking everything in him to force himself away from you, but it was easier than being near you. You weren’t the only one who could feel this change in your dynamic, the team was just as confused.

They’d all tried to investigate the root of this shift, individually directing casual questions to both of you in conversations. You’d both just brushed it off, not wanting to be the burden of the topic. Spencer had been doing so well in keeping his distance, but eventually, Hotch made the decision that enough is enough.

The BAU was in Chicago this week, hunting down another unsub who thought he was too smart to get caught. This was one of those cases that would stick with you for a while, so tensions were already high amongst everyone. Nobody was more on edge than Spencer and now he was forced in a car with you, driving around the city, chasing leads. 

Rarely did he ever get behind the wheel, but he knew he would need any distraction he could get. Driving was supposed to mean he wouldn’t be stuck in the passenger seat, fighting the urge to stare at you. Now he was fighting the urge to stare at you from the driver's seat. He hated being in love. You were trying your best to stay silent and looking out the window at the passing buildings. 

“Are you hungry?” 

That’s the first time in a month that Spencer’s been the first one to speak. He tried not to. Like he tried not to pay attention to your routine. It wasn’t possible. No matter how hard he tried, there were just some things Spencer couldn’t not do in regards to you. The most important thing was that he couldn’t not care. 

He knew you hadn't been eating properly. You had a tendency to forget about your well-being during hard cases. You were probably hungry. Somebody had to take care of you because you most definitely weren’t going to. He was right. The thought of food made your stomach growl. It was wicked timing. 

“No, thank you.” You lie anyway, not wanting to inconvenience him further. 

“Why won’t you stop lying to me?” He mutters in annoyance. 

“Excuse me?” You scoff, turning to look at him. 

He doesn’t look away from the road, pretending to not have heard you. 

“Seriously?” You sputter. “You’re ignoring me now?”

You huff as you throw yourself back against your seat. He didn’t mean to ignore you, he just didn’t know what to say. 

“I don’t understand why you’re being like this.” You mumble. 

It was already daunting when he was barely acknowledging you, but refusing to acknowledge all together? When you were the only person next to him? That was just vicious. You knew you’d fucked up, but was this necessary? You had already spent so much of yourself trying to keep it together, being confined in this car with him would waste your efforts. 

“Pull over.” You say in the kindest way possible, which was immensely harsh. “Spencer Reid pull this damn car over or I swear to fucking God I am going to jump out of it.”

That definitely caught his attention. In all your time together, you had never spoken to him in that way. You had definitely never addressed him by his full name. He brings the car to a halt on the side of the curb and finally turns to face you. You push the door open and hop out, slamming it behind you. 

“What are yo-” Spencer starts, but you’re already walking away. He quickly gets out and follows behind you. It doesn’t take him long to catch up to you and he stops you by the arm when he realises saying your name won’t make you turn back around. 

“Don’t touch me!” You yank your arm out of his grip and keep walking. 

“Where are you going?!” 

“Anywhere you’re not.” 

He tries you by your name again, but when it fails again, he grabs you by the shoulders and spins you around. You hadn’t noticed that you’d walked into an alleyway. 

“Get back in the car.” He demands.

“I am not getting in a car with you.” You have never been this upset with him before. 

“You’re being childish!” He snaps, rolling his eyes.

“Oh I’m being childish?! Spencer, believe me when I say I mean this is the nicest way I possibly can right now – FUCK OFF!” You push his hands off you and take a step back, but he just grabs your wrist.

“Listen to me,” he urges, “there is a serial killer that’s kidnapping women in broad daylight, torturing them and murdering them. And he’s threatened each of us individually during the course of this investigation. You cannot just be walking around alone, in a city you hardly know.”

“Don’t explain the details of this case to me, I’m well aware.” You snarl, your irritation increasing tenfold.

“Then why are you being so difficult?!” He screeches.

“Why are you–fucking hell, I cannot keep doing this. I’m not getting in the car when you won’t talk to me. Hell, you won’t even so much as look at me!” 

“Fine! You wanna talk? We’ll talk! Just–get back in the car. Please.” He sighs in defeat. You still don’t budge, so he pleads softer. “Please.”

You take a deep breath and roll your eyes, stealing your wrist out of his grasp. Spencer doesn’t move until you do, both of you silently making your way to the car. 

You’re both silent initially, not knowing where exactly to go from here. There’s one thing you know for sure, you won’t be the first to speak. Spencer catches on to that fast. 

“What do you wanna talk about?” He snarls, shrugging his arms. 

“Cut the shit, I won’t get back in this car if I get out for a second time.” You’re not in the mood. The two of you had avoided this conversation for long enough, it was now or never. Some part of you wished for never. 

“Fine. Did you mean it?” He shoots, briskly. 

“What?” You didn’t know which part he meant. 

“That you love me specifically as an ‘amazing friend’, I believe was your wording.” His voice cracks and it causes a shift in his behaviour. He’s no longer hostile, just hurt. 

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” 

In your rush to get him talking, you hadn’t actually realised that you weren’t ready to talk about this. You were stalling. 

“Answering a question with a question.” 

This doesn’t feel like a conversation. More like an interrogation, except you’re the unsub. He scoffs bitterly at your silence. 

