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street-smarts00 · 3 days ago

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Santa Doesn't Know You Like I Do

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Your first Christmas with Spencer and you get his name for secret Santa.

WC: 1.8k

Tags: Fluff, Secret Santa, friends to lovers, one use of Y/N I think A/N: Sorry I went MIA :( I got busy with school. I hope to push out many ideas while I’m on break tho. Here’s something cheesy and festive for the holiday season I hope you enjoy! (not beta read don't kill me)

Nothing was right. Nothing you found was the right present.

This was your first secret Santa with the BAU and you picked Spencer's name out of penelope’s mug. At first you thought it would be easy to buy a present for him because you knew him so well. In almost a year of being with the BAU you grew the closest with Spencer.

What you didn’t expect was your present ideas to not live up to your own expectations. Nothing you came up with could live up to your own standards. Of course your “slight” feelings for him definitely affected this, but you tried to tell yourself that wasn’t true.

You ran through dozens of ideas. Clothing, a new scarf, tickets for a play, special edition of a book he loved. But nothing felt like the right present.

You almost gave up in your search for the perfect present for him. The gift exchange was in less than a week and you still had nothing. Sitting at your desk in the bullpen you considered settling with one of your first ideas.

While getting up to refill your coffee mug you noticed Spencer’s attention was focused on his computer. He sat there deep in thought with his brows furrowed and lips in a fine line. When you walked by his desk you saw he was playing an online chess game.

“Working hard or hardly working?” you joked.

He popped out of his focus from your presence. “I finished my files a little early,” he responded bashfully.

“Are you at least winning?”

He smirked, “I’ve won four times. But that’s not even the fun part. The fun is doing different plays every time and seeing what the computer comes up with as the best response.”

That’s when it hit you. An idea for Spencer’s gift.

Finally something that felt like a good gift for him. At the end of the day you rushed out of work to go to the craft store and get your supplies. You worked on the gift everyday after work.

Soon the weekend rolled around and you found yourself at Rossi’s. His living room had the biggest Christmas tree you’d ever seen. Everyone’s gifts sat there for the evening. After dinner you all sat down to exchange gifts.

“I want to go first!” Garcia exclaimed. She jumped up from the couch and hurried to the tree to grab her gift for JJ.

JJ excitedly opened the gift bag to find a small black and grey purse with a colorful crochet keychain. The idea that Garcia also handmade part of her gift gave you a sense of relief.

“Oh this is so pretty. Thank you so much,” she beamed, admiring the bag and twirling the keychain. Garcia squealed in happiness before JJ offered a hug to her.

JJ then handed over her gift to Rossi, a bottle of scotch. He smiled and thanked her for the bottle saying how his collection needed a new addition.

He stood up and brought his hands together looking at the tree. “My turn.” He grabbed a thin box wrapped in silver sparkly wrapping paper and walked over to you.

“For you, my dear,” he handed you the box.

Your eyes widened and lips perked up at the gift. It may be a little silly but, part of you wished that you were Spencer’s secret santa. You reminded yourself that the possibility of you both picking each other's names was unlikely. The possibility of some things being the same between the two of you was … unlikely.

You ripped back the paper to reveal a large eyeshadow pallet. Upon opening it, you saw an array of beautiful shades you couldn’t wait to try out.

“Rossi, this is so sweet. I love it,” You thanked with a bright smile.

Now it was your turn. Everyone’s eyes only made the moment more stressful. You got up and grabbed the box with a nervous hand. What if he didn’t like it? What if he thought it was too cheesy or corny? What if he thought it was useless as he already owned two of them?

You tried to quiet your thoughts as you handed him the box, but they had no intention of leaving.

“Merry Christmas Spence,” you said softly.

When you turned and walked back to your seat you neglected to see the rising blush on his face.

Spencer glanced down at the white and red striped paper. He carefully peeled it off and opened the lid to reveal a chess set nestled in between red tissue paper. The board spaces were off-white and royal purple with corresponding chess pieces the same colors. When he picked up the wooden pieces and saw small leaves and flowers painted on them. The King and Queen specifically had crowns in a shimmering gold.

“Wow look at that,” Emily admired.

Upon further inspection he noticed the small human imperfections in the details. The way not one leaf or flower looked exactly the same. Or how the clear coating over the paint was slightly streaky in some spots.

“Did you paint this?” He asked.

You nodded your head and answered , “Yeah I did.”

A faint “awe” could be heard across the room from Garcia.

“Y/N,” Spencer started, his voice full of admiration. “This is … beautiful.”

The butterflies in your stomach were getting restless.

“Really?” you asked, not able to hide the smile spreading on your face.

“Yes! It’s Perfect,” his eyes sparkled at you. “I love it. Nobody’s ever given me something like this.” He beamed at you with a smile that made you love sick.

The realization that you both were not alone set in and Spencer cleared his throat before closing the box. The gift exchange continued as Spencer handed over a present to Morgan.

The rest of the night was filled with catching glances and far away looks between you and Spencer. He seemed to feel more relaxed in a way after receiving your gift. Not that he was acting any differently. He just seemed more open. With the group and with you.

You lived off that feeling the whole evening. The idea that you made him happy. You helped him see he was appreciated and loved.

Not that he had to know you loved him.

He didn’t know that. Right?

As the hands on the clock passed you announced your departure and said your goodbyes. You stepped outside and felt a chill against your skin.

You held tight onto your keys as you walked to your car. The snow had just started to fall. Occasional little flurries fell down from the sky.

“Wait!” Someone yelled from behind.

You turned to find Spencer trying his best to run but not slip on the icy parts of the driveway. When he got closer you noticed his cheeks and the tip of his nose were pink. Probably from the cold weather you thought.

“I wanted to formally say thank you for the chess set,” he explained.

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a smile. You stuffed your hands in your pockets away from the cold. “I’m glad you like it. I was worried you’d find it cheesy.”

He looked confused. “Why would I find it cheesy?”

You shrugged, “because I hand painted it.”

“But that’s what makes it perfect,” he reassured. His voice is sincere and soft. “It’s personal and shows you care.”

His eyes widened. “Oh um-“

He suddenly remembered why he rushed outside and scrambled for something in his jacket pocket. It was a small cube shaped box wrapped in paper covered in snowflakes. Quite fitting for the weather.

“I know I technically wasn’t your secret Santa but I still wanted to get you something.”

You took the gift from him with a slack jaw. “Spence-“

“This isn’t because you were my secret Santa. I still wanted to get you a gift regardless,” he reassured.

“I- Thank you,” you started unwrapping the gift.

“It’s not homemade like yours but I hope you still like it.”

”It doesn’t have to be homemade for me to-“ the wind was stolen out of your lungs.

The gift was a small gold and white music box you immediately recognized. You opened the lid to reveal a ballerina in a pink tutu spinning as Sleeping Beauty Waltz played. Your heart ached as you admired the tiny dancer.

”Is this the music box from that antique shop in Seattle?”

While on a case in Seattle, you and Spencer went to an antique shop to ask the owner about evidence found at the crime scene that was purchased there. You fell in love with a beautiful music box in one of the aisles.

“It is. I saw how you looked at it in the store and in the car you said it reminded you of when you used to do ballet. So before we left Seattle I went back to the store to get it for you. I thought it would make a great Christmas present.”

“But, that was three months ago.”

He sheepishly smiled and his cheeks only got more red. “Yeah, I had to keep it a secret for a while.”

Your heart rate started to pick up as the butterflies returned. “I can't believe you went back and bought this for me,” you muttered in disbelief.

“Of course I would. You mean a lot to me and I knew this was something that would make you happy.”

You admired the music box before carefully placing it in your purse. “Thank you so much. I love it.”

His smile grew and reached his eyes. His eyes looked beautiful in this lighting. The Christmas lights from the house made them look practically golden. Even in the freezing cold you could melt from his eyes.

He shifted his weight and licked his lips. He seemed wrapped around the words in his head. “I also wanted to ask if maybe you’d want to go see The Nutcracker with me.”

Your heart damn near stopped.

“It’s playing at the theater downtown. I was thinking if we don’t get a case then we could go see the show on Friday. Maybe, if you want to, that is,” he rambled in nervousness.

“I’d love to,” you beamed.

His face brightened at your eagerness, but his nerves were still present. “But not as friends. As a date?”

You chuckled, “Yes Spencer, I would love to go on a date with you. I think the nutcracker is a perfect first date.”

“Great,” he said with relief. “And maybe afterwards we might have time for a game of chess with my new board.”

God he was cute.

“That sounds great.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic

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banditoloves2mucj · 21 hours ago

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

in the dead of night

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

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

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

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

God, he loves you.

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

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

“Hm?”

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

“Is this okay?”

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

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

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

“Why not?”

You huff.

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

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

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

“No! I take it back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh.

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

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

He loves it when you do that.

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

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enderlovez · 2 days ago

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It's Okay

Spencer Reid x BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 1000+

Summary: You and Spencer have to comfort a little girl after she finds her parents dead in her home, and your odd tactics work surprisingly well.

Content Warning: guns and violence, mentions of murder, blood, strange methods of calming a child down, dead bodies mentioned, broken glass, scared children

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The house is unnervingly silent.

Bloodstains and shards of broken glass litter the carpet around the bodies as you carefully step around them, you and Spencer moving cautiously towards the bedroom.

From inside comes the faint, muffled sound of sobbing. Through the cracked door you can see a little girl—Harper—curled up tightly in the corner, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit as though it's her only lifeline.

You glance at Spencer, your expression heavy. This is always the hardest part of the job: dealing with the survivors, especially ones this young and scared. Spencer offers you a faint nod, his own nerves masked by his calm demeanor.

You open the door slowly, kneeling down to meet Harper's line of sight. "Hey there," you say softly, careful not to startle her. "I'm Y/N, and this is Spencer. We're here to help you."

She doesn't answer, her tear-filled eyes darting between the two of you. Your chest tightens as her tiny frame trembled, her grip on the stuffed animal tightening further.

Spencer kneels beside you, his voice just as soft and measured as he addresses the young girl. "We promise, we're not gonna hurt you. We're here to keep you safe."

Her bottom lip quivers, but she doesn't speak. You can practically feel the weight of her fear, and your usual comforting words don't seem enough right now. You briefly look at Spencer, then back at her—time to get a little creative.

You stand and cross the room, kneeling again when you're right in front of her.

Reaching for your holster, you carefully pull out your sidearm and hold it up in a non-threatening way, your finger nowhere near the trigger. "Do you know what this is, Harper?" you ask, your voice calm and steady.

Please don't backfire on me...

Her sobs pause for a moment, her wide eyes fixed on the gun. "A... a gun?" she whispers.

"That's right," you say, your tone light as if you're discussing her favorite toy. "It's my job to use this to protect people, to keep them safe. And right now, I'm here to keep you safe. Me and Floppy," you add with a smile, nodding toward her bunny.

Spencer glances at you, his eyebrows raises slightly in surprise, but he doesn't stop you. You know what you're doing—or at least you hope you do.

"Can I see it?" Harper asks hesitantly, her curiosity momentarily overpowering her fear.

"Not this one—it's very grown up," you say with a small chuckle, slipping the gun back into its holster. "But maybe someday, when you're older and want to be a hero too. For now, just know that it's here, and it'll keep you safe."

Harper blinks, her tears slowing as she processes your words in her little six year old brain. "You'd use it for me?"

"Absolutely," you say firmly without hesitation, leaning in a little closer. "You're really important to us, Harper. We're going to make sure nothing bad happens to you."

Spencer finally chimes in, appearing beside you, his voice gentle but slightly amused. "And I can vouch for Y/N. She's a very good shot."

The faintest ghost of a smile crosses Harper's face, and your shoulders relax slightly. "You're like superheroes," she says, her voice so quiet you would've missed it if you weren't paying so much attention.

"Exactly," you say, grinning. "Superheroes with badges and really big teamwork. And guess what? Superheroes are really good at making sure kids like you are okay."

Harper nods, her fingers loosening their death grip on Floppy. "Okay," she murmurs, edging closer to you, "but I'm still scared."

"That's okay too," you assure her. "Being scared just means you're brave enough to face things that are hard. And right now, you're doing and amazing job, Harper."

She hesitates, then leans forward slightly, her small frame still trembling but no longer frozen in fear. She wraps her little arms around your waist, face pressed into your stomach. You take her into your arm, tracing shapes on her back with your pointer finger.

You glance at Spencer, who's watching you with a mix of admiration and mild disbelief. He mouths, Really? The gun?

You shrug subtle in response, your lips quirking up.

After a moment, Harper looks up from your stomach, her eyes still red but clearer now. "Will you stay here?" she asks.

"We'll stay as long as you need us," you answer instantly, tone as warm and reassuring as you can make it. "You're not alone anymore, Harper. Are you tired?"

She nods, so you lift her up off the floor and lay her down on her bed, only laying beside her when she gently tugs on your shirt. She immediately snuggles up against you, clutching onto you with one of her death grips, but you don't care.

Her breathing starts to even out, and for the first time tonight, the tension in the room begins to lift.

When Morgan peeks into the room a few minutes later to check in, he raises an eyebrow at the sight of you—Spencer sitting at the end of the bed, you actually laid down with Harper's arms wrapped tightly around you, tight enough to actually make breathing a little difficult.

"You two good?" he asks, glancing between the three of you.

"Superheroes don't leave their missions unfinished," you reply with a wink, gently stroking Harper's hair, and Morgan shakes his head, muttering something about your methods as he leaves.

One Harper is finally asleep, Spencer leans towards you, his voice low. "You know, not every kid finds guns comforting."

"Worked on her, didn't it?" you whisper back, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Spencer rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile on his face. "Only you would use a weapon as a comfort object."

"She needed to feel like we can keep her safe," you reply, looking down at Harper's peaceful face, "and I think we nailed it."

He chuckles softly, his hand brushing against yours for a brief moment. "You're not wrong." A brief pause. "Wait, how'd you know the rabbit's name?"

You silently gesture to a drawing on the wall, a little girl and a rabbit holding hands, Harper and Floppy written in blue crayon beneath it.

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

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emilys-bangs · 1 day ago

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I can't read you (but if you want, the pleasure's all mine) | e.p

Tags: flirty!emily, shy!hotch's assistant!reader, fluff, hint of angst?, implied that emily isn't sleeping well :[, worried reader (duh), emily calls reader petnames, emily is down BAD

Summary: Emily loiters around in your office for no good reason.

Word count: 1.7k

A/n: I'm not sure if the idea of Hotch's assistant reader belongs to a single person, but I take no credit for it, I got inspired to write my own after reading @/mariasont's absolutely fabulous bimbo!assistant series, so very many thanks to her!! (and if there are any hotch girlies around here go check it out). Alsoo I think I'm probably gonna add a few more parts to this as interconnected oneshots, I had too many ideas and they couldn't all fit into one fic :p

It’s not that your office is hidden; it’s just out of the way. A short walk before the bullpen’s glass doors, on the opposite side of the restrooms. It’s not nestled within the buzz, and yet a single agent flits to it like a moth to a flame, with no reason or purpose behind her frequent visits.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Emily murmurs. She flashes you a smile, genuine but fading as she rests her hip against your desk and leans on it.

“Hi.” You don’t return her smile, too busy examining the bruised shadows under her eyes. A frown pulls your lips downward. “You look tired.”

“Ouch,” she mock winces. “Take it easy on a girl’s ego, will you?”

“I’m serious. Did you sleep okay?”

Something flickers behind her eyes. They’re dark eyes, endless and lovely, but something about them seems dull today. “Slept okay,” she dips her chin in a nod, “as well as I could without you there with me.”

It’s instantaneous, the knot in your tongue. Heat surges above the collar of your button down, the flush creeping up your neck, and Emily’s gaze becomes too much to hold. You drop your eyes to the neat surface of your desk, shifting files around beneath your sweaty fingertips.

“It’s a big bed,” she continues through her brilliant teeth, gently poking at your composure. “A king. Gets cold easily, y’know? Hey, out of curiosity, do you happen to run hot? I’m freezing most of—”

“Prentiss.”

You both look up to find Hotch at your open door, his mouth set in a straight line—probably at the blatant show of fraternization from his subordinate. Emily grins at him winningly, unabashed as she gives a nod and drawls out, “Morning.”

The stare he gives her is a usual for when she’s leaning against your desk: stop flirting with my assistant. He doesn’t say it, only arches his brow, but everyone hears it.

“Good morning.” His voice is dry. Walking in, his gaze flits to you. “Any urgent cases?”

“N-No sir,” you fluster, cheeks still unbearably hot at the thought of you and Emily intertwined on her bed. Rubbing at your temple, your eyes dip down to the sticky note you’d stuck on your desk in preparation for the day’s tasks. The scrawl of your handwriting sparks competence back into your brain. “Uh, Strauss called again,” you say sheepishly; Hotch’s lips press together, his top lip disappearing, “about the budget meeting. That’s…three times this month?” You tilt your head, grimacing. “I’m starting to worry she’ll barter away the jet soon, save herself the headache.”

Emily lets out a small laugh. “I think letting Morgan go would be more cost effective.”

She’s not entirely unfair—you’ve filed enough damage reports this month to make the director weep. The corner of your mouth tickles. Emily catches your eyes, lashes feathering over her cheek in a wink.

Hotch ignores her.

“We’ve only got consults for today, right?” He asks. You nod. “See if we can schedule it today, get it over with. And, uh,” his eyes linger pointedly on Emily, “it’s almost 9.”

“We’ll be there in a minute,” she answers for the both of you, drowning out your low, yes sir.

The lumping of you and her in a we makes you pathetically giddy.

It could possibly be considered rude for you to drop your eyes back to your desk before your boss leaves, robbing him of attention, but he’s already turning on his heel and with the two of them crowding your space, it’s like you’re flayed open beneath their sharp eyes. Profilers, you grumble internally, a small shake to your hands as Emily’s perfume dissolves over you in waves, a product of her coming closer. She’s next to your elbow now, the pale outline of her hand creeping up next to yours.

“Here, honey, let me help.”

You inhale a sharp breath, feeling the cold air drop all the way to the pit of your stomach. “They’re just a few files.” You mumble, gathering the consults and standing clumsily, eager to escape the heat of her body pressing against yours.

It’s a bad move. Your chest bumps into her arm, not hard, but enough to make you sway on your feet. Emily’s other hand is quick to land on your waist, steadily restoring your balance with a squeeze through your cardigan that has your head reeling.

“Careful there,” she says softly. You blink at her, the tired slant of her lashes now almost at eye-level. “Sorry, I was in your way—”

“Are you sure you’re good?” You blurt. Emily’s mouth snaps shut and you hug the files to your chest, looking her over more thoroughly. Minimal, effortless makeup, but there’s a wrinkle in her shirt, creases in the skin under her eyes. It’s not unusual for her to be tired, given the nature of her job, but the lines of her body are more tense than you’ve seen them.

At your question, it’s almost like she coils further into a tight spring.

“Yeah.” Emily says firmly. “I’m good, don’t worry about me. My cat kept waking me up, yelling all night to be let out and then yelling to be let in.” Her mouth twists into a wry smile.

“Sergio?”

“Mhm,” she nods. “He’s talkative.”

Her tone is as convincing as it ever is, buttery smooth and warm. But you don’t believe her. It’s a gut feeling, not something you can explain with any shred of reason; the certainty of it clings to you, so you look into the molten pools of her irises and hold on.

“You can—you, um…” the thoughts scatter from your brain just when you start, possibly the quiet intensity of Emily’s eyes making them flutter out of your skull. But she’s patient. Tilting her head, she doesn’t interrupt your silence, only presses her lips together in a reassuring smile.

The frustration settles bitterly in your gut, but you blow out a breath. Swallow and gather your words with a firm hand. When you finally have a good grasp on them, you look Emily in the eye and speak slowly.

