#spencer reid resolved angst

[sincerelybubbles]

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings: angst, resolved angst though!! i keep promises!! also, shower scene but sfw !! i am just a slut for an innocent shower scene

part 1

Spencer doesn't come back that night and you sleep alone in the bed. It's too big, too empty, too quiet.

Your morning feels liquid without him. He usually makes the coffee, you figure out lunches. Brushing past each other, gentle hands, gentler smiles.

Everything feels hollow -- off-kilter. You're late to work for the first time in years, running behind with raw eyes and no reminders of the time shouted across the room.

Of course, you're used to the mornings that he's away. When he's in a different state you do this alone all of the time, but it's punctuated with texts and calls and promises that this isn't your new normal.

But now, the possibility hangs low over your head, a storm cloud dripping steadily over you as you work.

Annoyingly, the weather doesn't reflect your mood: it's sunny, there's a breeze, leaves cover the ground. It's the sort of weather you would convince Spencer to take a walk in. It's the sort of weather that, eons ago, he would have noticed and brought you out to walk in without you asking first.

It's not easy to notice when the shift happened. One moment he was exactly who you fell in love with: passionate about his job, sure, but equally excited about you. But, slowly, he changed. Like ice melting in water left outside, the parts of him that made every moment apart worth it slid down the glass and evaporated. The Spencer left is vacant, reading files at home even when you know he doesn't need to. He hasn't planned a date in months, hasn't texted you because he read something new that he wanted to share, hasn't seemed to see you for longer than a few seconds in weeks.

You tried to bring it up to him but the conversation was put aside because of a work call. He had to go but he pressed a kiss into your hair, hugged you tight, and promised you would work on it. Together.

That was over a month ago and he's made no effort. If anything, things have gotten worse. You can't remember the last conversation you had with him that had any true substance.

"Alright, go home." Your boss' voice cuts through your thoughts, startling you into the now.

"Sorry?"

"Go home, get some sleep, you look like shit," he says, shaking his head at you. "Don't argue, you're only missing a few hours, we'll survive without you."

Thanking him, you gather your things and begin the walk back to your car, scattering the fallen leaves with your feet.

You try to think of anything else as you get in the car, turning on music. It's hard, but you do it. You think about what to cook for dinner, what chores need to get done, mundane things that usually plague you.

You don't think about if you still have a relationship. You refuse the thought every time it creeps into your mind, shaking your head as if to physically remove the thought.

Spencer's car is in the driveway when you pull in. You put the car in park and stare at it, letting your head slowly fall forward and cheek rest on the steering wheel. He was so rarely home in the middle of the day on weekdays. You're not sure if you're ready to face him but know you have no choice.

With a sigh, you get out of the car and make your way into the house.

You can hear him moving around in the kitchen when you push the door open. Quietly, you slip out of your shoes and set your things on the table. Without saying anything, you go to your bedroom and start the shower.

You're tired of always initiating the conversations. You're tired of seeking his attention, practically begging for it, only to be shut down. Let him come to you if he's really sorry -- if he even is sorry.

You've been in the shower less than a minute when you hear your name being called. The bathroom door opens and you can just make out Spencer's head poking inside the room through the shower curtain.

"Hello?" He asks, stepping inside.

"Hi."

"I didn't hear you come in." You don't answer him, wetting your hair instead. "Can I sit?" He asks after a moment, his voice hesitant.

"Sure, if you want."

You watch as his shadow crosses the bathroom and he sits on the toilet, slouched, forearms resting on his knees.

"I was an idiot last night," he starts. You stay quiet, silently agreeing as you begin to shampoo your hair. "I can't honestly say anyone or anything is more important than my job. And I know you understand that, you've always understood that. I mean, I'm saving lives. Protecting people. What I do, it's important."

"I know," you say, softly.

"I know you know," Spencer says, just as softly, voice hurt. "But that doesn't mean you're not important or that I can treat you as less of a priority. Because you are, you know. A priority. Pretty much my main one."

You hang your head under the warm water, watching it drip through your hair and take the suds away with it. The soap runs down your arms, down your legs, and swirls around the drain. Steam lifts over the curtain, filling the air and making your eyes hazy.

There isn't much to say other than, "I haven't really felt like one."