“Spencer, don’t–” 

“No, you’re the one who wanted to talk! You were so insistent, in fact, that you would have rather made yourself a serial killer’s target then get in a car with me if I didn’t talk to you. And all of a sudden you’re speechless?” He snaps at you. 

“Yes! I was the one who wanted to talk! I just– I can’t understand what I’ve done to make you hate me so much? Was it because I said I love you? Did it really upset you that much?” You were both shouting from frustration. 

“You think I’m upset because you love me?!” Spencer scoffs in disbelief. 

“Aren’t you?!” You bitterly laugh. 

Spencer rubs his temples and squeezes his eyes shut, mumbling some under his breath. He’s genuinely never been this frustrated in his life. 

“Are you being serious?” His voice strains in pitch, as he tries to keep himself a lot calmer than he feels. “Is this some sort of joke to you?”

“Some sort of joke–”

“Do not interrupt me again. You wanna run away from this? Fine. But you will listen because I will not have this conversation again.” His tone is sharp, like a blade being held against your throat. It definitely shuts you up.

“Talk. Okay, let’s talk about how I have spent the last four years watching you allow undeserving men to walk all over you, letting them treat you like you’re worth nothing. I damn near drove myself insane trying to figure out why. Why is it something you accept for yourself? And then I realised– that’s how you see yourself. You actually hate yourself so much that you’ve convinced yourself you deserve it! Do you realise how infuriating that is?!

Especially because it’s the furthest thing from the truth! Still, I watched you throw yourself into this vicious cycle over and over again. You gave yourself away to those idiots, knowing that they didn’t have good intentions, but you still hoped it would be different every time. I mean you’re a fucking profiler for God’s sake! How can you expect others to love you if you can’t even love yourself? 

That’s not even the worst part! You’re so desperate for their acceptance that you continuously neglect the acceptance you already have from the people who love you. People like Emily, Penelope, Derek– the team– people like– people like me. I mean I’ve always known that you didn’t love me as anything more than a friend, but your constant reminders feel like a punch to the gut! Is it that embarrassing for you to love me as anything more?

I’ve survived way worse things, but this is the cruellest thing I’ve ever been through. Because it’s coming from you! I just never expected it’d be from you.” He’s practically hyperventilating for air by the time his speech comes to a stop, the vein in his forehead more prominent than usual.

Your jaw is tense and restless, twitching from anger. Some part of you still wants to keep this friendship. The louder part knows that there’s no going back from this. You’re not entirely sure you want to go back. Your entire body is shaking from rage. The first rule of your friendship was no profiling. Not only did he break that rule, he used the profile against you as if you actually were an unsub he was interrogating. 

“That’s not fair”

His eye twitches at your response. 

“Not? Fair?” Spencer grumbles in pauses.

“No, that's not fair!” You cry out. “It’s your turn to listen.”

It doesn’t feel like there’s any oxygen left to breathe in the car.

“Self loathing? Spencer, that's your projection! You love too hard and nobody’s ever loved you back the same way. But just because you lack things you want in your life doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me! And all this talk about love, but none of it makes any sense. You think I’m embarrassed of loving you? Is that how shallow you think I am?! You’re the one who told me that I can’t love you. God, you are the most duplicitous person I’ve ever met! I can’t believe I didn’t see it. You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder because I love you as an ‘amazing friend’? Because you love me and you think I’ve been neglecting you?!”

You had never spoken to anyone this way in your life. There was so much truth to Spencer’s words, but he had no right. He’d touched every nerve in your body without ever laying a hand on you. Up until roughly twenty minutes ago, being seen by Spencer was your favourite thing in the entire world. Now? You’d never hated the feeling more in your life. 

Spencer squeezes his hand into a fist, knuckles going white and releases his fingers like if he were aggressively squishing a stress ball. If asked about a month ago, he would never in a million years think that your friendship would manage to dissipate in just a few seconds. He didn’t think he could associate the word love with you anymore.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I do not love you. I do not love anything about you. Actually, I hate you. I hate how sweet you pretend to be. I hate the stupid morning coffee you bring me, nothing tastes more bitter. I hate to admit this but you’re right; everything about you is a brutal reminder of all the good things I can never have and I despise you for it.” He spits his words out with extreme tension in his blood vessels. 

“I can’t say I’ve known what it feels like to truly loathe someone before I met you.” You fire back, breathlessly, not having it in you to spare any more words for him. 

You’re not exactly sure how long the two of you have been sitting there just glaring at each other. Only when Spencer’s phone rings do you two look away. 

“Reid.” He answers the call. “Yea, she’s still here. We’re on our way back now.”

The ride back to the precinct was silent. Even as you regrouped with the rest of the team, you acknowledged everybody but each other. The team was instantly alert to the change, but no one mentioned it at the time because of the high stress of the case. You wrapped the case up a few days later and only then did the questions start making their way around. 

“Is everything okay between you two?”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“What happened between you and Reid?”

“What’s up with Boy Wonder over there?”

You didn’t entertain any of them, Spencer had taken up enough time in your life. You refused to talk about him, look at him or acknowledge him at all. He shared that same incentive. Another three weeks passed as the team watched what was once the closest duo in the BAU, pretend that their counterpart didn’t exist. 