“You could talk to me, you know. About anything. If you’re not sleeping, or—or just if you want to,” you shrug jerkily. “Doesn’t have to be anything, really, but I’m here. For you.” Stupidly, you wish you could reach out, gather the courage to place your hand on her shoulder or curl your fingers around her elbow. Maybe offer a reassuring squeeze, something more tangible than your useless, mumbled words. Emily touches you so much, it should be normal, but sweat slicks your skin at the thought of you initiating.

The arch of her brows softens as she smiles. It takes some pressure off your chest, more so when she loosely cups your elbow. “Thank you.” She says quietly. Her hand squeezes and your eyes skate over her face, searching. “Really, honey, thank you. But I’m fine. Slept late is all.”

Now that you’ve caught her out, she lets you hear the hint of exhaustion in her voice, raspy threads lacing through her words. It makes you wonder what else she hides so easily, exactly how much effort it would take to get her to let her walls crumble and the facade burn down. But she’s already a flighty person, wings flapping if she feels like the walls are starting to close in, so you don’t push further even though you want to.

“Oh. Uh, okay,” you fidget with your sleeve, tugging it further down your hand to dry the sweat on it. A quick flash of your eyes on Emily’s face tells you she’s still smiling, her lips drawn in a gentle curve. You look away again.

“I just wanted you to know. That you could, if you wanted to. ’bout anything.” The last part comes out as a whisper. You hug the consult files closer to your chest, your eyes dropping to the watch strapped to your wrist. 8:59. “We should go, the team’s—”

“I do know that.” Emily says. Her hand falls away from your elbow, but her eyes fill with so much warmth you hardly feel the loss. “I know it. And I—” The heat of her eyes disappears, seeking something lower than your eyesight before snapping back up again. A confused flurry rips through your gut and she falters, mouth opening and closing. Her lips part again and she finally says, “You could, too. Talk to me about anything.” Sincerity is thick in her voice, her gaze earnest as she stares into your soul. “I hope you know that.”

The back of your throat is briefly dry. A small dip of your chin constitutes a nod; swallowing, you curl your fingers around the edges of the consultation files.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Yeah, I know.”

When Emily smiles, her eyes brighten the tiniest bit. A thrill goes through you at the thought of igniting it. Your own lips start to curve, but their path is rudely stopped when Emily’s brows tick upward.

“Oops,” she says lightly, her eyes finding the clock above your door. “9:01—” You curse as you look down at your own watch, eyes bugging out at the time. One minute is hardly late, but so far your record with Hotch has been spotless, and you want to keep it that way.

Emily’s hand needlessly nudges the center of your back. “Let’s go, gorgeous.” She murmurs. You’re already moving, shooting past the open door of your office without hanging back to close it. A distant click tells you Emily does it, and a few more not so distant clicks of her heels on the floor tell you that she hurries to catch up to your gait. You’re still cursing under your breath, preemptively flustered at the thought of walking in late into the conference room, the rest of the team seated and waiting for your arrival. The weight of their eyes on you is already heavy.

“Your fault,” you mumble to Emily without any real heat.

She pulls open the bullpen door for you. You step through. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s just a minute, two tops.” The relaxed drawl of her voice doesn’t make you slow down. “Listen, if Hotch does pull out the death glare just get behind me, yeah? I’ll protect you.”

You finally turn your head and look at her, none too surprised to find her grinning. It makes you falter, feet slowing as you cross the bullpen floor. Stupid heat burns in your cheeks; you look away.

“Shut up, Prentiss.”

“Sorry, babe.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights @professorsapphic

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #fic #divider by saradika

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little-jana · 9 hours ago

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"Good Girl"

Pairing: postprison!Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: steamy, 18+, fluff, no smut

Warnings: kissing, Spencer calling reader a good girl

Words: 3.4k

Summary: Spencer giving Reader a lot of compliments and one of them makes her blush a lot.

Spencer had been different since prison. Not entirely in ways the team would notice—he still rattled off statistics, quoted obscure literature, and beat everyone at chess. But when you’d known someone as deeply as I knew Spencer, even subtle shifts felt monumental. He was sharper now, his edges honed by experiences no one should have endured. But when it was just the two of us, in those quiet, stolen moments, he softened.

That’s why I stayed by his side tonight instead of joining the team for drinks. Spencer had waved off the invitation, saying he needed a quiet night, and when I hesitated to leave him alone, he’d asked me to stay. It wasn’t much—a shared meal and a chess game in his small apartment—but to me, it felt like everything.

“I can’t tell if you’re planning your next move or plotting my demise,” Spencer said, leaning back in his chair as he watched me.

“I can do both,” I said lightly, though the truth was, I’d been staring at the board for so long because I had no idea what to do.

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m thinking,” I corrected.

“You’ve been ‘thinking’ for six minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

“Are you timing me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, but I glanced at the clock when you stopped moving your hand after your last turn.”

“Of course you did,” I muttered, my eyes flicking back to the board. “Not all of us have an IQ of 187, you know.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The soft light from the lamp behind him highlighted the sharp planes of his face, and for a second, I forgot what we were talking about.

“You’re better than you think,” he said, his voice low.

“Better at chess, or better in general?” I quipped, trying to deflect the heat rising in my cheeks.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied me, his hazel eyes unblinking and intent.

“Both,” he said simply.

My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to focus. This was just Spencer being Spencer—kind and honest to a fault. It didn’t mean anything. Not really.

Finally, I made a move, sliding my bishop into place. I looked up at him triumphantly. “Your turn, genius.”

Spencer’s eyes flicked to the board, and he moved his queen with a casual grace that made my stomach sink. “Checkmate,” he said softly.

“What?” I leaned forward, scanning the board. He was right. Of course he was right.

“How?” I groaned, sitting back in my chair. “I was so careful!”

“That was a good game,” he said, his tone genuine. “You lasted longer than usual.”

I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, really,” he insisted. “Your defense has improved. That last move was smart.”

“Then how did I still lose?”

His lips quirked into a smile. “Because I’ve been playing chess since I was four, and you’ve only been playing for—”

“Three months,” I finished for him.

“Exactly,” he said, his smile widening. “But you’re learning fast. Good girl.”

The words hit me like a freight train. My cheeks burned, and I ducked my head, pretending to fiddle with the edge of the table.

“Something wrong?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“No,” I said quickly, my voice higher than usual. “I’m fine.”

“You’re blushing,” he observed, tilting his head.

“I’m not,” I lied, even though I could feel the heat spreading down my neck.

His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” I said weakly, avoiding his gaze.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his tone teasing now.

Desperate to change the subject, I stood and grabbed the empty takeout containers from the coffee table. “I’m going to clean this up.”

Spencer followed me into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as I tossed the containers into the trash. His presence was a tangible thing, and I could feel his eyes on me as I wiped down the counter.

“Good,” he said softly.

I turned to face him, confused. “Good what?”

“Good technique,” he said, nodding toward the counter.

My cheeks flamed again. “Are you just saying that to mess with me?”

“No,” he said, his expression softening. “I mean it. You’re good at a lot of things, but you never give yourself credit.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. “I think you’re overestimating me,” I said quietly.

Spencer stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “No, I’m not,” he said firmly. “You’re smart, capable, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. You’re… amazing.”

My breath caught in my throat. The sincerity in his voice, the intensity in his eyes—it was overwhelming.

“Spencer…” I trailed off, unsure of what to say.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch was so gentle, so careful, it made my chest ache. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

I shook my head slightly. “It’s not that… I just don’t see myself the way you do.”

His brows furrowed, and he tilted his head slightly. “You should. Because I’m not wrong.”

The silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken words. I felt like I was standing on the edge of something, and for once, I wasn’t afraid to fall.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Doubting yourself,” he said, his voice laced with a quiet kind of sadness.

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped me.

“You’re a good girl,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You just don’t know it yet.”

My cheeks burned, and I looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

“Hey,” he said gently, tilting my chin up with his finger. “Don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not hiding,” I whispered, though the words felt hollow.

“Yes, you are,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “And you don’t have to.”

Before I could overthink it, I stepped closer, closing the small distance between us. “Spencer…”

“Yes?”

I hesitated, my heart hammering in my chest. But then his eyes softened, and I knew. I knew he would catch me if I fell.

“I want to kiss you,” I said, my voice barely audible.

Spencer's lips curved into a small, surprised smile. “You do?”

I nodded, my cheeks flaming. “Is that… okay?”

His eyes softened, a mixture of surprise and something deeper—something that made my heart race. “It’s more than okay,” he said quietly.

I barely had time to process his words before his hand cupped my cheek, his fingers feather-light against my skin. He was so close now, his breath warm against my lips. For a moment, we just stood there, suspended in time.

And then he kissed me.

The world fell away.

It started soft, tentative—like he was afraid I’d disappear if he moved too quickly. His lips brushed against mine once, twice, each touch careful and reverent. It was everything I hadn’t dared to hope for: tender, consuming, perfect.

But then I leaned in, my fingers clutching at the front of his cardigan, and something shifted. The kiss deepened, and Spencer’s hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. His other hand rested lightly on my waist, steadying me as my knees threatened to give out beneath me.

The softness gave way to something bolder, more urgent. His lips moved against mine with a fervor that left me breathless, and I couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped me. Spencer stilled for a fraction of a second, as if startled by the sound, but then his grip tightened ever so slightly, and I was lost all over again.

He tasted like peppermint tea and something uniquely Spencer, and I never wanted it to end.

When we finally pulled apart, I was dizzy, my head spinning in the best way possible. Spencer rested his forehead against mine, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“That was…” He trailed off, his voice unsteady.

“Amazing,” I finished for him, my voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet of his apartment. “Yeah. Amazing.”

My cheeks flushed, but this time it wasn’t from embarrassment—it was from the way he was looking at me, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admitted, his voice low.

“Really?” I asked, my heart swelling at the thought.

He nodded, a small, shy smile playing at his lips. “But I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

“Spencer,” I said, shaking my head with a soft laugh. “How could I not? You’re… you.”

His brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to puzzle out my words. “I’m not always good at recognizing when people care about me,” he said quietly.

“Well, I care,” I said firmly, my hand still clutching the front of his cardigan. “A lot.”

He smiled then, a real, unguarded smile that made my chest ache in the best way. “I care about you too,” he said softly.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us was thick with unspoken promises, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.

Spencer’s hand slid from my waist to my hand, his fingers curling around mine. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

I looked away, flustered. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” he said, tugging me closer. “You’re smart, kind, and strong. And you’re a good girl.”

There it was again, the phrase that sent my heart into overdrive. My cheeks burned, and I bit my lip, trying to suppress the shy smile threatening to break free.

“You really like saying that, don’t you?” I teased, though my voice came out softer than I intended.

“Only because it’s true,” he said, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

The sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at me—I couldn’t take it. I hid my face in his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his cardigan.

“You’re impossible,” I mumbled against him, though my tone lacked any real heat.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he replied, his voice filled with gentle amusement.

I tilted my head up to look at him, narrowing my eyes in mock indignation. “You’re lucky I like you.”

His smile widened, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’m the lucky one.”

---

After we settled onto the couch, Spencer pulled a blanket over us, his arm draped around my shoulders as I rested my head against his chest. The quiet hum of the world outside seemed so far away, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Spencer?” I asked softly, my voice breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?”

“This is real, right?” I tilted my head to look up at him, my eyes searching his face for any hint of hesitation.

He glanced down at me, his brows furrowing slightly. “Of course it’s real. Why would you think it’s not?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my cheeks flushing. “It just feels… too good to be true.”

Spencer’s hand came up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheek. “It’s real,” he said firmly. “I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away, focusing instead on the warmth in his gaze. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he said softly, pressing another kiss to my forehead.

And in that moment, with his arms around me and his words echoing in my heart, I believed him.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds one shot #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #matthew gray gubler

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way-too-addicted-to-fandoms · 2 days ago

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Listen. LISTEN. I'm not a sub. But for this version of him I'd make a damn good impression of one.

Just A Taste

Characters: Spencer Reid x reader, minor characters

Word Count: 2,925

Warnings: talk of men abusing their female partners (very implicitly), smut, oral (female recieving), fingering, a bit of dom!spencer

request by @theitcaramelchick: Okay but imagine Reid interrogating a suspect and you, an assistant at the BAU office, happen to hear how domineering he is with them and you get all hot and bothered? Jesus. 🥵 And the way he would make the suspect tell him stuff. …Could you do a one shot with this?

Summary: You assist Spencer with an interrogation despite having no experience with it all. Turns out, there is a reason why Spencer chose you, and it’s not all for work.

Squares Filled: office sex for @cmkinkbingo // free space for @cmbingo

Author’s Note: If you have any requests, please send them in! this is unbeta’d and every mistake is all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

For the first time in… ever… you’re going to assist the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid in an interrogation room with a real criminal. You’re only an office assistant, but they wanted you to be in there with him. You know nothing about how to talk to criminals or where to even begin, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer. You don’t even know what you would do in this interview, but you’re not going to question it. This is your chance to prove you belong with the rest of the BAU.

Your dream is to be a profiler that catches bad guys. If you can see how they think during this interrogation, then maybe you can start to work on your own profile. While you’re very nervous to be in this interrogation room, you’re more worried to be in that room with Spencer. It’s not that you’re worried for how bad you might be in front of him, you’re afraid he will figure out your feelings for him. He’s the most talked BAU agent on your floor. He’s so smart, innovated, talented, and very handsome.

Keep reading

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mggslover · 1 day ago

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A Holiday to Remember ❆

a christmas special by mggslover!

for everyone who is still pissed that criminal minds never got a christmas episode: this one is for you!

The BAU takes a rare holiday break, but what was meant to be a peaceful weekend of hot chocolate and Secret Santa exchanges turns dark when a family is found murdered beneath their Christmas tree.

Reader struggles to stay focused on the case, as it brings up memories of her past. And as if that weren’t enough, her unspoken crush on Spencer Reid is becoming harder to ignore.

part 1: the holiday getaway (unlocked on dec 24) part 2: how the unsub stole christmas (unlocked on dec 25)

divider by @issysh3ll

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hoe4hotchner · 1 day ago

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Christmas | [A.H] - Christmas 2024

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Gn!Reader | WC: 0.8k | CW: Fluff, christmas based

A/N: Merry early Christmas to everyone.

Read other parts here: Snow | Tree | Presents | Christmas

The glow of the Christmas tree filled the living room with a soft, warm light as you placed the last ornament on its lower branches. Jack had taken care of most of the decorating, carefully hanging candy canes and baubles with excitement. Aaron stood nearby, holding an oversized mug of hot cocoa, complete with marshmallows that had melted into a frothy layer on top. He wasn't much for the sweet taste, compared to his usual black coffee or occasional green tea. But the pleading looks you and Jack had given him had been enough to persuade him.

“Looks perfect,” you said, stepping back to admire the tree.

Jack clapped his hands, his eyes twinkling in the light of the colorful string lights. “It’s the best tree we’ve ever had!” he exclaimed, bouncing slightly on his feet.

Aaron crouched down beside him, his smile soft but full of pride. “You did a great job, buddy,” he said, ruffling Jack’s hair. “Best decorator in the house.”

“And best helper,” you added, bending down to join them. “You’ve been working hard all day. I think that calls for some cookies and another Christmas movie.”

Jack’s face lit up even more. “Can we watch the one with the train?”

“Of course,” you said with a grin, knowing exactly which one he was talking about as you shared a glance with Aaron. He gave you a knowing smile, clearly happy to let you steer the evening, enjoying that he didn't have to be in charge when home.

While Aaron queued up the movie, you and Jack headed to the kitchen to grab a plate of cookies and refill everyone’s cocoa. Jack chattered excitedly about Santa’s arrival, his belief in the magic of Christmas still strong and pure.

“Do you think Santa will like the cookies we picked?” Jack asked, carefully balancing the plate as he carried it back to the living room.

“He’ll love them,” you assured him, guiding him to the coffee table where he set them down. “And I bet he’ll leave a thank-you note this year. But we have to remember to put out the milk before you go to bed.”

Jack beamed, and as the opening notes of the movie filled the room, he curled up between you and Aaron on the couch. Aaron’s arm stretched along the backrest, his fingers brushing your shoulder as Jack leaned against your side, clutching his stuffed reindeer tightly.

The morning came all too quickly, the faint sound of jingling bells pulling you from sleep. You blinked blearily, realizing the source of the noise was Jack racing down the hall, calling out, “Santa came! Santa came!”

Aaron stirred beside you, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. “He’s up early,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep.

“It’s Christmas morning,” you replied, stretching. “Can you blame him?” You both climbed out of bed, Aaron grabbing his robe and you throwing on a sweater before heading to the living room. Jack was already at the tree, kneeling in front of the neatly wrapped gifts and inspecting the tags.

“No peeking,” Aaron said, his voice laced with mock sternness as he entered the room. Jack froze, caught mid-reach, but Aaron’s warm smile quickly set him at ease.

“Can we open them now?” Jack asked vibrating with excitement.

“Presents first, or breakfast?” you asked teasingly, knowing full well what his answer would be.

“Presents!” he shouted, earning a soft laugh from both you and Aaron. You handed Jack the first gift, watching as he tore into the wrapping paper with eager hands. His delighted gasp when he uncovered the train set he’d been asking for was worth every late-night wrapping session and the relentless searching for that specific set. Aaron helped him open the box, and the two of them immediately got to work on assembling the tracks, almost forgetting about the rest of the gifts.

You sat back, watching them. The sight of Aaron patiently guiding Jack through each step, his expression full of love and warmth, made your heart swell. This was what Christmas was all about — moments like this, filled with laughter and connection.

Once the gifts were all unwrapped and the living room floor was a chaotic sea of paper and ribbons, you all settled in for breakfast. Aaron took over pancake duty, flipping what should've been reindeer-shaped batter on the griddle while Jack “helped” by sprinkling powdered sugar on the finished ones.

As you all sat down to eat, Jack launched into an animated recap of his favorite gifts, making both you and Aaron laugh.

Aaron reached for your hand under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Merry Christmas,” he said softly, his eyes meeting yours.

“Merry Christmas,” you replied, squeezing back.

Jack’s giggles filled the room as he smeared syrup on his face in his enthusiasm, and you couldn’t help but smile. It was messy and chaotic and absolutely perfect — a Christmas to remember.

The day stretched ahead of you, full of more family traditions and the simple joy of being together.

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luvhotchner · 1 day ago

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luvhotchner’s christmas party!

merry christmas!! hope you like your present ♡

open your gift! ⇩

❄︎ snowman - spencer reid

↳ soft launch with reid!

❄︎ a nonsense christmas - aaron hotchner

↳ singer!reader and hotch!

❄︎ red nails - emily prentiss

↳ hard launch with emily!

❄︎ santa tell me - aaron hotchner

↳ singer!reader and aaron!

❄︎ family - bau

↳ christmas with the bau fam!

merry christmas!! i love you all ❤️

taglist for all cm works!

@lover-of-books-and-tea @justyourusualash @yaykeira @auggieblogs @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @abandonlilly @starkid024 @minnimaffin @thawnexwells @hotchhner @guacam011y

#luvhotchner #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds incorrect quotes #social media au #dr spencer reid #emily prentiss #instagram au #spencer reid x reader #emily prentiss x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds texts #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic

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immakingjokessoidontdrown · 1 hour ago

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this made me shed a tear 😪🫶🙏

We'll Be Alright | Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Summary: In which you discover that the line between love and hate is quite fine. Your actions are done out of love, but they only make you hate yourself more and more. Inspired by "Fine Line" by Harry Styles

Cross posted on Wattpad and AO3 and here is my masterlist!

WC: 9.1k

Warnings: Angst, a lot of angst, pining, mention of Ed Gein, mention of blood, use of guns, that sorta thing

a/n: Back at it again with another Spencer Reid oneshot. I hope you all like it, I think this is one of my favorites so far.

"I could live with you hating me, but I couldn't live in a world without you."