If one of you was in a room and noticed the other enter, you’d walk out without drawing attention to the situation. When leaving the room was not an option, you either went as far in the opposite corner of the room as you could or you’d simply pretend the other wasn’t present just a few metres away. You wouldn’t discuss intel with each other about cases, sharing your findings with anybody else. 

Since Chicago, Hotch only assigned you with Spencer once more, but quickly realised that wasn’t going to help when both of you begged to be assigned with someone else privately. If you were in a discussion with someone and they started talking about Spencer, you’d tune out entirely. After a while the hating game got exhausting.

Spencer hated pretending that he hated you. He felt an immense amount of guilt for the things he’d said, but it was too late to take it back. He thought it would be easier to deal with his feelings if he wasn’t around you all the time, but it was just as difficult as before. You still lit up the dull grey rooms of the building. The only difference was that now he had to watch you shine from afar. 

In truth, you didn’t hate Spencer either. What you actually hated was that you didn’t hate Spencer. You still caught yourself staring at him for long periods of time. There were days when you’d go to his favourite coffee shop before work and buy his order, only to give it away to somebody on the street because you didn’t want to ruin Spencer’s day with the bitterness of your coffee. 

By the fifth week since you had gotten back from Chicago, you and Spencer were no longer ignoring each other as much. You’d gotten into a routine of professionalism for the sake of the team, only talking to each other about cases when necessary. That didn’t stop you from subconsciously showing subtle gestures of love. These were a lot quieter than the gestures you showed when you were friends. 

You’d make sure that there was always a fresh pot of coffee in the office kitchen, so Spencer would have it ready to drink whenever he needed. He’d make sure that the snack cupboard was always filled with your favourite snacks because he knew you liked having something to munch on when catching up on paperwork. You’d keep extra painkillers in Garcia’s lair knowing Spencer would retreat there when a migraine hit.

He’d ensure the aircon was always set to room temperature, you get uncomfortable if the room was too cold. Both of you were aware of the little gestures too, no one else knew your truly niche preferences. Neither of you was brave enough to actually go up to the other, though. It was all too much for you. No matter what was said, he was still your thoughtful Spencer deep down and it killed you.

You’d tried to talk to Spencer a few times, building up the courage for days in advance. As soon as he noticed you heading in his direction, he nearly bolted in the other direction. His avoidance didn’t end at the office. You recently became aware that Penelope had been scheduling rosters to invite you and Spencer to outings, trying to ensure you were present for equal amounts of time. 

You were chilling at her desk in wait for her, when you noticed a little note with your name next to a date and time. Under that was Spencer’s name with a separate date and time. 

“Hey! What are you doing here?” She greets you.

“I needed to talk to you…Penelope what is this?” You hold up the little pink sticky note.

Penelope sets her octopus mug down and takes the note from your hand. 

“This? This is nothing.” She fumbles a bit as she speaks.

“Garcia?” You purposefully speak with warning.

“Okay! Okay! But you didn’t hear it from me! We’ve kinda been taking turns hanging out with you and Spencer sometimes. But it’s because we love you and don’t want to make either of you-” She starts a panicked tangent.

“Garcia!” You interrupt her before she sends herself into a spiral. “There’s no need to do all of this. Yes Spencer and I aren’t close anymore, but you guys don’t need to go out of your way for us.”

“Well..” She grits her teeth and tilts her head.

“What?” 

“We didn’t really mean to. It’s just we noticed that Spencer would never come if you were going. And both of you just straight up refuse to talk about it, so this was the best we could come up with.” 

“Oh. Penny, I’m sorry that you guys have had to do that.” That was all you could say, your head hanging in guilt.

“Can you at least tell me why you won’t talk about it? I mean it makes sense for Boy Wonder, he’s always been stubbornly private, but you’ve never not told me anything!” 

You look towards Garcia again, thinking for a minute. You didn’t know exactly why you refused to talk about it. 

“I don’t know, honestly. I just don’t want to talk about it, if that makes sense?” You pull your friend in for a hug as an apology. 

You felt awful leaving her lair without giving her a proper answer or a resolution. It didn’t matter how professional you acted, this rift would always impact your friends and your work life. 

Spencer would always impact everything in your life. 

The guilt didn’t spare you that night, creeping its way to the forefront of your mind every few minutes. It had been four months since your last fight. It was the longest you’d gone without Spencer. This had to end for the sake of the team. That was how you found yourself standing at his door once again. After a few minutes you finally knock. You didn’t know what you were going to say, honestly you just wanted to run before he answered. You hear the locks being undone, but it’s not Spencer who answers when that door finally swings open.

“Yes?” 

It’s a woman, one you've never seen before. You’re taken aback and look around to make sure you got the right apartment. This was definitely Spencer’s apartment, you’d been here a hundred times before. And some woman was answering his door for him. Some very beautiful woman. 

“Can I help you?” She follows up, looking you up and down. 

“Hi, yeah, sorry, is–um– is Spencer here?”

“Who’s asking?” She’s definitely not very friendly. 

“We work together. Is he here or not?” You didn’t have the patience for this, annoyance seeping through your pores. 

“Who’s at the door?” His voice emerges from behind her and he finally shows up. “Oh.”

“Hey.” You glance away as soon as you see him. 