With a smile on your face you listen to Spencer ramble on about how he put the pieces together to find the unsub while you two ride to the scene together. He speaks with such passion and you don't think you'll ever get tired of listening to him, his mind is a brilliant thing and you make sure to remind him every chance you get. You can tell that sometimes when he gets fired up about something he starts becoming insecure, fearing that the others will make some snide comment or dismiss his thoughts. But not you, you listen intently every time, hanging onto every word.

Spencer has played a very vital role in developing you into the analyst you are today. Where the others were satisfied with letting you learn on your own, and showing you pointers here and there, Spencer took the time to explain nuanced ideas to you. He showed genuine interest and care, and you gave him your undivided attention. This dynamic created a tight bond with the two of you, allowing you to work together seamlessly and at times, it's like you read each other's thoughts.

"I knew you could do it." You tell him as you pull onto the scene. He utters a thanks as the two of you get out of the car and join the rest of the team.

The unsub is nearby and the team is just waiting for him to show up; Garcia had been able to track his phone and his movement aligned with the area you and Spencer had narrowed down as the next area of interest. Hotch, Morgan, and Emily give you both a nod of acknowledgement and the five of you begin scouting out the area to look for any signs of the unsub, he should be here by now.

This particular unsub sent a chill down your spine, and not much gets to you anymore. His modus operandi was always to kill his victims, skin them, and use their flesh for various purposes. It's like he was trying to be Gein's prodigy, except he never dug up a grave, he preferred to kill them all himself. The team had found his workshop early in the investigation, but the unsub was nowhere to be found, until now. Seeing household objects made of flesh isn't going to soon leave your memory, you're sure of it.

"There he is!" Morgan yells and points to a man crossing the street with a paper bag in his hand. Everyone takes off in a sprint towards him and you pull your firearm from the holster strapped to your thigh. The unsub takes off, trying to evade you all.

Emily and Hotch split up from the rest of the team to try and cut him off up ahead, leaving you, Spencer, and Morgan trailing him. The little man is fast, you'll give him that much. Eventually, he ducks down an alleyway, unaware it's a dead end, and turns back to look at you all with wide, stunned eyes. You see the panic in his eyes and as Morgan shouts instructions at him, you see him reach inside of his jacket.

The unsub pulls a gun of his own and aims it right at Spencer. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears. Spencer puts his hands up in surrender while you and Morgan keep your sights trained on him.

"Put the guns down or I'll shoot him, I swear I'll do it, just like the others!" The unsub declares while switching the safety off of his gun. Your hands begin to shake with adrenaline, but you don't put your gun down. Faintly, you can hear Morgan informing Hotch and Emily of the situation via radio but it's like you have tunnel vision on the man in front of you.

"Do it now!" He screams erratically and you see his finger dance on the trigger, just about to pull it.

An internal battle wages itself inside your mind, trying to quickly assess the pros and cons of listening to the man. Just as you go to lower your gun, you see the man grin sickeningly at Spencer with an evil glint shining in his eye; you've seen that look before. Without thinking, you turn and knock Spencer out of the way just as you hear the shot go off. Spencer slams into the brick wall beside him, chest heaving with panicked breaths. Behind you, you can hear Morgan yelling something but his voice sounds miles away.

All you feel is a blinding, white-hot pain.

Blinking rapidly, you look down and see that your shirt is quickly becoming stained a deep scarlet red. Your heart is pumping at an alarming pace, you can feel your pulse in your neck. The red stain keeps growing but your mind can't comprehend what's going on. Large hands obscure the stain from your view, and you finally look up to see Spencer's hazel eyes, wide and afraid.

He gently brings your body to the ground, leaning you against the brick wall you had shoved him into. His hands apply pressure to the wound, sending a shockwave of pain through your entire body. It feels like you can't catch your breath, you fight for oxygen every few seconds and even that makes your body feel like you've just been set ablaze. The edges of your vision start going black, and you can't really see anything clearly anymore. Your mind is a jumble of incoherent thoughts that just sounds like static.

"Hey, hey look at me. Come on now. Stay with me. Please." You feel a tap on your cheek and your blurry vision can make out Spencer's form, his fingers coated in red. A wave of nausea and pain racks through your system, and you try to reach out for Spencer, but your arms are just too heavy, and words take too much effort. It's easier to just close your eyes.

-----

A constant beeping sound stirs you awake. You don't even remember falling asleep. Trying to open your eyes feels like an impossible task, like they've been bonded shut with super glue. Your throat feels like a desert, and you start to panic, not remembering where you are. Mental images of the unsub's flesh creations flash through your mind and you start panicking, thinking that somehow he got you.

The panic is enough to make your eyes open, and you're greeted with bright lights. Flinching, you squint your eyes and look around. This isn't the unsub's workshop, no, this looks like a hospital. Your eyes travel down your body, seeing lines embedded in your arms, a plastic piece clamped over your finger, and a large white bandage wrapped around your stomach. As if on cue, your stomach starts to burn like hot coals had just been placed there. An image of Spencer's hand covered in bright red flashes behind your eyelids.

A nurse walks through the doors and smiles when she catches your eye. She comes to your bedside and sets down an IV bag full of clear liquid.

"Glad to see you're finally awake. How do you feel?" She asks and you go to answer her, but your throat is too dry, so you just end up coughing. The nurse crosses your room and returns moments later with a plastic cup half full of water. Greedily, you take it from her and drink the water, a lone stream wandering down your chin. Once the cup is empty, you decide to finally answer her.

"Not great." You admit, trying to reposition but unable to do so because of the pain. The nurse nods as she hangs the new IV bag from the metal rack beside your bed.

"I imagine so. I'll give you something to dull the pain." She tells you, resting a gentle hand on your upper arm. Your eyes are glued to her hand and you nod, anticipating the relief of pain medication.

"What exactly happened?" You ask, only able to remember tiny bits and pieces. The image of Spencer's hand refuses to leave your mind but you just can't remember what happened before, or after, that moment. The nurse looks down to the bandage covering your torso.

"An ambulance brought you in last night. You got shot through the abdomen and had to be rushed into surgery. There was sustained damage to your liver and other intestines, but nothing life-threatening. You gave your coworkers quite the scare though, they didn't want to leave but we had to send them home." Her voice is soothing despite the words leaving her mouth, like she was used to delivering this sort of news. Which she probably is. You stare down at the bandage on your stomach, trying to remember anything else, but being unsuccessful.

"So when can I leave?" You ask, knowing that there's an incident report or two waiting for you on your desk. Truthfully, you'd rather do anything but those reports right now, seeing as how you can't even remember a major event, but you know the job doesn't allow for much downtime.

"Probably tomorrow or the next day depending on how well you're doing." She reassures you, and you can live with that. If the team wants the paperwork done that badly, they can bring it to you. Otherwise, you're perfectly content to stay here for a little while. The nurse exits the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

From what you can remember, Spencer was definitely there when you got shot. His hands were covered in your blood, that part you can vividly remember. Your heart sinks as you are able to recall the look in his eyes, how scared he was. You hope he doesn't blame himself for what happened, you know it isn't his fault even if you can't quite remember how it all went down. If the roles were reversed you can't even imagine the wreck you would be; the thought alone makes you sick.

-----

The next day your doctor clears you for discharge, and you call Hotch to come pick you up. You have no family to call to get you or take care of you, Hotch and the team are the closest thing you have. You had almost called Spencer, but decided against it because you're not sure if you're ready to see him just yet. Hotch's car pulls up to the curb and he hops out to help you in the car but you wave him off.

"I got shot I'm not immobile." You try to tease as you grimace, pulling yourself into the passenger seat. Hotch closes the door once you're in and quickly returns to the driver's seat. His hands grip the wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. He starts the route back to your home without a word, but you can tell something is bothering him.

"What's up?" You break the silence, the curiosity of what he's thinking becoming too much. Hotch glances at you from the corner of his eye before training his eyes back on the road.

"You're off of field duty for the next few months. Technically, you should be on a leave of absence for a while but I know you won't abide by it. But, you have to promise me you won't overwork yourself. You got shot, you need to take care of yourself." His words come out slow and even, which contradicts his body language. There's something else going on, but you know him well enough to know he's not going to tell you.

"No field work, got it." You agree, knowing it's the best deal you're going to get. When another agent was shot on the job about a year ago, they made her stay out of the office for four months. You'd go crazy under those restrictions.

The two of you ride in silence until he pulls up outside of your quaint home. The lights are all off and the mail has gone unchecked. Dark clouds in the sky start emitting light sprinkles, likely to turn into a storm. With a sigh, you look to Hotch, whose eyes are already on you and you smile weakly at him, trying to mask the pain shooting up your spine.

"Thank you, Hotch." You say and open the door despite your body's protests.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to call." He tells you with a father-like authority. You nod your head, knowing he means it.

"I will." You confirm and close the door. Hotch drives off and you check your overflowing mailbox before heading up the short stone walkway to your home. You're thankful for the stair railings as you have to pull yourself up each step to reach your front door. From what should be a simple, few-second task, it feels like you've run a marathon. The keys fumble around in your hands but you're able to unlock the door after a few attempts.

Your home is unusually dark and cold inside. The mail finds itself scattered across the dining room table and you go around turning on a lamp or two to bring some life back into the space. Clutching the back of your couch, you catch your breath and look down at your torso. With careful hands, you lift your shirt and look at the bandage. Thankfully it doesn't look like the stitches have broken, it's just a lot of pain. The doctor had given you two prescriptions to fill, but you probably won't go pick them up, you can't imagine how painful it would be to drive a car right now; moving your arms and legs, straining your abdomen. It's just not worth it in your mind. And you're surely not going to inconvenience anyone to pick it up for you, they probably couldn't anyways seeing as how one of them is a narcotic.

Instead of doing anything else, you go around and lay down on your couch, propping your head on a throw pillow and pulling the blanket draped over the back overtop of you. Thunder sounds off overhead, and you know the rain will put you to sleep if the pain doesn't do it first.

The plush material of the blanket soothes you somewhat, it definitely feels better than the hospital blankets. Thick raindrops start pelting the window situated on the wall perpendicular to the couch, giving you the perfect view through your sheer curtains. Your eyes droop as you watch the droplets race each other to the bottom but you don't want to sleep, it's pretty much all you've done the past two days.

While your eyes concentrate on the raindrops pelting the window your mind races with all the thoughts you've slept away in the hospital. Since first waking up, you've been able to recall most of what happened, the doctors told you it was a normal thing to experience, but it freaked you out as you just kept remembering what happened. You can hear Spencer's voice begging you to stay awake and you remember shoving him out of the way so he wouldn't be shot.

While the pain of being shot is like nothing you've experienced before, you know you'd do it all over again to save Spencer. And that terrifies you. It's for that reason you haven't contacted him yet, but you see the messages he's left on your phone, asking if you're okay and if he can do anything for you. If it had been him that got shot, and he didn't pull through, you know you'd crumble, you'd absolutely lose yourself. And that shakes you to your core. You knew you and Spencer were close, but you never realized just how deep your love for him runs.

Being shot made you understand that in this line of work it's not smart to form these personal ties, for reasons such as this. If the roles were reversed and he did die, you know you wouldn't be able to continue doing your job. It's been made abundantly obvious to you during your time on the BAU that these deep connections could pose a threat to your safety, and that's never been more clear to you than it is right now. It's precisely the reason you don't answer Spencer at all. You feel guilty, but you know it's better like this in the long run. You can't stomach the thought of him taking a bullet for you, so you have to distance yourself, for his safety.

-----

Five days later you decide to return to the office. You're feeling slightly better, the pain is still strikingly difficult to deal with, but you can't stand another day being cooped up in your house. Plus, you know there's at least one incident report waiting for you.

You leave early to give yourself enough time to get there, and you find out that you were right about driving, it definitely does not feel good. You reach the office later than you usually do, but you don't really care. The team isn't even expecting you for another two days, so there's no punctuality expectation. After you get out of your car and make your way across the parking lot you find that a pit of dread has taken residence in your stomach, right next to the aching pain; and you're nervous to walk through the doors that have become so familiar. But the elevator ride is too short for your comfort and you find yourself staring at those very doors before you're truly prepared.

With one hand lightly resting on your abdomen, you force yourself into the office, where everyone is busy with their daily duties. Maybe you can just slip in here without anyone noticing you. Your steps are drastically slower than normal, and you make it halfway to your desk before you hear someone calling out your name.

"What are you doing here? Thought you weren't supposed to be back until Monday." Morgan asks, tossing a file on top of his keyboard. You clear your throat and try your best to smile.

"Just couldn't stay away I guess." You say and finish the journey to your desk, feeling your legs start going weak. Within the days you've spent at home, you couldn't bring yourself to exert much energy getting food, you mainly just spent time wrapped up in a blanket on your couch. Your body is weaker than it ever has been, from both malnutrition and the gunshot, but nobody needs to know that, then they'd start to hover. You'd much rather just suffer in silence and take care of yourself. Morgan follows you over to your desk and you're hypervigilant to keep up a good appearance.

"We've been worried about you. Nobody's heard from you since Hotch picked you up." He says and you glance over to Hotch's office, seeing the door closed.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I've just been trying to rest and heal up." It's not a total lie, just not the entire truth either. You meet Morgan's eyes as if to seal the deal, and thankfully he doesn't push you further on the matter, he just puts a hand on your shoulder.

"Well it's good to have you back." He says before departing back to his own desk.

You open the cover of the file that's sitting on your desk, seeing blank pages waiting for you to fill them out. Grabbing your favorite pen, you start jotting down your notes of the incident report up until you get to the part where you were shot. The pen hovers over the page for minutes, and you can't seem to find the right words. The opening of Hotch's door distracts you and you see him and Spencer walk out. Spencer's eyes lock with yours immediately and he wastes no time abandoning his conversation with Hotch to come over to you. You knew this time would come, you were just hoping to avoid it for a while longer.

"How are you? Are you okay? You weren't supposed to be back until Monday." A flurry of questions gets thrown at you while Spencer looks you over as if he's expecting to see another bleeding wound on you.

"I'm fine, thanks." You keep your answer short, too short for his liking and you know it. Guilt sits heavily in your heart, but you remind yourself that this is for his benefit and wellbeing. You can deal with a broken heart, you can't deal with Spencer dying and that's why this is necessary. His eyebrows scrunch together, confused about why you're acting so strangely.

"I tried to text you." He says, lowering his voice, eyes tender and full of worry. If only you could reach out to him, to feel his soft skin under your fingertips and tell him about the hell you've been going through. Instead, you lick your lips and nod shortly,

"I saw. I just, I wanted some time alone." You lie straight to his face and watch as he buys it so easily. Disappointment paints itself all over his face, but he nods anyways and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Right. Sorry, well, um, you know where I'll be." He says in a hushed voice before turning and walking to his own desk. Your eyes clamp themselves shut and your fists clench, leaving crescent-shaped indents in your palms as you take a deep breath and fight away the tears that threaten to spill.

Once you've regained control of yourself, you pick your pen back up and focus on nothing else but getting this report done. You force yourself to write robotically, stating only the concise facts of what happened and not a detail more. You're sure the other agents' reports will make up for yours, you just need to get this done and filed so you can leave. The air in the office space is suffocating.

After what feels like a short eternity, you've finally completed the report and you shut the front cover of the file and push yourself out of your chair, gritting your teeth the entire time.

"Need help?" You hear Morgan's voice behind you, and you're quick to shake your head.

"No, I'm fine, thank you." You say as you stand as straight as you can, grabbing the file off your desk with one hand, the other rests over your wound, which feel unusually warm. Fearing the worst, you make your way to Hotch's office, biting your cheek the entire way there.

When you enter his office he looks at you with uncharacteristically soft eyes. He waits for you to make the first move and you put the folder on his desk, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. He opens the folder and reads over your work before tossing it on top of a pile of other folders.

"What's going on with you?" He asks and stands to shut his door. Hotch closes the blinds on the office windows as well, so that the other agents can't see into the room and you're thankful. Your bottom lip quivers as a sharp hot pain radiates from your wound and you feel your throat constrict. Grasping the back of a chair situated in front of his desk you lean your weight on it to try and alleviate the pain, but it isn't working.

"Let me see." Hotch stands from his desk and stands beside you. Once you feel you can stand on your own you lift the edge of your shirt up, exposing the bandage wrapped around you. From your vantage point you can see the warm red skin peeking out from the bandage.

"That's not good, that looks like it's becoming infected." Hotch's voice is thick with worry and he delicately peels back the bandage to examine the wound and you bite down on your hand to keep from crying out. The air coming into contact with it feels like he just pushed a fire poker right through the stitches.

"We're leaving right now, that's definitely infected." Hotch secures the bandage back and you shake your head.

"I'll be fine, it's just part of the healing process." You try to downplay the situation. In reality, you know that it's not good for your wound to be that red or warm, but if the two of you leave right now the others are going to know something's up. And that will inevitably lead to them hovering over you.

"No, it's not. You're going to come with me or I'll call the squad." Hotch threatens and you see no trace of a lie in his eyes or in his tone. Relenting, you agree to go with him. He leads you out of the office and you keep your head down, compelling yourself to not look at Spencer, who's undoubtedly tracking your every move.

Once you reach the parking lot Hotch begins questioning you. He helps you into his car and you let him, not having the energy to fight him.

"Have you not been taking the medicine prescribed to you? I know they gave you an antibiotic." He scolds, knowing the answer. If you had been taking them, you wouldn't be showing up to the office with an angry gunshot wound.

"Hurt too much to drive and get them." You keep your answer short and he huffs in annoyance, but starts driving somewhere to get you the medical attention you need. Deep down you're thankful Hotch cares this much, he's the closest thing to real family you have.

Last Thanksgiving the team found out that you have no family to spend the holidays with. You had never meant to tell them, but holiday plans came up in conversation and yours were painfully dull and lonely compared to theirs. But Hotch invited you to his family's Thanksgiving dinner. At first, you had declined, not wanting to intrude on his family time away from work, but he wasn't taking no for an answer. Now you're glad that he persisted and you went. His wife, Haley, took you under her wing and everything just fell into place; you're practically their surrogate daughter at this point.

After Hotch makes sure that you get looked at by a doctor, and that you actually have your intended prescriptions, he drops you off at your home and makes you promise that you'll send him a video of you taking your medicine on schedule. Knowing that if you don't, he will most definitely drive over here and count the pills, you agree. And as a punishment for not taking the medicine in the first place, he makes you agree to stay out of the office for another week.

-----

The week passes too quickly for your liking. Each day Spencer had texted you, asking if you're okay, that he's worried about you, and that he misses you. It broke your heart to not reply to him, every fiber of your being yearned to text him back, to let him know that you're okay. The temptation to abandon your decision of distancing yourself from him grew stronger each day. It became so tempting that you forced yourself to let your phone battery die and then you buried it underneath the clothes in your dresser so that it would stay out of sight.

But now, as you stare up at the office building from the parking lot, you know that you won't be able to avoid him today and you know that you're going to have to not give into temptation. Every time you want to slip, you're going to have to remind yourself that this is for his safety. You remember that you can deal with the heartbreak, the possibility of him hating you, but you'll never be able to go on if he dies. So you have to do everything in your power to make sure he will never have a reason to make a decision to take a bullet for you, like you did him.

Eventually, you walk into the office, admittedly in a lot less pain than last time. Who knew that taking your prescribed antibiotics would make your life easier? As soon as your foot crosses the threshold of the door, you feel like everyone's eyes are upon you. Instead of looking around to confirm your suspicions, you make a straight route right to your desk. But, of course that doesn't stop people from coming over.

"Back again. You look better this time." Morgan smiles and slides to sit on the edge of your desk. You smile back at him, feeling refreshed and healthier than last time.

"Feel better too. Any new cases?" You ask, hoping to establish some normalcy back into your routine. Typically, you and Spencer carpool to work together and his missing presence from your morning routine didn't go unmissed. Morgan licks his lips and nods,

"Yeah we just got back from one out in Colorado. I think there's another briefing at ten." He tells you, taking a sip of his coffee. You know you won't be let into the field yet, but you at least want to sit in on the briefing. More than likely you'll be paired with Garcia, and you're fine with that.