“Could you give me a minute?” He turns to the woman. She flashes a sickly sweet smile and kisses his cheek before disappearing inside. Spencer shuffles out to the corridor, closing the door behind him.

“That–uh–that was–” He stops himself, clearing his throat and switching to his professional voice. “What are you doing here?”

Cold.

“I was hoping we could talk.” You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to play off what you just saw. 

“What more is there to say?” 

“About the team. I came over to, um, apologise and maybe move past things for the sake of the team.” You were looking everywhere but at him. 

“Honestly?” His eyes are on you though. “I don’t care. And even if I did, I don’t want to hear it.” 

He starts to walk away, but turns back and mentions your name like it’s the most vile word in the dictionary. “Please don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.” 

With that he re-enters his apartment, leaving you standing in the hallway. It’s hard to imagine that this man was once your best friend. If you didn’t know about all the good times, you wouldn’t have believed it. Every tear that your body could ever produce streamed out of you for the rest of the night. Once you had made it back to your apartment, they broke out in sobs. In your line of work, you had survived being shot at, almost blown up and even a kidnapping once.

The man you loved with every fibre of your being looking at you like you were less than filth under a person's shoes was your breaking point. There was no way you were going to face him again. You needed to forget about Spencer Reid, which meant a fresh start. This city was a constant reminder of his essence, you couldn’t stay. You plopped down on your bed with your work bag, reaching into it for your work computer. Hands twitching as you type. 

You remember being so proud when David Rossi recommended you for the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit. You were even more ecstatic when Hotch actually requested your transfer there. You had worked your ass off for it. It was there that you met the infamous Doctor Reid. He was much different than how you had imagined him. He was so charming, friendly and so down to earth, not liking him wasn’t an option. The two of you had so much in common, despite being so different, it was the foundation for your friendship. His caring nature pulled you in further, you soon found yourself deeply in love with him. 

Tears flooded your keyboard as all your memories with him flash through your brain. His friendship was a beautiful bonus of the job you once loved, you never thought that he would become the reason you’d leave it. Yet here you were, furiously drafting your resignation to Agent Hotchner. There were so many signals in your brain telling you to back off, to open a bottle of wine and drown your sorrows instead, but your heart didn’t feel like that would be enough. Your love for your job didn’t outweigh your desire to run.

Spencer Reid was your best friend and being in love with him is an excruciating torture. One that you can no longer endure. You had never been more sure of anything as you are at this moment and you weren’t going to give yourself time to change your mind. Your time with Spencer and, as a consequence, your time at the BAU had come to an end. Another memory flashes through your mind as you sign the letter off with your name. A case in Boston had gone wrong and you were really hung up on it. Spencer, in an attempt to help you move on, shared a quote with an author he had recently read. You bitterly chuckle to yourself at this recall and press send with no second thought.

 “Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.” - C.S. Lewis.

Spoilers: BAU! Reader, friends to enemies, mutual pining, hurt, angst no comfort, whump (maybe idk), Reader & Spencer are both idiots, they should probably consider therapy actually, Spencer is a sassy little shit, but really just needs a hug and a class on communication. 

AN - You’ve heard of enemies to lovers/friends, now I present to you the exact same thing in reverse (been done time and time again, I’m not in any way original <3). You can blame Ariana Grande for this one. Sorry that I haven't posted, I've had insane writers block. I might be slightly incapable of shorter word counts, I’ll try to improve that.  I apologise for grammar/anything that does not make sense, I am both an idiot and also was dealing with a bad case of the flu when I wrote this. I’d like to thank @reidmotif for curing my writer's block and inspiring me on the second half of this fic. Thank you @starstruckbambi for proof reading this.

Drop thoughts & feelings so I can ponder on them. Always remember that I’m in your walls. 

Thank you for reading!

[hoe4hotchner]

False Security | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader CW: Angst, physical abuse, kidnapping, captivity, hospital, light use of Y/N, hotch is in love with you, r is only wearing underwear, chains, morphine. WC: 2.6k

           The bullpen was eerily quiet for a late evening. Papers were scattered across desks, half-empty coffee cups forgotten in the rush of trying to piece together the puzzle of the case they were working on.

           The tension in the conference room was palpable - each agent hunched over their work, mentally and emotionally drained from the brutal reality of the case. Every passing hour without a breakthrough weighed heavily on the team.

           Garcia had moved from her tech cave to stay near the rest of the team. Something about this case, the brutality of it, had shaken her, she wasn't her usual cheerful self. Her fingers tapped anxiously against her keyboard, eyes darting between monitors, scanning data, hoping for a clue - anything that would help them find the unsub before another victim was claimed.

           Hotch stood near the whiteboard, staring at the photos pinned up - the faces of victims staring back at him, haunting him. There was a pattern here; they all knew it. They could feel it. But none of them had been able to put the final piece together yet. Everyone was running on fumes.

           "Garcia," Hotch’s voice broke the silence, low but with the familiar edge of urgency. "Pull up the financials again. There’s something we’re missing."

           Garcia nodded, already typing, her colorful nails clicking rapidly against the keys. But even she seemed distracted, her brow furrowed in worry. She wasn’t just focused on the case anymore - she was thinking about you. About how you had been recently, about the relationship you had confided in her about a few weeks ago. A relationship that seemed to be bringing you joy, a brightness that Garcia had been happy to see. But now… something about this case was stirring up an unsettling feeling in her chest.

           Reid was standing across from her, his eyes darting across the case files, muttering half-thoughts under his breath. Morgan was pacing, unable to sit still, his frustration growing with each dead end.

           Then, it happened.

           Garcia’s fingers stopped, hovering above the keyboard. The silence in the room grew thicker as everyone waited for her to speak. She was staring at her screen, but the bright color had drained from her face. Slowly, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself, she turned in her chair, wide eyes meeting Hotch’s.

           "Sir," her voice was trembling. "You need to see this."

           Hotch’s stomach dropped at her tone, something was off. He crossed the room in quick strides, looking over her shoulder at the screen. The room held its collective breath, all eyes now on them. Garcia was scrolling through the financials, linking transactions, showing a pattern of behavior that had gone unnoticed until now. At first, it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. Just a name, a routine list of purchases. But then it hit him. A familiar name.

           Hotch froze. His heart slammed against his ribs, dread flooding his veins.

           “No,” he breathed, disbelief clouding his thoughts.

           Garcia turned, biting her lip. Her fingers trembled as she pointed to the screen. “It’s him, Sir,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s… it’s (Y/N)'s boyfriend.”

           The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. Everyone stared, the weight of Garcia’s revelation hitting them like a freight train. Morgan stopped pacing, Reid’s muttering ceased, and Rossi’s eyes darkened as he stood from his desk.

           "Are you sure?" Hotch’s voice was low, but the tension in his tone was unmistakable.

           Garcia nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. “I cross-referenced his name with the locations. He fits every single one of the victim’s timelines, and… the patterns match. It’s him, Hotch.”

           For a moment, no one moved. It was as if the very air in the room had thickened, weighing them all down. Hotch felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. His chest tightened painfully, his mind racing with fear and anger. How could they have missed this? How could he have missed this?

           Morgan was the first to break the silence, his voice sharp and filled with disbelief. “Wait, (Y/N)’s dating this guy?” His eyes darted between Garcia and Hotch, trying to piece it together. “How long has this been going on?”

           “A couple of months,” Garcia whispered, guilt washing over her at the mere fact that she knew about your relationship. “She… she didn’t want anyone to know. But… I thought he was just a regular guy.”

           Rossi was already moving toward his phone. "Has anyone contacted her?"

           Hotch’s blood ran cold. He reached for his phone, his fingers fiddling slightly as he dialed your number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.

           Panic settled in his chest like a stone.

           “Garcia, try to ping her phone,” he ordered his voice tight, betraying the rising anxiety within him.

           “I’m on it,” she replied, her fingers moving across the keyboard in a blur. The seconds dragged on like hours as she tried to locate your phone. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s off.”

           Morgan swore under his breath, his fists clenched. “We have to find her. Now.”

           Hotch felt a surge of terror, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. His thoughts were racing— Where were you? Were you okay? Did you even know what kind of danger you were in? The idea that the person you had trusted, had been intimate with, was the same monster they were hunting - it made his skin crawl. And now, they couldn’t reach you.

           Garcia's voice broke through the haze. “I’ve got his phone,” she said, her voice shaking with urgency. “It’s pinging at a location near the docks - an old warehouse district.”

           Hotch didn’t waste another second. He was out the door before anyone could speak, his mind focused on one thing - finding you. His heart pounded in his chest, each step toward the SUV filled with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

          The warehouse loomed ahead, its shadowy silhouette stark against the faint glow of the city. Inside, the darkness was suffocating, every echo, every creak of the metal beams overhead seeming to mock the haste coursing through Hotch's veins. He moved quickly, his heart pounding in his chest as he led the team deeper into the labyrinth of hallways and empty rooms, desperate to find you before it was too late.

           The dread that had been building since Garcia's revelation gnawed at him with every step. The idea that you, his agent, the person he trusted and admired, had been caught in the web of this monster - he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It felt personal in a way that made his throat tighten, made his focus even sharper. This wasn’t just a case anymore; it was about you, about saving you from someone who had fooled them into a false security.

           A soft, muffled whimper reached his ears, freezing him in place. It was faint but unmistakable. His breath hitched as he sprinted toward the sound, every part of him terrified of what he might find. He shoved open a rusted metal door, and the sight that greeted him ripped the air from his lungs.

           There you were, barely recognizable, hanging limply by your wrists, your arms shackled high above your head. The light flickered, casting shadows over your bruised and battered body. You were gagged, your face pale and streaked with tears, your eyes barely open, glazed with pain and fear. Your skin was marred with fresh bruises, and all you were left wearing was your underwear - vulnerable, exposed, and utterly broken.

           Hotch’s world tilted. He had faced horrors in his career, and seen things that haunted his dreams, but nothing compared to the sight of you, the person he had come to care for, reduced to this.

           For a split second, all he could do was stand there, frozen by the crushing wave of guilt and anger crashing over him. How could he have let this happen? How had he not seen it, not realized who the unsub was?

           “Morgan!” Hotch's voice was sharp. “Find him. Now.” He couldn't be far away Hotch thought to himself.