Morgan slides off your desk and as he moves you see Spencer staring straight at you. His eyes look bloodshot, there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't had a decent night of sleep for a month and his hair is a mess. His lips fall open as you two make eye contact, but you're quick to look away before you go over to comfort him. The inside of your cheeks burn from how hard you're biting them.

Once ten rolls around the team files into the conference room, and you're careful to stand in the back instead of taking your usual seat. Prentiss gives you an odd look but she doesn't say anything. It's glaringly obvious to everyone that something is off, but you assure them you should stand to help your blood circulation. As Hotch starts going over the next case you feel a familiar pair of eyes lingering on your face, but you stare right at Hotch.

Soon enough, the rest of the team is off to work a local case, and you stay in the office to help Garcia. She pulls up a chair for you to sit on, and the two of you get to work without saying a word. It's weird for there to be a silence so thick between the two of you, you two always work so well together and you love Penelope. As she waits for something to load, she taps a pen on her desk and takes a deep breath.

"What's wrong?" You ask, not being able to take it any longer. The tapping pen stills and she looks over to you with an uncertain look on her face.

"What's wrong with me? Nothing, I'm perfect as a peach." She tries to lie, but you can read her too well. Your eyebrows raise, and you push her further.

"Come on, Pen. I know you better than that. Tell me." You implore and she bites her lower lip, conflicted with herself as if she should say anything or not. But eventually your staring gets to her and she breaks.

"Fine. Fine, but you didn't hear this from me. Spencer thinks that you blame him for getting shot and that's why you've been dodging him." You've never heard such ridiculous words come out of Penelope's mouth, and you've heard her say a lot over the years. Taken aback, your mouth falls open and you blink, trying to come up with something to say.

"No. Of course it's not his fault. I pushed him out of the way, he didn't pull me into the bullet's path." You say, wanting to set the record straight. Your heart aches at the thought of Spencer beating himself up, thinking that you blame him for your own actions. You know you won't tell him this directly, but you're certain Garcia will relay the message. And that will have to be good enough.

"What's going on with you two then?" Her voice is uncharacteristically soft. You know you can't tell her what you're really doing because you know she'll fight you on it and try to dissuade you. So you choose to dodge the question altogether.

"There. The victim's information loaded." You point at her screen and she scowls at you, but turns in her chair and resumes her job anyways. While she does her research you busy yourself with putting pins on a map, trying to figure out where the unsub is going to strike next.

Later, the team returns to the office before going home for the day. You're at your desk, shutting down your computer and making sure your file drawer is locked, and when you grab the jacket off the back of your chair, you see Spencer talking to Morgan at his desk. He catches you out of the corner of his eye, and you brush past the two of them before either one of them can say something to you. Your heart shatters a little with each step, but you remind yourself why you're doing this. If you didn't, you're convinced you would have turned back and never let Spencer go.

-----

Three days later, the case is solved. The unsub basically handed the team a map right to himself and chose not to lawyer up when Hotch questioned him. It's almost like he wanted to be caught. You don't dwell on the thought too much, you're just glad another murderer is off the street. While everyone else cheers about the victory as they fill out their reports, you keep to yourself at your desk. Unlike the last report you filled out, you make sure this one is extensively detailed.

"What does everyone say? Celebration drinks tonight?" You hear Morgan's voice, eager and happy. The man loves to celebrate sometimes. The rest of the team agrees, and you finish your sentence, hoping they keep you out of it. If you stay quiet enough, you're sure they'll forget you're even here.

"Oh did someone say drinks?" Penelope walks into the bullpen to give Hotch something. Morgan fills her in on the details and of course she agrees.

"I'm assuming you're coming too, right?" You hear her voice but choose not to look up, hoping that she's talking to someone else. Unfortunately, she was not talking to someone else, and taps on your shoulder to make you look up. You see Spencer standing in the background with everyone else, but you keep your eyes trained on Penelope like he doesn't even exist.

"Oh, I don't know. I was thinking of calling it an early night." You admit, knowing full well that you had planned to sit on your couch all weekend binging some trashy reality show to distract yourself from your reality. Penelope frowns,

"Come on, you've never turned us down before. It'll be good for you." She says, and you can tell by the tone of her voice that she's not going to take no for an answer.

"Fine, I'll be there." You relent, with a tight smile on your face. She cheers and goes back to talking with Morgan, and you swivel around in your chair to finish the report. While you scribble words, you're already forming your escape plan for the night.

You'll stay for about an hour, after everyone has already had a few and then you'll excuse yourself. If you have to, you'll use your gunshot wound as an excuse; and yeah it's a cheap cop out, but if that's what it takes you'll do it. And then once you're out the doors you're free. It's a simple, yet effective, plan.

Hours later the team huddles around a table in a crowded bar. Usually you're all over celebratory drinks, you use it as an excuse to remind your coworkers of just how brilliant they are. But tonight, while the rest of them are chatting away happily, you sit on the edge, nursing your drink and looking out of the bar's front window. Spencer is seated across the table from you and you keep accidentally meeting his eyes, which makes the alcohol in your system warm your skin even more.

Spencer sure does make it hard for you to ignore him. After all, his puppy-dog eyes practically plead with you, silently begging for you to say something to him. You can see how hard he's being on himself, still probably convinced that you blame him for your wound. Even if Garcia told him otherwise, you know he will have a hard time buying it considering your actions completely contradict what you had said. While the others might not notice how miserable he is, you can tell. He hasn't gone on a random knowledge tangent since you've been back and he's been reusing the same coffee cup without washing it for the past few days.

You hate how hard Spencer makes it to actually dislike him, you hate how he's such a kindhearted person because it makes all of this ten times more difficult. If he had at least one dislikable trait then this would be easier, then you might have a chance of convincing yourself that you can't stand him, that you never liked him to begin with. Though you're not sure you could ever convince yourself of that, truly. As you take your last drink, you come to one reasonable conclusion: You hate that you love him.

Suddenly feeling like the room is closing in on you, you stand from your seat and make your way to the bartender to close your tab out for the night. Maybe you can just sneak out of here and nobody will notice. The bartender hands your card back to you, and you start heading towards the door. But of course a team of FBI agents noticed that you had left, and are now heading towards the door. Morgan is the first one to confront you.

"Going home already? It's not even nine yet!" He teases and you give him your best smile.

"Just starting to hurt a little." You ghost your fingers over your healing wound for extra measure, knowing they won't chastise you about that. It seems you've taken the low road after all.

"Want someone to take you home?" Penelope asks, and you're quick to decline, knowing exactly what kind of plan she has in store.

"No, thanks. That's alright, I don't live far. Have a good night everyone." You smile at Morgan, Penelope, and Prentiss before you leave. As you walk to your car you notice that everytime you turn away and leave Spencer, your heart fragments more and more. But you remember what's at stake, and you pick yourself up, the best you can, and keep moving forward. You know that the pain and turmoil you're feeling now will amount to nothing if something ever happens to Spencer.

-----

Months later your gunshot wound is practically completely healed. There's a scar that's going to be left behind, but you don't mind it. You're one week out from being cleared to go back into the field, and you're undergoing your evaluation now. You thought that you'd be happy and eager to get back out there, but instead you find yourself hesitant and nervous about it. Working with Garcia had made you feel safe and secure. So now, as you sit in Hotch's office, you try to find the words you're looking for. He's staring at you expectantly.

"I just. Hotch I don't know if I can go back out there." Your voice is shaky, and you're afraid this admission will get you dismissed from the team. He leans forward, elbows resting on his desk.

"You're saying you don't want to return to the field?" He tries to clarify. You take in a deep breath,

"I want to return to the field, I just don't know if I want to do it right now. I mean, I still get nightmares about being shot and it feels so real. What I'm trying to say is that I don't know how well I'd react in stressful situations right now." You tell him, hoping that this makes more sense. In a way, you're figuring out what exactly it is you want. His eyes narrow, trying to get a read on you. Hotch writes some words on the paper in front of him and sighs.

"I can give you another month. And I want you to start seeing a therapist." He says and you scoff immediately. Hotch holds his hand up to stop your protests before they even start.

"Listen. I don't know what's going on inside your mind since this all happened. But you haven't been yourself. And you haven't spoken to Spencer once. You two used to be the best of friends. It's none of my business to know, but you need to tell someone about it. Being shot like that is not something that someone gets over easily and without ramifications." He explains, and deep down you know he's right. You just don't want to confide to anyone about your issues.

"Sure." You agree, knowing that he's going to force you to see a therapist one way or another. If you tell him no now, you're sure someone will show up in the office next week to conduct some sort of "random psych evaluation". Hotch dismisses you from his office, and you make your way to the break room for some much needed caffeine.

The coffee in the pot is hot, like it's been freshly brewed. You pick a mug at random and fill it, then you sprinkle in a modest amount of sugar before tasting it. It's warm and comforting, like a hug from the inside. You close your eyes to help yourself destress from what happened in Hotch's office, but when you open them you see Spencer standing in the doorway. His hair is still wildly curly, there are still circles under his eyes from sleep deprivation. Even his clothes are wrinkled now, it looks like he doesn't take the time to iron them out anymore.

You two stare at each other with so much left unsaid, and you make a move to leave the room before you fold under the pressure. Your shoulder brushes his on the way out, and you hear him speak.

"Please. I'm sorry." You hear him plead with you and your steps falter, wanting so badly to just stop and turn around. To hold him close to you and apologize, to tell him you miss him so bad it makes your chest hurt and how life is dull without him. But instead, you take a scalding sip of coffee and keep moving forward like you never heard him. Each day that passes you find yourself hating how deeply you love him more and more, it's almost a constant burn in your veins.

You spend the rest of the day tucked away in Penelope's office, nose buried in a screen, doing the most menial research as if the fate of the world depends on it. Penelope doesn't say anything. She just sighs and helps you with the research.

-----

A few more weeks pass, and fall is now in full swing. There's a crisp chill to the air, the leaves are all turning colors and falling to the ground. And with fall comes your birthday. You have no real plans to celebrate, Hotch had given you your gift in the parking lot before work this morning, knowing that you don't like a lot attention being drawn to you, but it is nice to get a simple "happy birthday" from your friends.

The team packs up for the day, and your heart sinks with disappointment. It seems that nobody but Hotch had remembered your birthday. You convince yourself that this is a stupid reason to get sad, that they all have busy lives to keep up with. Plus, it's not like it's a milestone birthday anyways. Grabbing your jacket, you leave the office for the day with a heavy sadness taking residence in your chest.

When you arrive home, you turn some lamps on and toss your jacket over the back of the couch. You put Hotch's gift on the table, and go to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. You don't bother pouring it into a glass, straight from the bottle will suffice just fine. Taking the bottle with you, you go to your room and change out of your work clothes. As you rummage through the drawers, you find your phone still sitting in the bottom of one of them.

You had never found the courage to charge it back up, afraid to see what words had been left for you. But tonight, you figure it's about time you confront your own feelings. You plug the phone in and set it on your nightstand, taking another swig of the wine and waiting for it to charge.

After what feels like hours, the phone finally turns back on. And within minutes, the notifications start pouring in. Text after text after text rolls in and the missed calls start to pile up. With another drink, you take your phone in your hand and read over the messages. There are exactly fifty seven messages from Spencer and thirty missed calls.

Your eyes scan the texts he sent you, his words sinking into the fibers of your very being, and you're saddled with an intense sorrow. Tears fall from your cheeks onto the phone's screen and you stop reading, not being able to take it anymore. All of his texts were him apologizing to you, begging you to please talk to him. You listen to the voicemails he left, hearing his voice crack and listening to him sniffle as he pleads for you to please just say something, anything. You can almost visualize him in your mind, wiping his tears as he tells you how sorry he is and how he misses you more than anything. He's begging and apologizing as if he's the one who has done anything wrong here. You hate yourself more than anything for letting him suffer like this.

You leave your phone on your nightstand and grab the wine, returning to your kitchen table, where Hotch's gift sits perfectly wrapped. Taking it in your hands, you unwrap it and look inside the box, heart stilling as you see what's inside. With trembling fingers, you grab the frame and hold it in front of your face. Hotch had given you a framed photo of the team, a picture in which Spencer is holding you tightly against his side, and you're looking up at him with stars in your eyes. The frame slips through your fingers and clatters onto the table.

You support yourself on the back of a chair, and you finally let yourself feel everything you had suppressed over the last few months. Sobs shake your body and the tears fall onto the photo. Your hands clutch the back of the chair until your knuckles turn white, afraid that if you let go you'll collapse to the ground.

A knock at the door catches you off guard and you try to level out your breathing, using the back of your hand to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You aren't expecting anyone, and you almost consider just leaving it be, but your curiosity gets the best of you. Knowing that you probably look deranged and pathetic, you open the door anyways.

Spencer stands in the doorway, a small box in his hands along with a bouquet of your favorite fresh-cut flowers.

Your mouth falls open, and you think your heart might actually jump out of your chest. He looks you over, an obvious concern coming over his face. You should shut the door on him, tell him to go away, but your resolve has crumbled, like dust in the wind.

"Can I come in?" He whispers, and you nod, letting him inside your home, where he's been so many times but now it feels like the first time all over again. Your house is in a state of disarray, and if you hadn't just been sobbing over a photo of him, you might care more. You wipe more tears from your eyes and you clear your throat, not exactly sure what to say or do. But thankfully, he speaks up again.

"Happy birthday." His voice is soft, and he gives you a small smile, but the sadness is evident in his eyes.

"You didn't have to get me anything." You say, looking at the beautiful flowers and carefully wrapped box, topped with a ribbon of your favorite color. He takes a step towards you, and hands you the flowers first. As you take them, your fingers brush his and it feels like the air has been kicked out of your lungs.

"I know, but I wanted to." He says, meeting your eyes. You catch the scent of the flowers, appreciating their freshness and the life they bring to your otherwise sad home. Making your way into your kitchen, you find a vase to put the flowers in and then you set them on the table. Spencer's eye catches the photo, and you know he can see the wetness that still adorns the frame. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together.

"Thank you, Spencer." You say after you position the flowers just right. Willingly, you catch his eye and you know you can never go back to ignoring him after this. He glances from you, to the photo, then back to you before he hands you the box. Lifting the top off, you see a beautiful gold chain inside that has a beautiful gemstone pendant hanging from it.

"I picked the stone because it reminded me of your eyes." He sheepishly admits, and you look up at him through your lashes with the purest and deepest love flowing through you. But through that love, the guilt eats you alive.

"Spencer, this is too much. I've been horrible to you lately, I don't deserve this. And I definitely don't deserve your kindness." You say, looking into his gorgeous, kind eyes. The tension is noticeable between you, and you wish it would melt away and that you two could go back to how things used to be.

"I've missed you so much." Is all he says, voice cracking and you see tears gather in his eyes. Unable to help yourself, you set the necklace on the table and close the gap between the two of you, resting your hand on his cheek. Your bottom lip trembles,

"I'm so sorry Spencer. I'm so sorry." You say, tears once again flowing down your face. He sniffles as a tear runs down his cheek onto your thumb.

"Why?" Is all he asks but you know exactly what he means. You decide to come clean to him, there's no use of lying now.

"When I got shot, I realized that if you had been the one who got hit, and you didn't make it, that I wouldn't be able to live. The thought of living in a world without you is too much. So I had to make sure that I didn't give you a reason to make the same choice I did. I could live with you hating me, but I couldn't live in a world without you. I wanted you to hate me so that you wouldn't risk your life for me." Your thumb gently brushes his cheekbone, trembling with your words. He closes his eyes as tears keep falling down his cheeks. One of his hands comes up and grabs yours that's on his face, and he grips it tight.

"When I realized you had taken the bullet for me, I knew that nothing would be the same between us. I thought I was going to lose you. Your blood was on my hands, and it's the only thing I have nightmares about anymore. And this made me realize that I can never stop loving you, no matter what happens." He admits, causing you to cry harder. The remorse you feel for putting him through so much torment feels like it's eating you from the inside. You should have been there for him.

"I'm so sorry." Is all you can say, it's all you can express to him right now. He needs to know that you didn't mean any of it. Spencer pulls you in for a hug and holds you tight against him. One of his hands cradles the back of your head, the other is secure around your waist. Your tears stain his sweater, and the two of you let out everything.

When you finally pull back from the hug you grab his face with gentle hands, making him look at you.

"Spencer, I love you so much. I need you to know that I did what I did because I love you too much to lose you." You admit to him and he smiles. A genuine smile that you haven't seen in months. Through the tears and emotions, you two smile widely at one another.

Spencer closes the gap between the two of you, and tilts your chin up. Your lips connect with his ever so softly, and you pull him closer to you, your hands trailing down his torso, collecting fistfuls of his sweater. One of his hands rests on your cheek, brushing your cheekbone and the other keeps you close to him.

Everything that has gone unsaid is spoken loud and clear as you kiss one another. When your lungs start burning, begging for air, you break away and lean your forehead on his chest. He brushes your hair with his fingers and you feel him press a tender kiss to the top of your head. You stay entangled with each other in a comfortable silence before you look up at him,

"We'll be alright." You tell him, knowing that the two of you will be able to mend each other in time. And things may never be like they were, and that's okay.

"We'll be alright." He confirms, kissing your forehead.

Eventually, you two move to the couch and you ask him to clasp the necklace around your neck. In the soft, warm glow of the lamps you look into his eyes and can see all of the love he holds for you. You take one of his hands in yours and he positions himself so that you can lay back against him. He's warm, and being held by him feels like home.

Laying in his arms, you decide you don't want to return to the field. After all, if you're not in the field he won't ever be faced with the decision to take a bullet for you or not. As long as he's in your life, and you're in his, things will be okay. Before you drift off to sleep, you lean up and press a kiss to his temple.

You have everything you need right here in your arms.

#spencer reid #hurt/comfort #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic

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dr-sunshinereid · 7 hours ago

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a cookie tester

Spencer Reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n); fluff

Between Christmas lights and stolen cookies, Spencer surprises you with a gift that perfectly fits your dynamic. Word count: 1,1k

a/n: hi. Firstly, English is not my first language, be aware. Second, this is my first fanfic in years and first written in English. I wish I could've done more with it but if I would keep it in my notebook a minute longer it would have never been posted.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅⋆⁺₊❅

The place was aglow.

The Christmas lights twisted around the curtain rod cast a warm, flickering glow across the living room, while the small Christmas tree standing proudly in the corner turned the whole room amber and red. Its ornaments blink softly, catching the light, and a delicate garland that you and Spencer spent the entire Saturday hanging, draped over the shelves, added an extra touch.

The flat was filled with the sweet, comforting scent of freshly baked goods. The kitchen island was piled high, boxes full of treats for the annual BAU Christmas. With Spencer catching up on paperwork at the office, you had an empty kitchen to work in. No one is stealing cookies fresh from the tray. No one stealing muffins behind your back, no lectures on how important it is to measure ingredients very precisely, and no curdled cream because someone started explaining why the metric system is always more accurate. Even if it was blissful, it was lonely without his ramblings. Just you and the music.

You hummed along to the Christmas music playing softly in the background, squeezing cream onto the tops of muffins. When Sabrina’s voice filled the room, you couldn’t resist.

“Why don't you just come over? You've been acting so cold. You were mid-spin when cold fingers brushed the skin on your waist. “So cold!” you yelled, your voice breaking as you nearly dropped the piping bag. Turning around, you found Spencer standing behind you with a smile tugging at his lips. “Spencer!” You gently pushed away his cold fingers, but he pulled you closer. “I haven't heard you coming in.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he said, but his tone suggested he wasn't. “Hi.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before you could push him away.

“Hi,” you said, returning the kiss before turning back to the counter. “I was just about to finish up. Ten minutes, and I’ll reheat dinner.”

You focused back on the cupcakes and out of the corner of your eye you saw Spencer putting his satchel on the chair, standing and looking around the work surface. “I can do it,” he offered. And before you could've said something, he was already moving around the kitchen, trying not to disturb you. You paused, glancing over your shoulder at him. It wasn’t the first time he’d stepped in, but it still warmed you every time.