           Without waiting for a reply, Hotch crossed the room to you, his hands trembling as he reached up to unchain your wrists. You collapsed into his arms, your body weak and trembling from the strain. He held you close, his jacket already off and wrapping around your shivering form. His chest tightened painfully as he felt just how cold you were, how fragile you felt in his arms.

           “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re safe now.”

           You stirred, barely able to focus, but the sound of his voice - his voice - cut through the haze of terror that had clouded your mind. Your eyes fluttered open, a tear slipping down your cheek as you realized it was him. You tried to speak, but the gag choked you, the duct tape biting into your skin.

           Hotch's fingers were delicate as he reached up to remove the tape. Every inch he peeled back felt agonizingly slow, each movement careful, as if he were terrified of causing you more pain. His eyes never left yours, the guilt and worry etched deep into his features.

           When the gag finally came loose, you gasped, drawing in shaky breaths as your mouth was freed. Your voice came out in a weak rasp, “Aaron…”

           “Shh,” he murmured, brushing the hair from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

           But you could see it in his eyes. The guilt. The anger. It radiated off him, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. He blamed himself, you knew that much. And though you wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t have known, your voice was too weak, your body too drained.

           Hotch wrapped his arms tighter around you, his face buried in your hair as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there sooner.”

           His words broke something inside you, a sob tearing from your throat despite your exhaustion. You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that you didn’t blame him, but all you could do was cling to him, your body shaking against his.

           You had been so close to losing everything - to never seeing him again. And now, in the safety of his arms, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind the raw emotion and terror that you had been holding back.

           “I’ve got you,” he whispered again, his voice barely a rasp. He held you tighter as if he could shield you from the world, from the pain, from everything you had just endured.

           He didn’t care about protocol, didn’t care that he was supposed to be in control, to remain objective. All he cared about was you, about getting you out of there and keeping you safe.

           When the paramedics arrived, Hotch didn’t let go. He carried you to the ambulance himself, refusing to leave your side for even a moment. The other agents worked around him, searching for your captor, but Hotch didn’t care about anything else right now. He stayed by your side as you were lifted into the ambulance, sitting beside you, his hand holding yours as if it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

           The soft, sterile lighting of the hospital room contrasted with the cold, harsh reality of what had just happened. The beeping machines were rhythmic and steady, peaceful, a constant reminder that you were alive, even though the events leading up to this moment had been anything but peaceful.

           Hotch sat beside your bed, his hand wrapped protectively around yours, his thumb brushing back and forth along your knuckles in a soothing motion. He hadn’t left your side since they’d arrived at the hospital. The team had stayed behind to deal with the crime scene and the unsub, but Hotch had only one priority: you. His suit jacket now hung loosely on the back of his chair, as your bruised body had been hidden away by the hospital gown.

           You shifted slightly in the bed, your eyes fluttering open but still hazy from the morphine coursing through your veins. The medication had dulled the pain but also left you in a dreamy, disoriented state. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, and the world around you was muffled. But there was one constant, something anchoring you to reality - Hotch.

           “Hotch…” your voice was barely above a whisper, the name slipping from your lips without much strength behind it. You tried to sit up, but your body protested, still sore and weak. Hotch’s grip on your hand tightened gently, his other hand pressing softly against your shoulder to keep you from moving too much.

           “Shh, don’t try to move. The doctor said you need to rest,” he said, his voice low and calm, but underneath it was a storm of emotions - relief, fear, anger. He tried to keep it together for you, but seeing you like this - bruised, shaken, and vulnerable - it broke something inside him.

           You blinked up at him, trying to focus. His face came into view, a mixture of exhaustion and concern etched into his features. “You... you came for me,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred from the medication, but the gratitude in your tone was unmistakable.

           Hotch’s heart clenched at the sound of your voice, so small and fragile. He brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Of course I did,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always come for you.”

           You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips tugging upwards despite the pain and exhaustion. There was something about his presence that made everything feel just a little bit better, a little safer.

           Your eyes flickered around the room before landing back on him, and with a sleepy giggle, you whispered, “You look so serious, Hotch.”

           A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound rare but welcome, especially given the circumstances. “Someone has to be,” he teased, though his voice was still gentle. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his touch feather-light. “You’ve been through a lot.”

           You hummed, your eyelids growing heavy again, but you fought to stay awake, to stay in this moment with him. “Feel so... floaty,” you mumbled, your words trailing off slightly. The medication was pulling you back under again.

           Hotch smiled softly, watching as you struggled to keep your eyes open. “That’s the morphine. It’s okay to rest, you’re safe now.”

           For a moment, you simply stared up at him, your eyes glazed but full of warmth. “You’re always so... good to me,” you slurred, your voice thick with drowsiness. “Don’t know what I’d do without you…”

           His heart ached at your words. He couldn’t imagine what you had gone through, only what he already knew the unsub usually would have done, but the thought of you feeling alone or scared crushed him. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

           You gave him a sleepy nod, your head lolling slightly to the side. “I know,” you mumbled, your voice fading as sleep finally began to pull you under.

           Hotch leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss against your forehead. He didn’t care that the hospital staff had insisted he take a break or go home and get some rest. He wasn’t leaving your side, not tonight. Not until he was absolutely sure you were okay.

           As your breathing evened out and your body relaxed into the bed, he sat back, watching you with a mix of compassion and sadness. Seeing you like this, so vulnerable and hurt, made him feel more helpless than he ever had before.

[jellyfishsthings]

The five times you left Spencer speechless (or how I like to call it, in quiet awe)

Warnings: reader wears glasses but no biggie, reader can fight and use a gun because why not, bau!reader, smitten Spence, nothing happens just feelz, Spence's drug addiction... I think that it

1. The first meeting

It had been a long week. People were crowding the small space of the bullpen. It had been the first case after Gideon's return, and Spencer had been buzzing with excitement to work with his mentor again. The case hadn't been particularly easy, and almost one agent named Elle Greenaway had been lightly injured, who would from now on work with them. His eyes were burning, and he gave into the temptation to wear his glasses as he looked into the nearly filled report in front of him, containing at least seventeen pages worth of information. Madame Strauss claimed that his reports were unnecessarily detailed, how that was a problem he couldn't tell. The hours seemed to blur together as he continued writing his report, losing many minutes trying to form his handwriting into something more presentable.

That was the moment. The time he first laid eyes on her. He had read many romance novels, which he wasn't going to admit, that the moment someone met the one, time seemed to slow to near non-existent and his reality at the moment seemed like something coming out of a book.

She was wearing a chunky white pullover with huge sleeves that strangely represented bells and a light brown plaited skirt that reached just at the middle of her thighs. Long legs that seemed to be going on for miles ended at a pair of black Mary Jane's. And sure, her appearance was incredible, but that was not what made him make a double take. He was sure he was hallucinating as he saw the most beautiful face he had seen in his life, looking as if it was something that came out of a Renaissance painting. Her hair was in a braid resting on her shoulder, and wire-framed glasses sat on her nose, making her eyes appear slightly bigger. A tattered pair of wired headphones framed her face, and for a second, Spencer forgot how to breathe, the most cognitive function, the one he had been able to do since he first entered this world. His ears were buzzing, and his brain was running in endless circles.

A hand was moving in front of him, and he stared at the angel that was standing in front of him. Her mouth was moving, probably talking to him, and he willed himself to pay attention.

“S-Sorry.”

“It's alright.” The angel answered him; maybe he had finally overdone it with the sugared coffee he was drinking as if it were his primary source of hydration. “ I am looking for Aaron Hotchner.”

“R-Right. Umm…”

“Good, you are here. Come with me.” Hotch's voice echoed in the empty room, and Spencer's cheeks flamed an angry red as the girl turned and kindly waved at him as she quickly climbed the stairs and entered the conference room. Spencer had half a mind not to turn his chair and stare at her. With an unnecessary loud cough, he turned back at his report and thanked his luck for Morgan's absence because if he had witnessed this, he was going to hear the end of this anytime

2. The lesson

A month had passed since he first saw her. And yet, he could recall her vividly, the deep-set eyes, the rosy lips. His birthday had been a blur as he celebrated them in the office and invited JJ in a lame attempt to ask her out which just resulted in a long evening where JJ and Penelope talked endlessly and he couldn't comprehend the sport he was supposedly watching.

He was waiting in Hotch's office as a stand-in. He was teaching a young agent to join the unit and he was thrilled when he heard that the student was just a few months shy of his own age. At the moment, he was trying to move a huge board to the office when someone lightly tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around way too fast and came face to face with the angel he saw, the one he thought he willed into existence.

“Do you need help with that?”

“No, no. I got it. Are you Hotch's student?” He asked and immediately regretted it. Of course, she was his student. Why did he have to lose half of his IQ around her? He gave one last hard shove to the board end and then aligned it with the desk. “So um… Hotch asked me to be your tutor for today if that is alright with you. Um… What material are you studying?”

“Mostly psychology. Which I am not very good at, by the way.” She retrieved a huge book from her bag and a small pencil case that was filled with just a pen and three markers, red, yellow, and green. Just as she opened the book, he could see that its majority was colored and that it had notes in the margins. His heart thudded louder in his chest.

“What do all those colors mean?” He asked curiously as he approached her.

“Well green means that I understand it; yellow means that I am working on it and red … I just have no clue. It's just mostly yellow at the moment, though the notes help.”

“What's red?” She looked at him in a strange way, and too late did he realize that she was studying him, his question had been earnest and probably too forward, and he rushed to explain himself. “ I just - I asked because I have a PhD in the subject.” He could see her eyebrows lifting before they settled in a scowl and whacked his brain to understand what he said wrong.

“You are Doctor Reid, right?” She asked quietly, and he stupidly nodded as an answer to her question. “Well there is … I don't understand some differences between some categories of killers; they have much in common, so why are they in a separate category?”

“The answer is actually way simpler I'd you think of it in a Venn diagram.” He rushed to the board, and drew a few circles, and he started writing on it as he explained its category separately. He talked for what seemed like hours, and he embarrassingly looked at his watch. He must have been talking for over an hour, and he turned to look at the girl only to find her writing on her book, still in the margins looking at him expectantly. The way she was staring at him almost had him stammering once again, and he felt his knees weaken for a strange reason. So he carried on.

When he was done, he turned to look at her; she was still writing something before she whispered. “You need to tuck your chest in when you are firing a gun.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Aaron said that he was having trouble with one of his agents' firearm training, and it must be you. You have a long torso, so your weight center is different from the diagrams in the training books you must have read. That's why you keep missing.” And just like that, she was gone again wishing him good night and a nice weekend.