As you returned to the muffins, the sound of Spencer rummaging through the fridge and muttering to himself brought a smile to your face. Soon after, he was back at your side, his fingers dipped into the bowl of cream, stealing a generous scoop. You gave him an angry look. “What?” he said innocently, licking the cream off his finger. “I’m taste-testing.”

“You’re stealing.”

“Stealing implies I didn’t have permission,” he countered, grinning as he leaned on the counter beside you. “Are those shortbread cookies? With jelly?” He reached for a still warm cookie, when you pointed at him with a frosted-covered spatula. “Yes, but don’t even think about stealing one,” you warned.

“But they are my favorite,” he pouted and said it with that soft voice that always melted your resolve.

“Oh, believe me, we all know,” you joke, giving him a knowing look, and softly patting his belly. His brows furrowed for a moment as if processing your words.

You cannot act like you don’t notice the way his shirts hug him more tightly, the way his face had filled out just enough to soften his cheekbones. Living with you had done him good, and it showed. Not that you minded, of course. “But don't worry, I've baked extra because I knew someone would steal like a half of them before the party.”

“I am not a thief,” he protested. “I am your cookie tester.” You snorted softly, focusing on the last muffin.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him moving quickly, swiping a couple of cookies from the tray and eating a few before you could react. “Spencer!” you exclaimed, looking back at him. “They can still be hot!”

He froze mid-chew, swallowing hastily. “Eating cake while it's still hot isn't generally bad for your health,” he said, reminding you of your last discussion while taking another bite. “Yes, some people might experience some digestive discomfort, but I am not one of them. And these are cookies, not cake.”

You blinked at him, torn between annoyance and laughter. “But as cookies cool, their flavors blend, it allows the sugars and fats to solidify, making each bite more delicious,” you countered. “Also, you could've just burned your mouth on the hot jelly. Ever think about that, Dr. Reid?”

Swallowing his stolen cookie with a guilty smile, Spencer tilted his head and raised a finger, wanting to add more “Touché. But if I may counter…”

“You may not,” you said, throwing the pastry bag into the sink next to him and turning off the stove . You smiled, and he laughed at your reply.

The sound of plates being put down, and Christmas music, filled the comfortable silence until Spencer’s voice broke it again. “Actually, I have something to add.” He handed you the empty pot and walked away to grab something from his satchel.

“So, I may have… got you something,” he said, setting a box on the counter. You turned around, drying your hand.

“Are you trying to bribe me to overlook your cookie theft?” you teased, crossing your arms but unable to keep the smile off your face.

“Not bribery,” he corrected. “Bribery in most contexts has a negative connotation. It’s unethical, even illegal. But if you think about it in a non-monetary sense, like, say, gifting, then it’s technically just persuasion. And persuasion isn’t always bad; sometimes, it’s even thematically appropriate,” he said, his words tumbling out in one breath.

“Thematic?”

“Just open it,” he said, his voice softening, excitement flickering in his eyes.

Curiosity getting the better of you, carefully, you lifted the lid, and your face immediately lit up. Inside was a soft sweatshirt, embroidered with the words Christmas Cookie Baker. You couldn’t help but laugh, your heart swelling at the thoughtfulness of the gift. "Oh, Spencer," you murmured, wiping your fingers over your shirt before brushing over the letters.

"But wait, there’s more," he added quickly. He raised the one you were looking at to reveal another that read Christmas Cookie Tester. He looked at you and his eyes sparkled with pride.

"You’re unbelievable, this is adorable."

He shrugged, a shy grin spreading across his face. "Garcia showed it to me one day and I thought you might like it. But if it’s too cheesy... "

"Cheesy?" Shaking your head, you held the sweatshirt up to your chest, feeling warmth bloom in your heart. "This is perfect."

He grinned, smiling proudly. "Totally fits our dynamic. You bake; I test. It’s a flawless system."

"Absolutely," you said, nodding. You reached up and placed a hand on his cheek before kissing him. "I love it," you said softly, and you meant it.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #fluff #Alex can write?

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pathologicalreid · 1 hour ago

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milk and cookies | s.r.

in which you and Spencer try to bake gingerbread cookies with your daughter, the operative word being "try"

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: toddler tantrums, cookies, presents, christmas, talks about having another baby, it's not explicit but this is technically jareau!reader word count: 1.02k a/n: i put off doing my own christmas baking to write this so here we all are!! i hope you enjoy it!! now, i have pie to make and gifts to wrap!

In hindsight, you should’ve called it off the moment the bag of flour fell on the floor, but Mila had asked for gingerbread men. The last thing you were going to do was disappoint your daughter this close to Christmas.

You weren’t entirely sure she was going to like the taste of the cookies, but she hadn’t stopped asking about them since she saw them in one of her cartoons. At the very least, she’d enjoy decorating them, but you’d likely have to make some regular sugar cookies after this batch was done. Spencer was a fairly impressive chef, but he didn’t show the same aptitude when it came to baking, leaving you to take the lead.

Your focus on the baking and Spencer’s focus on you had left Mila unattended for just a moment too long, which led to the all-purpose flour on the ground. You assured Mila that it was fine while Spencer got the broom and dustpan. “We’ll still have enough, honey,” you consoled her, wiping away tears as quickly as they fell.

She reached out her arms, and with tears in her eyes and a pout on her face, you couldn’t deny her comfort as you picked her up from her stool and let her wipe her eyes on your sweater. “Cookie,” she whimpered softly, looking sadly at the empty countertop while Spencer rid the dustpan of flour. “Daddy, cookie,” she said mournfully, the kind of misery that could only be depicted by an almost three-year-old imagining a world without cookies.

“I know, princess. We’ll get you your cookies,” he told her, putting the broom back in the closet and rounding the counter to kiss her cheeks. The two of you had debated whether or not it would be okay to purchase a tin of gingerbread men, but a previous agreement to give your daughter nothing but the best holiday experiences led you to this point.

It certainly didn’t help that she was now old enough to understand what Christmas meant: presents and treats.

After her first year of life, you’d needed to put the kibosh on random gift-giving, particularly from Garcia. Though you still gratefully accepted Rosemary’s hand-me-downs from Matt and Kristy, Christmas and her birthday were the only times Mila was allowed to be spoiled. Of course, you and Spencer were more than willing to spoil her year-round.

The three of you resumed working through the dough, falling a bit short on the flour, but Spencer assured you it would be just fine. “What if they don’t turn out?” You asked, letting Spencer wrap his arms around your waist from behind as the two of you watched Mila twirling in her dress in the light emanating from the Christmas tree.

“Then you’ll insist on going back to the store to get the right ingredients,” Spencer whispered, swaying gently to the sound of the holiday music, a record gifted to you by Rossi when he insisted that you needed to raise Amelia with “real” music.

You hummed, “And how do you know that?”

“Because I know you,” Spencer reminded you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Do you think she’ll be okay knowing we didn’t get everything on her list?”

Your face warmed as you recognized the implication, “I think she was influenced into adding that to the list.” Turning around, Spencer kept his eyes on Mila while you looked up at him. Penelope had acted as the scribe for your daughter’s Christmas list. Naturally, the words ‘brother or sister’ were scrawled on the bottom of the list in glittery gel pen.

Spencer’s hands squeezed your waist gently, “Maybe next year?”

Before you had a chance to respond, a small voice rang out from the living room, “Mommy!”

You spun around, watching your toddler run to you, her two braids bounced on her shoulders as she skidded to a stop. “What is it, sweetheart?”

A shy smile spread on her face, putting her arms behind her back as she prepared herself to ask for something, “Peek?” She asked, pointing at the oven, which currently had your first batch of gingerbread women in it.

Nodding, you leaned over and turned on the oven light, letting your toddler gaze into the oven, startling you when she screamed at the sight of them.

Instinctively, Spencer reached down and scooped her off of the floor, resting her on his hip while you opened the oven to see the misshapen cookies. “Oh,” you said, the dough had spread out on the sheet, creating one slab of what was a sorry excuse for a cookie, “it’s okay, Mila.”

There must’ve been even less flour than you thought, and your daughter wasn’t standing for it, “They’re ugly!” Her exclamation took you by surprise, no more than the tears currently streaming down her face did. Gingerbread cookies were obviously not a welcome treat in your household, this is the second meltdown they’ve caused.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” you said, setting the cookie sheet on the range and setting a comforting hand on her back. You watched as she wiped her tears on Spencer’s shirt, “It’s okay, they’re just a little deformed.”

She turned back like she had an answer for you, but as soon as her eyes caught on the cookies, her face crumpled again. Somehow, your lack of flour had managed to completely devastate your two-year-old, and it was putting a pit in your chest. Spencer walked her into the living room, making sure the gingerbread blob was out of sight.

“Hey,” you whispered to her, tickling her side gently, “How about we make sugar cookies instead? Mommy’s really good at sugar cookies.”

Apprehensively, she nodded, balling up her tiny fists and rubbing at her eyes before reaching out for you. She rested her head on your chest, her eyes starting to shut as you swayed, “Ugly cookies,” she whispered.

What she couldn’t see was the smile that you and Spencer exchanged, holding in your laughter. While you understood that she was expressing her emotions the only way she knew, you couldn’t help but be amused at the phrase “ugly cookies.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #spencer reid dilf agenda

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awordsmith · 3 hours ago

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paper dreams 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you and Spencer take your daughter up to your mountain cabin to go ice skating for the first time.

katcember

who? dad!spencer x wife!reader when? s7 category: fluff content warnings: proofed! nothing really, all fluffy goodness, reader drooling over spencer's forearms... reid with warmth word count: 8.4k a/n: i tried something a little different in this fic, where i use '–' as a namesake, i'd really like to know if you like it or dislike it, your feedback helps a ton! ...enjoy!

The day was waning, barely any orange was confined to the sky; the storm swirled in blues and greys only. The air had turned frosted, and the wind was ever present–all the hints that winter was here. Your daughter’s 5th birthday…

You and Spencer had been debating about whether or not going up to your newly bought mountain cabin in Mapleshire was a good idea, but his coworkers had seemingly convinced him, much to your appreciation.

He’d dropped you off at Mommy and Me for the last class before the holiday wrapped itself around everyone and their social presence. He’d spent the day getting the car ready, it would be a long trip, especially at this time of day. You said goodbye to —, whom you had met at the start of Mommy and Me, and who had been great friends to you and —, your daughter.

You held —’s hand, pulling her close. Though she was wearing a coat, you couldn’t be too sure if she was warm enough or not. She had her father’s eyes, a mix of your’s and Spencer’s complexion, and a mole on the side of her neck, which you again attributed to Spencer, but more so toward Diana, his mother. She had a sneaky mole right behind her ear, you remember her mentioning it when she held — for the first time.

A smile stretched across your face at the memory, but then — tugged on your arm, and you left your thoughts in your head, focussing now on your daughter, “look, it’s daddy!” She pointed toward Spencer as he pulled up in the black jeep you’d bought together specifically for trips such as this one.

“Yeah,” you kissed her forehead, “yeah, I see him.” She puffed out her chest as she began marching forward, you laughed at her attempts to open the glass door.

She frowned, watching as Spencer emerged from the driver's seat. You sent him a wave and a smile when he rounded the jeep–hands stuffed in his pants pockets–and leaned against it.

He returned your smile when he saw you, eyes dancing with playfulness. You opened the door and your daughter ran out, her hair bouncing with each step, between the two, you thought she looked like the little mischievous main character of a Hallmark movie, trying to get her parents back together, or some other wild cinematic plotline like that.

You paused your walking midstep, heart and mind working in sync to capture the image before you: Spencer–the father of your child, your husband, and best friend–lifting the bundle of joy you’d made together, spinning her around like a fairy. The soundtrack of her giggles and his laughter mixed with a backdrop of a cold, misty, magical Christmas behind them.

The laughter stopped as Spencer set — on her own little feet again, a contented sigh escaping his lips, but visible in the chilled air. “Hi,” he said, tilting his head, eyes tracking up and down your frame.

Your heart warmed as it had when you’d first met, “hi,” you replied.

“Hi!” — shouted, then shivered, “I’m cold.”

You shared a look with Spencer, though they were both warning, they were two different types. Spencer ignored your eyes as he bent down, taking your daughter’s hand in his own, shaking it, “hi, cold, I’m Dad.”

You face-palmed, chuckling into your hands when your daughter snatched her tiny arm away and turned to you in annoyance, stomping her foot, “Mommy, he did it again!”

Spencer stood in mock shock, holding a hand over his chest, “wha–how dare–I did no such thing.”

— turned to him, though you couldn’t see it, you were sure she looked unimpressed. She walked around them as you stepped forward, meeting Spencer near the car. You gave him a peck on the cheek, pulling away as you heard your daughter’s failed attempt at opening the car door. “Open it!” She shouted, crossing her arms.

“Alright,” you nodded, “come on.”

You pulled open the door and helped her into her new car seat. It was black, matching the exterior of the jeep. The seats were leather, to which you had a hate-love relationship with. You were thankful Spencer already had the heater blasting, — looked pleased as well.

When Spencer slid into the car on the other side, he faced you, pulling your hand into his. Though you’d been married 5 years, he still managed to give you butterflies.

You were the same age, though you were a few months older. You’d met in college through a mutual friend, and though he was earning his 3rd degree and second phd and you were in your first year, you’d hit it off. A year of friendship turned into two years of dating, and yes, you were young, but you honestly didn’t see yourself marrying anyone else.

Your parents, of course, wanted to meet him first, though you spoke about him constantly and they seemed to really like him. You remember the first time he’d taken you to see Diana around the end of your second year of dating–before he’d asked you to marry him.

He had been nervous, though you weren’t sure why. She seemed alright, she had Alzheimer’s, but she wasn’t any less of a person, in fact, you really enjoyed her company and saw her regularly when you were free. You’d talk about everything, but mostly about Spencer. You hadn’t thought to tell him about your little visits, but Diana had slipped up about it–and why shouldn’t she have? She had no idea it was a secret to him.

You had feared seeing him after the fact, sur he would be mad at you. You recalled the trembling in your hands–unable to control it as you met him for coffee. You thought it might be the end of your relationship, so when he pulled out a ring box and proposed, you were more than a little shocked. Though you shouldn’t have been, it was just like him to pull something like that, as you’d come to find over the years–as you should have perceived from your years of knowing him...

“—,” Spencer whispered your name, pulling your attention to his soft, aglow gaze.

You smiled, squeezing his hand in yours, “what did you forget?”

He scoffed, but his grin grew, “I can’t believe your first thought is that I forgot something.”

Your eyes narrowed as you looked around the car, noting the bags in the open cargo compartment behind your daughter. She smiled at you and you smiled back, asking if she wanted her tablet.

She nodded enthusiastically, though Spencer muttered a small complaint as you rummaged through her backpack. You nudged him on the shoulder as you handed it back to her, “start driving.”

He’d argued with you a little when you’d said you’d wanted to buy one, but, as it was you whom he was arguing with, he’d given in pretty easily. It wasn’t as if you had her on it all the time, only for times like this–on long road trips, or when the sitter needed to keep her occupied when cooking.

You had slowly moved — out of diapers within the last year, though two years ago, she’d taken her first step at age 3. She was a spontaneous child, and thankfully, Spencer was home to witness the gracious moment, and you thankfully had gotten it all on video. You cherished the memory of him holding her hands as she forced one foot in front of the other.

“I love you,” you whispered as Spencer cranked the music up.

His eyes crinkled, heart swelling, “I love you too.” You didn’t say it often as you both found it unnecessary, you both already knew it to be true, which is why when you did say it, it was notable–because for you to say something that didn’t need voicing, meant that you just wanted to say it, and that, that was special.

Spencer pulled into a gas station. You huffed a laugh while he avoided your eyes, “I knew it.”

He held up his hands in defense as he stepped out of the car, “Listen, I–I never said I forgot.”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, your nose scrunching up, “yeah, you just failed to check the tank.”

“In my defense,” he leaned his head into the car, the door halfway shut, “I was running errands and packing all day.”

“And when you say ‘all day’–”

“Okay, okay, I’m gonna pump the gas now.” He laughed, closing the door with a thud.

You snorted and threw your head back, shaking your head. “Mommy?” — called, “Can we go in the store?”

You eyed the amenity, “we should get snacks for the road, huh?”

She nodded enthusiastically, “Definitely.” You covered your chuckles at her inability to pronounce the word fully. It was both adorable and endearing.

“You’re just saying that because you’re not the one paying,” you joked, but again she nodded her head and said–

“Definitely.” You sighed, unbuckling your seat belt and sliding out of the car, Spencer rounded it, asking what you were doing.

“— wants to get snacks.”

You pulled open the backseat door, unbuckling your daughter. She hopped out, landing on her feet. Spencer’s eyes widened and he bent with her, arms splayed out as if she might fall. Your heart swelled at the worry in his eyes–his expression.

He glanced up at you with a frown, you bit your lip, fighting the urge to attack him with kisses. “Be safe,” he said, keeping an eye on — as she skipped in front of you, toward the shop.

“We’ll be fine,” you assured, pausing, watching his expression, and before hesitating a moment longer, you pulled him down by his collar and kissed his cheek.

Spinning around instantly after, you chased your daughter before he could react. Blush darkened your cheeks both from the bitter air and your actions. The inside of the convenience store was a flame of warmth to the gloom of the outside. “Mommy!” — called, swaying on her heels as she waited for you in one of the aisles.

“I’m here,” you came up behind her, eyes wandering around the candy. You looked up and caught the gaze of the store clerk, you smiled briefly, then went back to collecting snacks. “Do you think Daddy wants coffee?”

Your daughter halted, her fingers that were running along a row of MnMs coming to a cursory halt. She turned to you with a look you’d begun to distinguish as her “Hotch stare”. Well, Spencer had originally caught onto it and had given it its name– one you didn’t understand until you’d met the man himself.

Spencer had typically tried to keep his work life and home life separate–especially before the marriage–but after you’d had —, he’d wanted the team to meet you, and you, of course, had wanted to meet them for some time before.

Your first introduction was at a Christmas party thrown by one of his team members. He’d been working as an FBI agent for almost five years when you’d gotten married, you’d fallen pregnant with — not long after.

He let his coworkers meet you exactly a year after — was born. Her birthday fell in December, which was the month Spencer took the most time off, other than your anniversary, though you never held him accountable if he only stayed a few hours between cases, you knew he did the best he could, which was also why you took the most trips in December.

Spencer had been clear with everyone that he would not answer work calls, and everyone knew that in December, he meant it. He blocked agent Morgan one time, though the poor guy had been calling Spencer in as a joke, that was about the only thing he never found funny, and he still didn’t

“Right,” you plant a hand on your hip, “you’re right.”

For someone so young, your daughter was incredible at picking up on social cues, you knew it was rare for geniuses to give birth to other geniuses–but for Spencer and —, you thought it was entirely possible.

— followed you over to the drink station, arms full of different candies. As you made two cups of coffee, one sickly sweet, — wandered over to the chip aisle and collected a few more things. You smiled sardonically at the total, huffed about paying, paid, and braved the grim winter once more. You felt like Anna on that mountain in nothing but a gown.

“Heh-hey, there you are,” Spencer opened his arms for a hug, but instead of hugging him back, — walked around him and demanded with a shiver–

“Open the door, Daddy.”

You snorted at Spencer’s guffawed look, shrugging when he looked at you for help. He sighed, opened the door, and helped her into her car seat. You approached him as he shut the door, enclosing your daughter in the heat and coziness of the car.

You waited for him to turn before saying, “Open the door, Daddy.”

He rolled his eyes, but followed orders once more, waving a hand as if to say, ‘yes, your majesty’. You bit back a laugh and set the cups of coffee in the middle console. “Thank you,” you grinned up at him, sliding your body into the seat a moment later, sighing when you found the warmer still on.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered with a forced frown, shutting the door when he was sure all of your person was inside. You laughed as he made his way to the other side of the car.

“We can switch off,” you said an hour on the road, — was munching on something from her bag, ignoring the world around her.

“I’m fine,” Spencer brushed away your offer.

“I know,” you persisted, “but, if you need to,” you clamped a hand over his, drawing his eyes from the road to where your palm met the top of his grip on the steering wheel. His expression softened and he smiled, giving you an appreciative glance before turning his attention back to the road once more.

Ere long, you arrived at the cabin. It was stuffed securely on the side of a mountain, but the gap from the mountain to the road wasn't big and you trusted it. You had to pass through Mapleshire, the small mountain town that sold you the land, to get to the cabin. — was out cold in the backseat, so Spencer went to open the door and get the fireplace going while you kept the car on and began pulling out the luggage with as little noise as possible.

You had the entire weekend planned, —’s birthday was Sunday, and you already knew what you wanted to do for her. You had thought about it for a while, though you always knew you wanted to introduce the sport on her birthday, you didn’t know which would be the right age. She’d barely started walking two years ago, and you thought it was too soon for her fourth birthday. This year though, she was confident, and you were sure she could learn it just as she’d learned to walk, with her father’s hands guiding and leading her, and you, there to capture the memory for when she wanted to look back in the years to come.

Spencer ran back outside to watch — as you headed inside with the first set of bags, you switched off until all things were safely secure in the cabin–it was more of a lodge, but the word ‘cabin’ had a coziness to it.

The snowy home wasn’t completely deserted as Mapleshire was less than ten minutes away and neighboring cabins surrounded the mountains. There was even an actual lodge, where tourists stayed during their time away from everything else. You’d lodged there once when you were in the market for a winter home.

You wished you could stay there all season, but alas, you had work, Spencer had work, and — had daycare. Though, you were debating about asking if he might want to come next weekend. You could make it tradition, and maybe… when — got older, you could stay for the entirety of her school break, though Spencer may have to work a little throughout, his presence would be more than enough.

You shoved the thought away as you prepped — for the trip through the shivering breeze that only seemed to be alive at this height and around this time of night. She shuddered and tightened her hold around your neck, her legs–under the blanket Spencer had wrapped around her when you’d first pulled her out of her car seat–tightened. “Mommy?” Her slurred question pulled a tight frown to your lips; you rounded to the cabin’s front porch–your steps hurried as they endured the thickness of the snow. Spencer would have to shovel a walkway in the morning.

The soft yellow glow and toasty heat of the fire was like a blanket of cookies fresh out of the oven draped around your shoulders, suffocating you in love. You closed your eyes for a moment, breathing in the aroma, “Mommy?” — called again, head tilted to the side, eyes groggy.

“Here,” you slipped your shoes off, shut the door behind you, and stepped down the hall toward the room you’d curated for her when you had time off. Spencer had picked a few things out, including the bed sheets and comforter.

The room was still pretty chilly, though you weren’t sure if you should let her sleep in the living room tonight as you and Spencer still had a lot of unpacking to do. You’d need to go into town early in the morning for a bit of shopping, you’d probably end up eating breakfast at Windrift, the diner in town.

You settled — into bed, tucking the extra blanket around her, “here, let me see your shoes.” you whispered, yanking up the cloth just enough to reach her feet. She’d been dressed in comfy clothing, but you wanted to take her jacket off. “Give me your coat and then you can go to bed.”

She huffed but listened. “We’re here, aren’t we?” She said in her broken words, her voice trembling with both sleep and toddler tongue.

You smoothed down her hair, “yes, sweetheart now get some rest.”

You stood to move, but she sat up instantly, “Wait–the light.”

You frowned, — hadn’t been afraid of the dark since–well–ever. You didn’t have a lamp ready and you couldn’t very well keep the big light on. “Tomorrow,” you smiled, “tomorrow we’ll look for a lamp.” Some antique stores must have something you could use.

“But–” though it was dark it was as if you could see her lip quiver with the tone in her voice. It must have been because she wasn’t used to this area, it was new territory for her, and she’d never slept anywhere she hadn’t been before.

You sighed, feeling bad, maybe you could give her your phone’s flashlight, just until you were ready for bed, then she could sleep with you and Spencer–or until she fell asleep. You were approaching her bedside again, reaching into the back pocket of your jeans when Spencer appeared in the doorway, knocking slightly, “What’s going on?”

“—’s afraid of the dark.”

“I am not,” she turned on her side, sleep beginning to leave her, which scared you. You couldn’t have her up at this hour.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you reached over, rubbing her side.

“Hold on,” Spencer said, slipping away.

You sighed, you’d switched seats with Spencer a third of the way through the journey, and had switched again when you’d stopped at another gas station, — had been asleep by then, and you were both already so tired.

“Here,” Spencer stepped through the threshold of the room and headed to the other side, where — now faced. “Here,” he murmured her nickname, “look at this.” — watched as he plugged in a nightlight, the room aglow softly with yellow light; it mimicked a fireplace, like the one in the family room. “Better?” Spencer brushed a lock of hair out of her face, her smile as bright as it could be at that moment, you were sure.

“Thanks, Daddy.” She mumbled.

He stood as her eyes fluttered closed and she nuzzled herself into the pillow. Spencer left the door ajar when he met you in the hallway. You nodded toward the room, “when did you buy that?”

He waved his hand, biting back a smile, “it was supposed to be her birthday present. I’ll just have to get her another one tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know about it.” You scoffed, crossing your arms as he walked back toward the living room.

“You don’t know all of my secrets,” he halted his movements and spun around, his eyes flirting as he reached behind your ear and pulled out a single rose, “I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

You rolled your eyes and huffed as a caustic expression grazed your features. You took the rose from his hand, it was real–your breath caught as you watched his figure disappear behind the corner to the drawing room. Grinning, you twirled the rose between your fingers, he was just full of surprises, wasn’t he?

You woke up with a good weight over you, something warm pressed against your face. At first, you thought it might have been a very small creature, but upon opening your eyes, you saw —. “Morning, Mommy.” She giggled, not fully pronouncing ‘morning’.

“Oohh,” groaning, you brought your hands up to your face and rubbed the sleep away. You sat up, — falling to your waist as you caught her back. “Where’s Daddy?”

— leaned in, cupping her hand over her mouth as she whispered, “Still sleeping.”

“Oh no,” you frowned, “now, we can’t have that can we?”

Her continued giggles were all the confirmation you needed to wake your husband up. You began shaking him, — slid off of you, and now between the two of you, cupped Spencer’s head, smoothing down his hair as she whispered in his ear, “Daddy, wake up!” Her voice went high at the end, louder than the other words.

Spencer stirred and you held a hand up to muffle your giggles. “What year is it?” He grumbled, eyes peeling open.

“Daddy!” She squealed like he’d just asked a question with the most obvious answer.

“Yeah,” he stretched, grabbing — under her armpits and spinning her around to sit her in his lap as he sat up. He looked down at her with a lopsided smile, “Hi.”

She covered her laughter with her hands and looked up, whispering, “Hi,” like it was their own, little secret. You wanted to capture this moment on camera, but perhaps that would ruin the moment, and you were sure there would be other times like this–so you deigned to just watch.

The soft glow of the winter sun cascaded along your husband and daughter. You thought to leave them to their own devices while you went to take a shower. Rounding the bed, you pecked Spencer on the lips, “I’m gonna wash up.”

“Ewheww,” — scrunched up her nose, but a smile was adjacent to it.

You could hear them begin a tickle fight and pillow war as you reached the bathroom. It didn't have a tub, but a stand-up shower surrounded by fogged glass. You brushed your teeth while waiting for the water to heat up. You’d take — a bath in the hallway bathroom while Spencer took a shower afterward.

An hour and a half later the clock read 9:30 am. — was ready, wearing one of her favorite winter outfits. She looked like she’d be warm even when you stepped outside and headed into town.

“Ready?” Spencer found you and — in the den, he’d just come back in from shoveling a path to the car, and he was snow-bitten.

“Yep,” he kissed your cheek.

“Did you want to go to the movies later?” he motioned with his hands.

You shook your head, “I’m not sure, maybe we could come home and make smores, or something. I really just want to spend time alone as a family today, before all the circus tomorrow.” You pressed your hands against his chest and looked up into his goldened eyes. “Maybe after we finish skating tomorrow,” you amended. You were determined to teach your daughter how to ice skate, even if it took her some time, you loved the idea of sharing something so magical with her, and perhaps a movie at the local theatre would be a nice way to end the day before heading back up to the cabin.

Spencer nodded, “Okay, I’m fine with that.”

You smiled, eyes now back on your daughter who seemed entranced by the idea of tying up her beret herself. You took it from her hands and tied it for her, patting her shoulder thereafter, “Come on, we need to eat.”

— dashed out the door and toward the car, the crunch of the snow beneath her small feet warmed your heart. She wore little brown mittens which further disabled her ability to open the door.

Spencer started the jeep while you helped — in her car seat. “Where are we going?” She asked as you strapped her in.

You glanced at Spencer, and he answered, “A cute little diner.”

“What’s a diner?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, had you never said the word diner around your daughter? Then a seldom expression fell to your face, or maybe she just forgot. “It’s a restaurant,” you shut her door, but not before bopping her on the nose.

She grimaced, whining, “Mommy I thought I told you to stop that!”

You huffed and crossed your arms as you slid into the passenger seat, “you let Daddy do it.”

“I do not!” She harrumphed, mimicking your actions.

You turned to your husband, eyes accusingly, “You liar.”

He held up his hands, falsy shocked, “Hey, now…”

“Mmmhmm,” you looked him up and down, unimpressed. “Drive, Daddy.”

He chuckled, pulling his seat belt over himself, and clicking it into place.

You played Christmas carols for —, laughing as she clapped and sang along. Ere long Spencer pulled into a lot across the street of the diner and wasting no time, the three of you headed toward the crosswalk and entered Windrift.

“Whoa,” — laughed, skipping to and fro. You asked her to keep calm and she promised she would do her “absolute best,” as if it were some kind of mission.

While Spencer was led toward a table, however, you and — paused to play one of the mini-games the diner had in the front. You were caught up in securing a teddy bear from the claw machine (— being your number one cheerleader) when Spencer cleared his throat and appeared behind you like the grim reaper.

— laughed, saying you were in trouble. You whined as Spencer drug you away, you 0; claw machine 1.

You and Spencer ordered for — first, then he let you order, and finally, he placed his. The hostess read back everything she had scribbled down on her tiny notepad and hurried off toward the kitchen.

The red-stained, glass-shaded lights hung above you and every booth in the diner. A jukebox sat a few booths behind you, propped up against the back wall of the aisle. It looked like it’d been haunting Windrift since the place had been built. “You think it still works?” You nodded toward the music player.

Spencer shrugged, “we can ask.”

“No,” you waved your hand, “it’s fine.”

Your food came thirty minutes later, you were done around 11, and now back in the car, you were headed toward the only grocer Mapleshire had. It didn’t have a name like most other places in town, the lettering at the top simply read ‘grocer’.

You wandered around with a cart, grabbing essentials such as water and cereal (— was really specific about the cereal she preferred, you blamed Spencer for speaking so elaborately when she was in your tummy, she now had his curse of using words that were abnormal for a 4-year-old’s vocabulary.

You headed back up to the cabin, unpacking the very specific cereal — claimed she’d die without. Most of the morning had gone by already, there were maybe 5 hours left until it was —’s bedtime. You thought of ways you could waste time, briefly, you thought you might have time to take — out on the ice, but then you recalled how exactly you wanted it all to happen, and thought it best to save it for tomorrow.

Instead, you and Spencer roasted marshmallows in the den via the fireplace. You were certain this would also be —’s first time learning what things like ‘roasting marshmallows’ and ‘smores’ meant.

You loved that you would be there for everything–but you absolutely cherished the idea of Spencer being part of it all too. You knew he felt the same and you also knew he’d have to be dead for him to miss anything.

“I want another one,” — patted her stomach.

You noted the chocolate around her mouth as she yawned. You smiled, glancing between your daughter and your husband, “Actually, I think it’s time for bed.”

— huffed, but she didn’t whine, “Can we eat more tomorrow?”

“Only if you clean up super nicely and bed head right-right now!”

She glanced at Spencer, but then frowned and turned back to you. Leaning in and holding up a hand, — whispered so softly so that Spencer wouldn’t be able to hear–but he did. You were sure of this as he stood, prepping to follow his daughter toward the hall bathroom. “She called me your loyal knight?” His eyes popped as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

You grinned and kicked your feet up on the coffee table, stretching your arms behind you, “I believe that means she knows who rules this family.”

“With an iron fist,” Spencer clicked his tongue as he walked away.

You laughed and sat up again, reaching for your mug. Spencer had made cocoa and you had the bright idea to buy whipped cream and cinnamon powder to sprinkle on the top, one of your better concoctions.

Around 7:30 pm, you heard — and Spencer leave the bathroom, heading for her bedroom. “All done?” You shouted from your spot on the sofa.

“Yeah!” Came Spencer’s shout a few seconds later. You stood and made your way toward your daughter’s room, finding your husband tucking her in tightly. The nightlight on–once again mimicking the fireplace in the den. It glowed softly, lighting up the room like a candle would, though lower to the floor and not in the center of the room, it shone well.

You had just stood up from kissing —’s forehead when she called, “wait.”

You and Spencer shared a look before turning to your daughter once more, “yes, what is it, —?”

“Can you tell me a story?” ‘Story’ came out as ‘sory’ and you wondered if you should begin booking her first dentist appointment soon.

Another look shared between Spencer and you told you you were thinking the same thing, — had never before asked for a bedtime story, just as she had never been afraid of the dark before the night prior, but you supposed children changed over time. Her brain must be developing, and so her personality–her fears and everything in between were now growing.

“Yeah,” you said, moving back toward your spot near her twin-sized bed. Spencer joined you, crouching as you settled on your knees.

“What–what story do you want to hear about?”

She shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“All-alright,” Spencer swallowed, hesitant, “once–once upon a time there was a-uh,” he turned to you visibly terrified, though you couldn’t fathom why.

You picked up where he left off, “a daring knight,” you wanted to snort because of course that was the first fantasy character to pop into your head–just because — had said something about it earlier.

“A knight like Daddy?” She asked.

“Yes, yes,” you nodded, unconsciously feeling around the space for Spencer's hand, “a knight like Daddy” He tugged your hand toward his thigh and held it, rubbing minuscule circles into your palm with his thumb.

“Then…was there a queen like Mommy too?”

“Uh, yeah,” you smiled, “the Knight protected the Queen, they were very close.” Your heart thudded in your chest, but as you moved on with the story it began to calm and you could see —’s chest begin to rise and fall in a slow rhythm.

“I think she’s asleep,” Spencer whispered after a time.

“Yeah,” you squeezed his hand, “let’s go.”

The hallway was chillier than —’s room, so you ran toward yours to grab a blanket. Spencer followed you, leaning against the doorway as you wrapped yourself in the knitted quilt. “Are you planning to take a shower tonight?”

You shook your head, shuddering, “tomorrow.”

“Yeah, probably best, it’s too cold now.”

“Are you gonna clean up?”

When he said yes, you thought to follow him, but paused at the last moment and decided to prep the bed so he could change into something more comfortable and fall asleep more quickly.

You lit a candle as you worked, snorting when you heard Spencer curse down the hall as he more than likely stubbed his toe on something. You were always telling him to wear the house slippers you bought, but he never listened. “Serves you right,” you muttered under your breath.

A little while later, Spencer appeared in your doorway, “hey,” you muttered.

“Hi,” he watched you, and you couldn’t put into words exactly what expression he used when he looked at you. It was a mix of emotions you’d seen over the years, it was as if you’d given him the moon–as if you had decorated the night sky just so he’d have something to watch when the sun left his sight.

You could see it in his eyes, but he wasn’t a poet, and he wasn’t trying to beat around the bush, “thank you,” it said, but what you thought it meant was ‘I love you’.

“Knight?” You crossed your legs under the covers and faced him as he flipped the light switch off and approached his side of the bed.

“Yes?” He smiled cheekily.

“Back there, you were acting a bit strange.”

He averted his gaze which he only did when he was nervous, embarrassed, and/or hiding something–lying.

“Spencer?” You questioned, reaching over to grab his hand. He let you. He also let you force his head back toward yours. You searched intently, looking for an explanation to his odd behavior, the only light visible from your phone once you held the flashlight up to his face.

“I couldn’t–” he huffed as if trying to find the words, “I’ve never heard a bedtime story…” he admitted, biting back a frown–though it only served to bring a pout to his face.

Your heart did that thing it always did when he looked extra adorable. “Spencer Reid,” you called, his eyes finally finding the courage to return to you, “would you like to hear a bedtime story?”

Were it anyone else, he would have thought they were making fun of him–teasing him, even, but it was you. You and your perfect laugh, you and your warm hands, you and your kind, loving, heart. He smiled and pulled you to his chest, “— —, will you tell me a story?”

You snuggled close to him, giggling as he brushed a lock of your hair out of your face–it tickled. “Always,” you agreed, whispering, “close your eyes.”

You watched his eyes flutter shut, you could smell him, he smelled good, though he was dirty with the day's events, he had that ever-lasting scent to him–coffee and old leather. It was like he’d stepped right out of one of his Victorian novels.

“In a place–long ago–not too far away, there lived a girl in a small village.” He hummed against the beginning of your story and you smiled. “For most of her life, she thought it was herself against the world, and she wouldn’t let the world beat her… little did she know, however, it wasn’t the word she should have been afraid of,” your whispers filled the calm confines of your room.

“She braved the earth alone, fighting every day like it was her last, until she came upon a boy, who seemed the exact opposite of her.

“He laughed at the oddest of things, elated the queerest of sayings. He could go on and on about nothing and everything, and for once, the girl wanted to listen to someone other than her own thoughts.”

Spencer chuckled, though he tried to hide it. You didn’t mind, you loved that he was enjoying your story.

“The girl and boy became friends, but that’s when she realized there were things far scarier than the world.”

“And what was that?” Spencer quirked a brow.

You pushed yourself up and out of his hold, his eyes flew open as you leaned over and murmured into his ear, “love.”

You pulled back, noting his raised brows, “why was love scarier than the dangers of the world?”

You wanted to squeeze him and never let him go, overjoyed at the fact that he was taking your story seriously. You were sure–had it been anyone else, they would have laughed, telling you it was enough. But not Spencer, because Spencer was Spencer, the only reason you needed to love him.

“Because along with love,” you began, “rejection existed. Everything has a balance, true love is to unrequited love what summer is to winter–and that–that was scarier than anything… Because it meant that the girl could indeed be hurt, and she was human, which made it more fatal than any physical wound she could have ever encountered.”

“Then end?” Spencer raised a brow, looking up at you.

You huffed, a tranquil expression settling over your features, “perhaps.”

He shook his head, but a delicate smile appeared on his lips, “thank you.”

You huffed with pride, “always,” and nudged him with your head, like a cat, he thought.

The morning isn’t as bright as the day before, the curtains weren’t drawn back, but what caught your attention first was the buttery aroma floating from the hall and into your room. The door was left ajar, you raised a brow, a half-awake smile dawning on your face.

You rubbed your eyes, ridding yourself of the crust that built up the night prior. There was a soft glow, however light it might have been, rolling to the side of the bed and planting your feet on the floor, you found the source. It was the nightlight Spencer had bought for —’s birthday. You smiled, she must have brought it in when you were sleeping, and an empty bed meant she, along with her father, was awake.

You stood, stretched, and right your consciousness before following the scent that woke you up so calmly. You paused for a moment, taking in the picturesque scenery before you. Crossing your arms, you leaned against the wall where the walkway ended.

— was sitting on the counter, mixing a bowl of some kind of composite, Spencer spun around in the kitchen, almost as if he’d choreographed a dance for exactly that purpose. “Having fun?” You called after a second, both bodies stopped instantly, and both heads jerked in your direction.