His head was spinning as he walked towards the training room, and he wore his earmuffs and protective glasses. Tuck your chest in. And so he did before aiming and pressing the trigger three times. His shots were the best, but he hadn't missed. Pride swarmed his chest; he was going to do it.

The next day, he failed his exam. He had lost his gun.

3. The first case

Small-town cases were always the most thrilling in his humble opinion. And any time somehow a cult or demons were involved, he worked ten times harder to prove them wrong. Only this time, their team had a new member. Gideon did seem to take a liking to her, in contrast with Spencer, who was incredibly warm to her the moment she entered the room. Maybe it was because he had met her before, or maybe it was because whenever she was around him he felt like a firework ready to explode. Somehow, his conversation with Morgan had turned to the explanation of attraction in the neurotic sector.

“Chemicals, such as dopamine, may cause one to be giddy, euphoric, and even to experience suppressed hunger and sleep cues. You may recall a time when someone made your heart thud erratically in your chest, heat rise in your body making you blush, and the sensation of being tongue-tied or not able to form coherent thoughts. These are the characteristics of attraction.”

“Is that what you feel around her then? Because you don't act like yourself around her. I mean, come on, you are a germaphobe, and you were the first to shake her hand.”

He’s a germaphobe, he is, and that doesn’t just go away when you meet someone lovely, but he did shake her hand. She surprised him too quickly to think beyond taking her hand, letting it happen. Their formal meeting, the one where they acted as if they hadn't spent an evening together in this same room. Hotch gave him a funny look. Mostly impassive, but not quite, and he was definitely on to him. In the duration of the case, he tried to keep his distance, which didn't go that well when he found himself staring at the barrel of a gun that was aimed at him. Everything went by too quickly as she dove toward the UnSub, without a second thought tackling him to the ground and disarming him in a few short seconds. He wanted to be impressed, yet he had seen her in the training room with Morgan as they had hand-to-hand combat. She moved with agility, and her every move seemed calculated and strategic. He had felt his heart stutter in his chest as she helped him stand and checked him for injuries.

He was lovestruck as Penelope teased him. His silly crush on JJ had been entirely forgotten.

4. The Lila Archer incident

He was an idiot. It was the first time he would characterize himself in such a way. And hopefully the last.

When you guard a beautiful actress, Spencer, don't jump in the pool with her.

Love,

Spencer

He could identify the disappointment in his colleagues' faces from the very first second, yet the one that pierced him the most was hers. She barely spoke during the discussions about the possible type of the UnSub, no matter how much Elle or Hotch urged her on. She had been stuck with him for pretty much all of the cases and he had to admit that she was a brilliant young woman. The others interpreted her quietness as an inability to profile but her insights were what had helped him make some major breakthroughs on the last cases. When they congratulated him for that he simply smiled stating that he didn't work alone yet the others probably thought that he was just trying to cover his partner and not share mutual credit for their work. It unnerved him how she seemed incredibly distant and stoic always five paces away from the rest of the team.

Yet this time she seemed furious, it was the deathly kind of quiet, the one that sent a chill to his bones and left all the apologies that were spewing up in his brain die on his tongue.

Frustration was welling up on him and he tried to muster up the courage to talk to her, only to find her crying in Morgan's arms. He couldn't understand for the life of him what she was saying and a selfish, terrible part of him hoped that, maybe, she had been crying for him.

5. The drug addiction

Tobias Hankel was going to be a name that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Sometimes deep into the night he was still at that cabin fighting for his life, the one time his intelligence wasn't enough. What drew him to steal those few bottles of Dilaud from his pocket, why he used them, why he formed his addiction. He didn't want to be a drug addict but it was his new reality. He desperately tried to stop it, tried to hide it and always felt ashamed when he relapsed to that horrible habit. He would sit in his bathroom sweating, crying and begging a higher force, a higher being to end his torment, despite never being a religious man, only for his phone to ring demanding his presence because of a new case and for him to fall back to his old routine.

It was a tough journey and he wanted to talk with his friends about that, he needed their help, yet they ignored his problem as if it didn't exist, even though the signs were clear. He was always lashing out, having terrible mood swings and when they tried to confort him about it he lashed out. He had met an old friend of his and he had been the only one he had been brutally honest about his … condition. Gideon knew, his mentor knew, he had the confirmation, yet he turned a blind eye to the situation. Everyone did, except from her.

Everyday she would bring him his extra sweet coffee filled to the brim with stevia and not sugar, because sugar was just as addictive. When he craved, he played with his fingers, tried to distract himself but to no avail, a long strip of hard licorice sweets would appear in front of his face, after research be learned that the flavourful of licorice was extremely distinctive and strong and its hard texture led a person to chew endlessly at just one piece. It was the best food to consume to distract yourself. Every night after a case she would show up at his place with Greek takeout, which was apparently the best cousine, and demand longtime marathons of a show or series of movies, which wasn't something unusual for the two of them. She visited him because she knew that he would never use in her vicinity. He had never known true love until that moment and he recalled a quote by Jane Austin.

To be loved is to be known.

words: 3.007