You covered up a snort, noting pancake mix on —’s tiny nose. “What’s so funny, Mommy?” She asked a grin spread across her face.

“Nothing,” you waved a hand, stepping forward, “you take a shower?” You propped yourself up on one of the barstools.

“Forturnalty, yes,” he smirked triumphantly, “— here was able to keep her promise of letting Mommy sleep while Daddy got in the shower.”

“He made me,” your daughter accused, “he said if I wanted to surprise Mommy, I had to.” Her words blended, causing the swelling in your heart to increase.

“Aww, thank you, baby.” You leaned over the counter and kissed her forehead.

“Ew, Mommy, your breath stinks,” she waved a hand in front of her nose, leaving the mixing spoon in the bowl.

“Okay, okay,” you held up your hands, backing away slowly while Spencer died in the background. “Mommy’s going to go brush her teeth.”

“And shower?” Spencer idiotically added.

“That’s okay,” you pointed a finger his way, “I’m going to remember that.”

Spencer’s face fell, he held up his hands–almost like he was mimicking you–as if he’d done nothing wrong, “ooo, Daddy’s in trouble.” — whispered, eyes wide.

“That he is, —,” you nodded sternly, “that he is.”

An hour later, you were showered, and and dressed–and your breath no longer smelled of mold. Pancakes were stacked on a plate on the counter near Spencer–who was washing dishes while — still sat at the counter, now eating a plate of chocolate chip pancakes, nose fully free of mix.

“Hey,” you rounded the counter, leaning over Spencer to kiss him on the cheek.

“Hey,” he murmured, looking down at you with the eyes of a man sick with love.

“What are we doing today?” — asked with her broken speech, you grabbed a few paper towels from the roll and rounded the counter, sitting beside her to wipe her mouth of the chocolate. Spencer slid a plate of pancakes in front of you–a bottle of water came soon after.

“Thank you,” you accepted the utensils and began slicing through your delicious breakfast.

“Always,” he sighed, throwing a kitchen rag over his shoulder. He unbuttoned his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves, you let your eyes fall over his arms as he seemingly continued washing the dishes.

Watching him made you wonder why he hadn't rolled his sleeves up in the first place, but then you understood he had just begun washing them when you went to kiss him, and the sink was still full, and there was still a couple of dirtied kitchenware scattered across the area.

You hadn’t realized you were drooling until — said something about it. Spencer craned his head slightly to get a look and you dropped the fork in your hands to wipe the saliva. He snorted once he saw you and you glared, though couldn’t help your eyes tracking over his exposed skin.

You huffed, determined to finish your pancakes without looking at him. You were angry-stuffing your mouth full of buttery, chocolaty goodness when — reached over and tapped you, “Done, Mommy.”

“Alright,” you sighed, setting your fork down, you were ¾ done, but you were more than ready to start your day, you would just have to get back to your breakfast later.

Spencer cleared the counter as you stole — off to her room, no doubt to get her ready for what you had planned. He’d spent hours going shop to shop just to find the right pair of skates, and even then, you were a nervous jitter about ‘what if the skates don’t fit her’ and ‘what if she doesn’t like the color’.

He’d reassured you more than enough times that they were fine and — would love them regardless of the color or model or make, though he knew he’d have rubbed your back and kissed your cheek however many more times you needed.

He headed toward your shared room, grabbing your scarves and mittens. He wrapped his around his neck and yours around his arm. The mittens were stuffed into his pocket as he began packing a bag for the trip.

There was an ice ring near the edge of town, it was Mapleshire’s biggest attraction, though it had separate times for children and adults, or rather, people who knew how to skate. If you left now, you would arrive right when they opened, around nine.

The car ride was smooth, — was wearing her mayoral coat which you’d picked out, especially for this day, and a plaid skirt, which Spencer had bought specifically to match the coat. It was adorable how his geeky, book-nerd style was evident, even in the form of his daughter’s clothing.

—’s snow boots protected her socks from getting wet as she jumped up and down, excited with the view–the anticipation.

“Happy birthday.” You smoothed down the top of her head, “Come on, let’s get wristbands and sign that waver.”

Well, Spencer got the wristbands and signed the waiver while you and — sat on one of the benches behind the barrier that separated everything else from the ice. The sky was gray, but not gloomy–just the opposite.

Children of all ages surrounded you, from toddlers to teenagers, parents, of course, were there too. Some had cameras like the one that hung around your neck, others had their phones out, already recording.

You preferred your camera because it was meant to capture scenery like this, the focus was great and it automatically blurred the things around your center point.

“Ready?” You finished tying —’s shoes, she loved the brown of the base of the skates and the blue laces, of course she did, you had no idea why you’d been so worried when picking them out. Spencer stood in front of you as you laced your skates. “I’ll get her used to the ice, let the skates get cold.”

He nodded and held his hand out for the camera. You pulled it from your neck and set it in the palm of his hand, large hands–you’d noticed this the first time you’d met him, they were slender, like musicians, but long too, which was why you’d first thought he was a pianist.

“Alright,” you leaned down, keeping — close to the wall, “first, we need to get our skates cold, so we're going to stay close to the wall.” You forced her in front of you, one arm under her armpit, the other holding onto the wall. Both her hands were clutching the wall and you were surprised at how calm she was. She wasn’t crying, or begging to get off because she was scared to fall. You thought she was being very Spencer-like, or perhaps, this was all —.

A few minutes later, Spencer had called you over, letting you know he’d bought and placed your bags in a locker. The only thing he'd kept was his phone and the camera, now strapped around his neck. He shrugged over your mittens which you had neglected to put on until now, and which you desperately needed.

He took a few photos of you as you slowly moved more toward the middle of the rink, your skates getting colder with each round you made. You decided to stop when you almost bumped into a father and son, Spencer making his amusement known as you embarrassingly skated toward him again.

“I think that’s enough for Mommy.” You huffed.

“Maybe you just need a little more practice.” Spencer batted his dumb, long eyelashes.

“Daddy!” — shouted, but a smile grazed her tiny face.

You sighed, patting her on the back, “thanks for trying to pretend.”

“With pleasure.” She nodded aggressively and tried to furrow her brows into a very serious, very Hotch expression. Unfortunately, it was undermined because of the way she pronounced pleasure as ‘pweajer’.

You smacked Spencer’s arm for snorting, then held out a hand for the camera. He slid it over with grace, taking —’s hand in his. “Let me show you how a pro skates.”

— had fallen a couple of times, but she’d taken it like a champ, she was learning the ropes easily, she was a natural–it almost felt ironic in a way.

Your first date with Spencer had been to an ice rink, it was on a whim, sure, but it was still so incredibly special to you. Sometimes you thought how, if the restaurant hadn’t overbooked that day, you never would have walked down that street at the exact moment the ice rink opened in town.

You never would have stood in line for half an hour eating street food with too loud children, never would have found out how good a skater Spencer was and how horrid you were. (Skating on ice was undoubtedly different from skating with rollerblades–though that also had an ironic notion to it.)

Spencer probably wouldn’t have cracked up every time you fell, wouldn’t have helped you up after every fall, and wouldn’t have fallen himself trying to catch you that last time. You wouldn’t have shared so much so easily with each other that quickly.

You recall the exact moment you knew it would be him or no one. The moment you knew you’d made the right choice in confronting your feelings; it was the moment you knew you were either going to marry him or die single.

He’d just helped you up for the millionth time after trying to hold in his cackle. And just as you’d calmed down, holding the railing, a kid–a girl–fell and began crying. There were no parents in sight, no adults, so it drew your attention immediately. Spencer–without a single second of hesitation–skated toward her and bent down, obviously asking her if she was okay and if she knew where her parents were.

He was able to locate the father, in a few seconds, skating her over to the exit. She must have been no older than six or seven. Time around you moved forward, but the image was ingrained into your brain. You knew he didn’t think so, but to you, Spencer was nothing less than perfect.

— called your name, pulling you back to reality. She and Spencer were skating toward you slowly, he was skating backward, holding her hands. He kept glancing behind him to make sure it was clear. Your heart warmed as the chaos around you froze, like the ice before you. You held up the camera and snapped a photo, the image perfect, just like your husband.

He would be there, you realized, for everything, just like he was here now: in front of you, holding your daughter’s hands…

Her first school recital, her first crush, her first disappointment–her first heartbreak. He would be there for and after every single one. Picking her back up, hand in hand to lead–to guide her; showing her how to move one foot in front of the other, and you would be there to capture it all.

The illustration in front of you looked like something out of a fantasy; a paper-drawn dream.

a/n: more than halfway through writing this fic, i remembered i'd wanted to listen to seeing blind by Niall Horan, but it played it the background along with willow by Taylo while editing... ily cari !!

taglist: @darkmatilda @theylovemelody

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #katcember #written by katherine #fluff #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds fluff #fanfic

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 1 day ago

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Tipping Point

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.4k

Warnings: sexual tension, implied smut

Summary: Your aunt signs you up for shooting lessons with Spencer Reid. You get more than you bargained for when you go.

Square Filled: alex blake (2022) for @spencerreidbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

Not having a job is really kicking your ass. All you do is stay at home and flip through magazines and shows you’ve already watched. Since your parents died, your aunt has taken you under her wing. The housing and renting market is a joke right now, so you’re living with her until you can go to school. You want to go into her field since you look up to her so much, but the school year doesn’t start for another three months.

So, you’re just trying to pass the time by reading magazines and watching shit reality shows.

Aunt Alex walks downstairs after getting ready for work, and she goes to the kitchen where the full pot of coffee you brewed is waiting for her.

“So, what do you have planned for today?” she asks.

“Well, at ten, I want to cure diseases, and at two, I plan on writing a thesis on String Theory. Why? Do you have something planned? I can see if I can fit you in,” you say sarcastically.

“You’re so funny,” she rolls her eyes playfully. “There’s actually something I want you to do for me.”

“What’s up?”

“I signed you up for shooting lessons. One of my coworkers is teaching the class, and he knows you’re coming. Your appointment is at two.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. She’s been nagging you to take shooting lessons ever since you moved in with her.

“Aunt Alex…”

“Y/N, listen, your mother wasn’t prepared and look where it got her. I’m not letting the same thing happen to you.”

She’s right. Your father died shortly after you were born so your mom was the protector. There was an invasion one night and she wasn’t able to protect herself against the intruder. She died fighting to save you. Alex sees evil every single day, and it would break her heart if you weren't prepared for the worst.

“Fine, I’ll go,” you sigh.

“Good. It’s at two. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

The morning is filled with reality TV, and the early afternoon is when you prepare to go to this lesson. What should you wear? A dress might be too much so you pick out a nice pair of jeans and a loose shirt. Once ready, you leave the house and head over to the shooting range. You’re not sure who from her team is going to be teaching you. You’ve never met them but you do know them by name. David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Aaron Hotchner, and Spencer Reid. You don’t think Rossi or Hotch will teach you so it has to be either Derek or Spencer.

The shooting range is empty, probably due to Alex’s influence. She wanted whoever is teaching it to focus on you the whole time.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

“In the back!”

You walk to the back and see a tall and slender man putting away supplies. From Penelope’s use of the phrase “Chocolate Thunder” (thanks to Aunt Alex repeating it several times), you know this is Spencer Reid. Spencer turns and you’re immediately floored by how attractive he is. You’ve met your fair share of men and have hooked up with more than one of them, but Spencer is on a whole other level.

This is a man right here. You’re into older men, too. You’re not sure how old he is but he can’t be more than thirty-five.

He walks over to you with a smile. “Hi, I’m Spencer Reid. Alex said you were coming over.” No words are coming out so you just nod instead. “Have you ever shot a gun before?” Again, you can only shake your head. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”

He takes you over to the area where you shoot and shows an array of guns on the table next to it. He picks up the smaller one and hands it over to you.

“Wow, this is heavier than I thought it was going to be,” you chuckle when you grab it.

“Yeah, don’t let that scare you. This is a very easy gun to use. First, safety.”

Spencer takes the gun from you and puts it on the table before grabbing a pair of earmuffs and safety glasses. You look up at him as he slides the earmuffs over your ears, and he looks into your eyes. He briefly looks down at your lips but it was so quick that you could have been imagining it.

“Does that fit well?”

Even through the earmuffs, his voice is like honey. You nod and he moves onto the glasses. He slides them on despite you having full capabilities of doing this yourself. You look down and the glasses slide off your face entirely, and you chuckle shyly. Both you and Spencer lean down to pick it up, and your hand bumps against his.

It was just a bump but that sends shockwaves through your body. Based on how Spencer is looking at you, you know he felt the same. This is different than any fling you had. You’ve never felt this type of attraction toward another man.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“It’s okay.” He grabs the glasses. “Let me get another pair.” Spencer leaves and returns with a smaller pair. “Are those okay?”

“Better,” you smile.

“Okay, take the gun and turn the safety off.” You pick up the gun and flip the little switch. Spencer steps closer to you, so close that you can feel his body heat behind you. Butterflies flutter in your stomach but you try to ignore them. “Here, hold it like this.”

He reaches around you and fixes the way you hold the gun. He has to press himself closer to your back, and you silently thank Aunt Alex for setting this up for you.

“Am I holding it right?” you ask.

“Yes.”

His breath is hot against your neck, and you swear you can feel your panties dampening a little bit.

“Now what?”

“Shoot.” You aim at the target in front of you and shoot three times, all of the bullets not hitting the target but on the paper outside of it. “Okay, next time, don’t close one eye. That actually doesn’t help.”

“Okay,” you chuckle. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Try again. This time, try to aim for the heart.”

You aim at the target but freeze when you feel Spencer’s hand sliding up your arms and down to your waist. How can you think about this when all you can think about is his hands on your body? You shoot the target twice, both of the bullets hitting the target. However, one hit his leg and the other hit his hand.

“Better?”

“Yeah, a bit. Are you sure you’ve never shot a gun before?”

“Never.”

“For a first-timer, you’re doing a lot better than other newbies.”

“Thanks,” you smile. “I just have a really great teacher.”

Spencer spends the next thirty minutes teaching you how to shoot multiple different guns. By the time you’re done, the sexual tension is high. Spencer steps back from you and you regret not failing more just so you can feel his body against yours.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for today. I do think you might benefit from one more lesson. Are you free next week?”

“Yes,” you say too quickly. “I mean, I can make that work. Just let me know.”

“Great.”

Spencer removes your glasses and then your earmuffs while staring into your eyes the whole time. The tension between you two is like a boiling pot of water. It’s going to overflow any second now, and you can’t wait to see what will happen when he snaps. He looks down at your lips and you lick them slowly, and that seems to be the tipping point.

He grabs your waist and pulls you into him before slamming his lips on yours. You immediately wrap your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss. He hooks his hands under your thighs and lifts you up with ease, setting you on the small table so you’re up to his height. Spencer slides his tongue along your bottom lip, but he kisses his way down your jaw to your neck instead of licking inside your mouth.

“Alex is going to kill me,” he mutters between kisses.

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” you moan.

Spencer pulls back and kisses you once again. If you knew this was waiting for you, you would have taken lessons a lot sooner.

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst

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immakingjokessoidontdrown · 7 hours ago

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this was actually so beautiful 😭😭

Stay Happy

Spencer Reid x Female BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 5700+

Summary: In the midst of a case, thinking it's safe after they've caught the criminal, you go into the crime scene alone to inspect the place, only to be taken hostage by a second unsub nobody knew about.

Content Warning: kidnapping, blood, stabbing, gunshot wounds, reader being tied up, broadcasting torture, mentions of death, blood again because there's a lot of it, broken bones, sprains, dislocation, speeding, drug usage (reader is drugged by the kidnapper)

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're not even sure how it happened.

One moment, you were simply walking around the crime-scene, scribbling notes down as you stepped around shattered glass and pools of blood, and it was peaceful for the most part — except, of course, for the police sirens blaring in the distance.

Perhaps that's why you felt so safe navigating the abandoned house alone, taking one for the team so they could discuss outside. The criminal had already been caught, so surely there was no reason to worry about something bad happening, right?

Wrong.

You were so extremely wrong. The moment somebody reached out from the shadows of a seemingly empty room, wrapping a hand tightly around your arm and slapping a hand over your mouth, you wished more than anything that you could take your decision back.

Spencer had insisted on going in with you. Practically begged you to take him inside with you, but his words about the possible dangers lying inside fell on deaf ears. They'd caught the bad guy. There was no danger, and he was the brains of the team, so surely they would need him more than you would, right?

Wrong.

Nobody hears your scream for help as it's abruptly cut off by the stranger's hand, nor does anybody realize you've been gone longer than would be necessary as you're being tied up and gagged and thrown into the trunk of a car with no more care than you'd give a piece of scrap metal.

You can do no more than screw up your face and beg for mercy as they jab a needle into your arm, then another into your neck, injecting a kind of colorless liquid directly into your bloodstream.

Your mind runs into overdrive, quickly running through all the possibilities as you would usually do when working on cases — except this time, you're the victim, and you're trying to come up with something — anything — before you lose consciousness.

You don't get very far.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

"Reid," Hotch says in a tired voice, not looking away from the paper in front of him, leaning it against the top of the car as he scrawls something down, "will you go in and see what's taking L/N so long? She's been gone almost fifteen minutes, we need her back here now."

Spencer doesn't have to be asked twice for him to make his way towards the crumbling house. Admittedly, he's been counting the seconds since you left, fighting the urge to run in there regardless of everyone's warnings of 'she's a big girl, she can handle herself' and 'she's good at her job, Reid, you need to relax a little'.

He knows you're beyond good at your job, which is why he trusted that you would be okay going in alone... But you typically only take, on average, ten minutes to do a quick search of the house and scratch down anything of importance.

While it might not seem like such a big deal to everyone else, Spencer knows you inside and out, better than anyone else in the world, and he knows that you taking even five minutes longer — especially in such a small house — is definitely a cause for concern.

Glass and debris crunches under his foot as he steps inside the house, flashlight pointed in front of him down the decaying hallway. It's quiet inside, unnervingly so, to the point where a chill runs down his spine. In a house of this size, with everything littering the floor, he should be able to hear your steps as you walk around, but there's nothing, just an ear-splitting silence that he can't seem to shake.

"Y/N?" he calls out hesitantly, pointing the light around in search of you. There isn't a response, not even a hum of acknowledgment from nearby, or a step indicating you've heard something close to you.

Just more of this silence.

He knows something has to be wrong now. Even looking past the fact that you would never ignore anybody, especially not Spencer, he has a horrible wriggling feeling in his gut, a sickening sensation that makes him want to curl into himself and hurl all over the floor.

"Y/N, are you in here?" he tries again, voice slightly louder and tinged with panic as he speeds up his search of the house, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees something sitting on the ground, too clean and white to have been there before, and covered in your delicate handwriting. Spencer's hands shake as he picks it up, eyes scanning over all the things you've written down.

And if he's not already in panic mode now, that changes entirely when he spots the smaller, fresher pool of blood, spreading out on the floor nearby, seeping into the cracks of the withering floorboards.

Without a second thought, he's running outside, notepad gripped in his hand so tightly that the paper crinkles. You're not in there. There's fresh blood on the floor in the same place he found your notepad, discarded.

Everyone turns to look at Spencer as he runs back to the car, lips turning down slightly when they see you're not following behind him.

"Where's Cupcake?" Morgan asks first, eyebrows furrowed as he peers behind the other man in search of you. "Thought you were going in to get her, is she not—"

"We need to get back," Spencer abruptly cuts Morgan off, already making to get in the car. "Y/N's gone. She's not in there, but I found her notes on the floor, next to her blood."

"That place was filled with blood," he tries to push, though the more time you spend in that house, considering you're usually so fast with this part, and without your notes, he's becoming less and less sure. "Maybe she just dropped it and hasn't realized yet?"

"All the blood in there is days old. This, most definitely was not." Something has happened to you — he knows something has happened to you, and every extra second that ticks by, he knows that you're likely slipping further and further away.

It seems that everyone else comes to the same conclusion, as they all immediately jump into action, splitting up and piling into the two cars. They're almost thirty minutes away from the Bureau, and by the time they even get there, who knows what state you could be in?

You could be dead.

Spencer, of course, knows the dangers that come with this job. He himself has been shot and almost killed on multiple occasions, but it never really occurred to him, in all of his 187 IQ glory, that something similar could happen to you.

Emily is on the phone, speaking to someone — telling them to search the area, so it's likely the local police, who were already there before.

"I thought we caught the bad guy," Morgan comments tightly. "How's we even miss a second unsub?"

"Many reasons," Spencer replies instantly, force of habit. "Our primary unsub sits the profile so well that we've overlooked the possibility of a second offender. If they're working together, the second might deliberately mimic the first's MO or play a background role, making them harder to detect. "

"And what are the stats—"

"Twenty to twenty-five percent of homicides involve multiple offenders, and thirty percent of criminal partnerships have this dynamic. Cognitive bias affects nearly sixty percent of investigators."

"We don't know for sure if this is—"

Morgan is cut off by his phone ringing, so he picks it up without looking at the caller ID and puts it on speaker for everyone to hear. Before he can even greet the person on the other end, Garcia's voice, panicked and out of breath, comes through the speaker.

"Something pretty disturbing has come up here," she rushes out, the clicking of a keyboard vaguely there in the background. "You all need to get back here — now."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You realize three things when you finally come to.

The first, is that you are tied to a chair, ropes so tight that every slight movement has your skin raw and chafing. Your ankles feel cemented to the floor, held down by something heavy. Or maybe that's because the sedative hasn't fully worn off yet.

The second thing you realize, when you force your eyes to open against the drowsiness, is that you have absolutely no idea where you are right now. The plain yellow walls have no defining characteristics, and there are no windows to look outside — chances are, you're in a basement, or a room in a storage facility.

And the third and final thing that comes to your realization, is that there is a camera set up in front of you. One of those home-video cameras, propped up on a tripod, and pointing directly at you, little red light indicating that it's already recording.

Sick bastard.

You tentatively pull against the ropes binding you, face screwing up when they only dig into your already raw skin. Tears prick at your eyes as panic surges through you, realizing you're really stuck here, that you're too weak to even try to do anything about your situation.

I am going to die here.

I am going to—

A door opens somewhere around you, footsteps descending a set of stairs. Definitely in a basement, then, but knowing that doesn't really do much good — there are countless basements, after all.

"You're finally awake," a voice drawls from behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. "I was worried I'd already killed you back there, pretty girl."

Already.

He is planning to kill you regardless.

"Please, just... let me go," you beg weakly. Though you can't see him, you just know he's shaking his head, rubbing a hand on your shoulder. You try to turn your head so you can get a good look at him, but a shooting pain sparks down your spine at the movement.

"You know I can't do that," he says simply, the smile evident in his voice as he steps around you to adjust something on the camera, clicking a few buttons and zooming in on you some — trying to get the perfect angle, you quickly realize, to do...

"Why are you recording me?" you ask quietly, squeezing your eyes shut against the pain of talking with such a dry throat. You work with the FBI, you know very well about cases where the suspect has recorded their killings for their own sick pleasure.

You just... never thought you'd be on the other end of it.

"I'm not recording," he says after a beat of silence, looking away from the camera to stand at his full height, his smile somehow widening to show all of his yellowed teeth. You take a moment to memorize his face, but with the drugs still clouding your mind, it's hard.

"Well what are you doing, then, if this recording camera isn't recording me?"

"It's a broadcast," he says simply, stepping back around you and squeezing your shoulder so tight you worry it might break, "to all your little agent friends."

Your blood runs cold, eyes snapping to the camera lens. They're probably watching you right this second, tied up and in immeasurable amounts of pain, yet still interrogating the suspect like you're on the job.

"What are you going to do to me?" The question you least want the answer to, but the most important one.

He doesn't say anything more, remaining behind me for a few more minutes before crouching at my side. "You and your friends got my brother in trouble," he begins, reaching up and caressing your face, so gently you begin to wonder if this is even the same person who threw you in the car. "So let's just stick with this: I'm going to put you in trouble."

That doesn't sound good.

And before you can say anything more, he's standing up again, reeling his hand back behind his head, and punching you in the face with enough force to make all thoughts flurry from your head.

Warm liquid fills your mouth instantly, spilling out through your parted lips. Your head is ringing with a sound that's not really there, vision blurring even though you're not crying — or maybe you are. Your world turns on its axis as your head flops to the side, neck unable to support you due to the shock.

Not broken, though.

Thank God, your neck isn't broken.

"Please," you whimper, but the single word sends a peircing pain straight to your temple, and even the single word is slurred. He has concussed you, it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

"Sorry, Sweetheart," he murmurs, cupping your cheek with his palm, much like how a lover would — much like how Spencer does. Then, with an unnerving slowness that has you trembling, he pulls a tiny pocket knife out of his pocket, one of those little flower ones you'd get online for fifty cents, and brings it close to your face.

He presses the sharp point of it to the base of your cheekbone, and drags it alone your skin, opening a thin, shallow cut on your cheek, and stopping just before it reaches the corner of your mouth.

You cry out, struggling against your restraints. Shallow as the cut may be, and though you've been through so much worse throughout your career, it hurts like hell, and while you're already in so much pain, so vulnerable and exposed like an open nerve...

To say you're scared is an understatement.

Scared for your life that you're most definitely going to lose if your team can't find you. Scared for your future, and the things you so desperately want to do with it. And scared that you will never see the love of your life again — the very one who is likely watching you right now, through the camera.

"Please don't," you choke out through the tears that are now freely streaming down your face, stinging as they run along the length of the open wound on your face.

He smiles and walks over to a little table you didn't notice before, decorated with a variety of scary looking tools, and with the drowsiness still lingering from the drugs and the concussion you've been given, you can't stop your eyes from rolling back as your consciousness leaves you once again.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Everything hurts when you wake up again, your skin littered in a multitude of cuts and bruises and more injuries you think you've ever had at once. A gun sits on the other side of the room on a little table, loaded. It's your gun, the very one you had holstered to you when he grabbed you in that house. You don't want to know when he's planning to use that, but you're sure it's soon.

The man you've since dubbed 'Belial' is gone for now, leaving you alone in the room with half of a kitchen knife jammed into your right thigh and the camera still pointing right at your face. It's hard to tell exactly how long it's been, but if you have to take a guess, maybe a few days.

During that time he's been continually drugging you, this time not with sedatives, rather with things that'll leave you with lasting conditions. You're not sure what it is, but it doesn't necessarily cause you pain at the time. Only after, when the effects are wearing off, and you're left begging for more.

Right now it's all out of your system, and it hurts. Almost more than the deeper cut he left on your stomach, and the discus sized bruise on the back of your shoulder. Almost more than the knife stuck in your leg, and the busted lip and broken nose and—

You have too many injuries to count. You might just die of infection before he gets the chance to leave a bullet in your brain.

Though your hope isn't yet entirely gone — over the last while, you've been slowly but surely wiggling your wrists, stretching the rope and allowing yourself a little bit of leeway.

The indomitable human spirit, Spencer would have commented to calm you down, if he was with you right now, before spouting off some facts about why the human body stays fighting for so long. The thought of him brings a tiny smile to your face, but it's short-lived as something happens.

As you're twisting your wrists around, using your own blood as lubricant, a strange little sound from behind you, so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if you weren't so on-guard lately, followed by the sudden and immense release of pressure from your wrists as blood flow is restored.

Your hands are free from their restraints, you only fully realize when you bring them up in front of your face, eyes flicking between your own two hands and the camera. An exhausted laugh bubbled up in your chest, and luckily, you're able to keep it down as you lean around the knife sticking out of your leg and undo the knots around them.

Standing up on shaky legs, you take an even shakier breath, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife to keep it in place and the other pressing against your stomach.

Your gun is across the room.

You could probably grab it, if you can manage to get over there.

Smiling into the camera and making a vague gun symbol with your fingers, you shift out of frame, slowly limping across the room towards the little table where your glock 22 is sitting, along with the holster.

Almost there...

Your hand is reaching out towards the gun when a deafening sound echoes off the walls, and an excruciating pain shoots through the left side of your hip. You know that sound, and you know the feeling just as well — you've been shot once, but it was in your leg, and all of the doctors were able to repair the damage perfectly fine.

This time you're not so lucky.

In an instant you drop to the floor, the blade of the knife shoving itself the rest of the way into your leg as you hit the concrete. The tripod holding the camera topples over as the man rushes across the room towards you. It doesn't break, and just to your luck, the way it falls has it angled in a way where all of you is on show to anyone watching.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're entirely correct in thinking Spencer is watching everything, chest tightening and nausea rolling in his gut with every little pain inflicted upon you. He's seen things during his time in this job — mutilated bodies and such, things many others would deem so much worse than what you're going through — but in his mind, this is most definitely the worst thing he's ever been forced to witness.

Still, he can't seem to make himself take his eyes off you for more than thirty seconds at a time.

Nobody has tried to make him leave Penelope's office, despite the fact that everybody has access to the video footage, nor has anybody reprimanded him for being so distracted.

"How long is it going to take you to track him down?" Spencer demands, his knee bobbing up and down and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Garcia glances at him before looking back to her work, typing furiously on her keyboard.

"I'm trying my best, Spencer," she says back, calmly despite the frustration and worry burning inside her. "He's using a masked signal, I think. There's no way for me to easily get their location."

The man nods. He understands that Penelope's trying her very best, especially with him sitting right there, but as he looks back at your bruised and bleeding body, he can't help being more irritable than usual. Not as the man — Avery Kane, they were able to identify him as — stuck another needle into your arm and injected you with God knows what.

"We have to go out and find her," Spencer decides after a beat of silence, his lip now bleeding from how hard he was biting it. "They can't be that far, realistically, if he was trying to avoid being pulled over. At most thirteen minutes away from the crime scene."

"Spencer, you of all people know that probably won't work," Garcia answers back, eyes never straying from the screen. "There's nothing to go off of in the video, and she definitely won't know where she is."

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as Kane drives the sharp end of a kitchen knife into your thigh, pushing it in an inch before pulling it back out. "You heard him, Garcia — he's going to kill her. She'll be dead by the time we find her at this point."

The thought has her grimacing. She knows that he isn't just saying things — these are surely real statistics. You will be dead by the time they find you.

Spencer stands up and starts pacing the room, arms crossed tightly over his chest, mind reeling like a fishing line. They have to be missing something, otherwise they would have found you by now.

Garcia's gasp draws his attention, and he finds her staring at the screen with you on it. He rushes back and practically falls back into the chair, watching as you manage to free your bloodied hands from their restraints, smiling and making a pistol symbol with your hands as you shuffle out of frame.

Your gun is in the room.

A sense of half-relief washes over Spencer, and Garcia's shoulders relax ever-so-slightly — at least, that's until they hear the painfully familiar bang of a gun going off. Not your gun, but the one belonging to the man now standing in frame.

Everything happens in a rush. Kane rushing forward and knocking over the camera. Said camera being focused on you on the floor, knife sticking fully into your leg, pool of blood spreading out around you. Avery huffs and drops the gun on the ground, too far for you to reach, and walks out of the room muttering to himself.

Within seconds Garcia is frantically speaking to who Spencer can only assume is Hotch, and he is pulling the video feed up on his phone before rushing out of the room. His heart is nearly beating out of his chest, stomach in his throat and tears pricking at his eyes.

You can't die — not yet. Not for a very long time, after you've lived a very happy life together, not until he's gone. You're the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to him, he can't possibly live without you by his side.

And then, as if his guardian angel was leaning over his shoulder, listening to his silent prayers, Penelope starts yelling out about how she's got the coordinates, and she's forwarding them to everyone.

Spencer looks down at the video feed again, watches as you roll onto your back and cry, pressing your trembling hand to the wound on your hip, murmuring pleas about how you don't want to die —you're not ready. Your body is already weak from being beaten and cut for three days straight, nobody is sure how you'll handle being shot.

The odds aren't looking good.

There's a less than ten percent chance you'll survive this, and that's if they can get there in the next two minutes, with the wounds you've acquired. Spencer tells the team as much, as they speed down the road at three times the speed limit, lights blaring on top of the car to signal an emergency.

You make a little sound, barely audible through the video, so Spencer turns up the volume as far as it'll go. "Sleep, my love, the stars are dim, the night is soft, and the world is thin," he hears you choke out.

"What's she doing," Morgan asks from beside Spencer, peering over his shoulder and cringing at your bloody form. "Is she... singing?"

"It's the song her mom wrote for her when she was a child," Spencer replies in a broken voice. "She was so scared of the dark, and her mother wanted to make the night seem a little less scary. She sang it to her when she was in the hospital."

"Rest your head, and close your eyes, where dreams are sweet, and time is kind," you continue in a hushed voice, voice shaking from the effort of staying alive. You have to keep living. "The winds may call, the shadows dance, but here you're safe, inside my hands. Though I must go, I'll stay with you, in every breath, in all you do."

"She's not dying, Reid," Morgan says softly. "We won't let her. She can't get away from us that easily."

It was his attempt to lighten the mood, but it only earned him a quiet scolding from Hotch.

"Sleep, my love, the night will weep, but I'll be with you, in your sleep," you continue quietly, voice getting softer and softer with each word as you slowly bleed out on the floor. "And when you wake, the world will shine, a piece of me will always be mine."

They come to a forceful stop outside the house, ambulance already there in preparation for whatever happens and three police cars stationed outside the house.

"This man is armed," Hotch comments matter-of-factly, glancing around at everyone. "Morgan, you go in with the police to detain the guy — Reid and Prentiss, you run in immediately after with the paramedics..."

You've stopped singing, the only indicator that you're still breathing, and your unmoving. Eerily still with your eyes closed and a the tiniest smile on your face. You must hear all the commotion outside. Spencer slips his phone into his pocket, though he doesn't want to take his eyes off you, and nods.

So does Avery Kane, it seems, as he runs out through the front door and attempts to make a run for it. Someone tackles him, and just as Hotch said, Emily and Spencer are immediately running into the house with the paramedics hot on their tails, searching desperately for the basement.

"Y/N!" Spencer yells out, opening every door until they finally find one that leads down a set of stairs — where they immediately find you attempting to crawl across the floor towards them, hand clutched to your gunshot wound, movements sloppy as you continue to bleed.

He doesn't get a chance to touch you, or talk to you, as you're placed onto a stretcher and rushed back outside, or as he sits with you in the ambulance while everyone works to suppress the bleeding and keep you alive. You're all that's on his mind as he and the team sit in the waiting room of the hospital while you're in surgery.

Survival rates for gunshot wounds to the hip vary based on a lot of factors, but generally speaking, if the bullet didn't hit anything vital, there's about an eighty to ninety percent chance you'll survive... but that isn't taking into account that it very much might've hit something important, and it's not taking into account your already sustained injuries.

Everyone else seems to realize this, too, but they don't comment on it. Nor do they say anything when a nurse comes out and tells them the surgery was a success, and Spencer actually cries from relief. They don't push it when he asks if they can stay behind while he goes in and sits with you, just until you wake up.

That's not to say they leave the waiting room, though, except for Hotch, who says he has a lot of work to do. Everyone knows he's always had a bit of a soft spot for you, so this upset him more than any regular kidnapping case.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The feeling of someone holding your hand is the first thing that comes to your attention, their thumb rubbing gentle circles onto the back of it. You already know who it is without opening your eyes, but you open them anyway, wincing at the bright white fluorescent lights shining down into my eyes.

Spencer's forehead leans against the edge of the bed, his breathing even as he sleeps.

He hates hospitals, is the first thing that comes to mind when you look at him, the way his mop of brown hair falls down either side of head, like a curtain hiding his lovely face.

You can barely remember what happened to you, why you're in the hospital — only that you were in more pain than the human body should be able to comprehend, and that you're still in pain now — but the sight of him sleeping so peacefully in a place he hates so much has every thought eddying from your head.

You carefully reach your other hand across your body and run your injured fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as he begins to stir from his slumber. You almost feel a little bad waking him up, but you just couldn't resist the opportunity.

He's just far too cute for you to not want to touch him.

When his hazel eyes meet yours, you're suddenly filled with a sense of worry. They're red-rimmed, like he's been crying — a lot, and there are heavy bags under his eyes, due to lack of sleep.

Jeez, am I really that terribly injured?

"You're awake," he murmurs quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth and pressing a gently kiss to the back of it.

"You know," you start off with a teasing tone in your voice, "your hands are dirtier than your mouth. You're more likely to get sick from touching my hand than you are if you were to kiss me on the lips."

He hums in agreement, a smile on his lips, though it doesn't quite meet his eyes, the way it normally does when you start talking nerdy to him. "How could I forget?" he whispers, leaning forward and leaving a delicate kiss on your lips. He doesn't let go of your hand, continuing his ministrations of rubbing circles.

"So, what's the damage?" you ask when he's fully seated again, both of his hands holding your one to his mouth. "What happened to end me up in the hospital?"

His eyebrows furrow. He looks puzzled, and silver lines his eyes, tears building up and begging to be dropped.

"You don't... remember?" he asks softly. You shake your head and look down at yourself — you've never been in worse shape, casts and bandages littering almost every inch of skin.

A sob builds up in his chest, and he can't stop it from escaping against your hand. You frown and use your free hand to wipe the tears from his cheek, caressing it as you run your thumb along the skin under his eye.

"Are you okay, Spence?" you ask quietly, worriedly, like him crying is the worst thing in the world. In your mind, it actually is.

He laughs bitterly, but nonetheless leans into your touch. "You almost died, Y/N, and you're still looking after me?" he asks, sniffing. "You're too soft for this world, my sweet girl. I'm alright, you don't need to worry about me. Just glad you're alive is all."

You smile and gently pinch his cheek. "So, are you going to tell me what happened? Or at least, the injuries I sustained?"

He nods dejectedly and leans further forward. "You had three fractured ribs, a cracked sternum and a cracked scapula. Three broken phalanges, a broken nose. Dislocated mandible, left shoulder and both your wrists. Sprained ankle," he stops for a moment, simply watching you absorb the information he's feeding you.

You don't seem too worried, but he can see the confusion and panic in your eyes.

"Is... that all?" you ask hesitantly, as if you don't really want to know, and Spencer has half the mind to not tell you. But it's your body, and you're the one in the hospital, so you deserve to know regardless.

"Those are only the breaks, you're all bruised and cut up, like a piece of meat," he says, at least bringing a slight smile to your face with his 'joke'. "You sustained a full-length stab wound from a kitchen knife, a grade two concussion, and a gunshot wound on your hip. It's a miracle you're even alive."

Your mouth hangs open with a goldfish. "No kidding," you breathe, squeezing his hand, your eyebrows furrowed. He can't help but remove one hand from yours to smooth out the little crease, lingering as you leaned your cheek against his hand.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, in a voice so quiet, you can barely even hear it.

You're silent for a second, nuzzling your face against him despite the ache in your neck. "I'm wondering how I possibly could have gotten all these injuries, and I'm thinking that I'm glad you're here with me. And that I love you so much, and I'm glad you love me enough to stay with me in a hospital, even though you're a germaphobe."

He leans forward and leaves a kiss on your taped-up nose. "I love you, too. Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

You think for a second, the crease between your brows making a reappearance, but you ultimately shake your head — slightly, because you have a raging headache and more movement will only make it worse. "This seems bad, so... I'm not so sure I wanna know."

Spencer nods and leans back, getting to his feet. "There are some people who wanna see you, if you're up for it?" he suggests gently, watching as a smile makes its way onto your lips.

"I think I'd like that very much."

Spencer knows you'll need to know at some point, but right now, while you seem relatively happy, he won't tell you about how you were kidnapped and drugged with ketamine and heroin, or how your torture was broadcasted to everyone at the BAU.

For now, he'll let you stay happy.

#criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid #content warning #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader

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