"And I was an asshole when you tried to tell me, I know." Spencer rubs his hands across his face, voice agitated.

"What happened?" You ask, eyes still trained on the drain.

"Nothing, really. I think I just let myself get too sucked in. I mean, you've always been so consistent in my life, even before we got together, that I just sort of always expect you'll be there for me."

"I will," you admit, leaning against the wall of the shower so you can watch his shadow move as he speaks. It's true, you'll always be there for Spencer.

Spencer shakes his head, leaning forward and resting it in his hands. "You shouldn't have to if I can't prove the same is true in reverse. I should be just as consistent. I used to be just as consistent. I prided myself on how well I managed our relationship and our job. I got too comfortable, too cocky, too sure that I couldn't fuck this up that I ended up doing just that."

"I don't think you've fucked this up." Spencer laughs, low and harsh, lifting his head to look at the ceiling. "No, really. I think you just fucked up but it's nothing that can't be fixed."

"You deserve better."

"You are better, Spencer. I know you are. You're just going through something. I don't know what, I don't even think you know what, but if you let me in, we can work through it together. Just, you can't push me away."

"I don't even want to push you away, that's the thing. I can tell when I'm doing it but I can't figure out how to stop."

"Well, this is the best way to start. By telling me. I trust you. I trust us. Do you?"

"I trust you," Spencer says, voice breaking. "And, yeah, I trust us."

"Then that's all we need, no?"

He joins you in the shower a few minutes later. All innocence, helping you wash your hair and letting you wash his. The water is warm, you're in each other's spaces, not talking but just together.

It's the mundane task that truly starts to make you feel better. He's gentle as he works conditioner in your hair, eyes shut in peace when he bends down for you to run your fingers through his.

He jumps out before you to grab your towel, opening it and wrapping you up before hugging you. Warm, steady, he rubs small circles on the nape of your neck, under your dripping hair, where he holds you close.

"I was going to make dinner, I was making a list when you walked in," he says when the two of you make your way back into the kitchen. "I wasn't expecting you to be home yet."

"I was sent home early because I looked tired. Well, he actually said 'like shit' but I know what he meant." You send him a sarcastic smile as you sit down at the kitchen table, leaning forward to look at his grocery list, puzzling out what he wants to cook. "What about you? Why are you home so early?"

Hands shoved in the pockets of his sweats, Spencer shrugs. "Today is pretty much just a paperwork day. I got what I needed to get done out of the way and went home. The team was confused but they'll be fine."

"You left early?" You ask, raising an eyebrow and your gaze to watch him.

"Like I said, you're a priority, too. You deserve to be treated like one. I can't leave early most days, but the ones I can ... you deserve that, at the very least."

You stand, shuffling over in your socks, to hug him around the waist. His hands come to wrap around your shoulders without hesitation, smoothing over your hair.

You stand like that for a minute, his grasp firm, your nose pressed into his neck.

"We're going to be okay," you whisper, just as much for him as yourself.

"Of course," he replies.

here u guys go, luv u <3

i have something else (much much better writing quality wise imo) in the drafts so keep an eye out!! this is just a silly little thing but i still enjoyed seeing ur guys' reactions to it !!

[justpeachyparker]

i'm writing again!! this is crazy to me honestly. I dont think ive actually written anything in almost 2 years but i'm excited whether I post or not

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[pathologicalreid]

could we get Spencer Reid with a hypersexual reader that uses sex as a bad coping mechanism? 💕💕

don't look in the mirror | S.R.

seeking comfort in those you hold close, except there's a right way and a wrong way to do it

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (i think?) w/ mature themes (18+ mdni) content warnings: seeking comfort in sex, avoidance, mental health issues, spencer has those info dumps on lock, shame, self deprecation, reader hates her job (me too), blood as a metaphor, crying word count: 1.85k a/n: this is such an important topic and i'm so thankful for you asking me to write this!!!! i know this is a premise i've seen before, so i tried to make mine different. (im actually really proud of how this one turned out)

“Baby,” Spencer whispered in your ear, turning his head to the side as you left small, slow kisses on the exposed skin of his neck.

You hummed but refused to detach your lips from his soft skin, tugging gently at his shirt so that you could make your way down to his collarbone. He smelled like sunshine and the jet, an admittedly odd combo that did nothing to stop your movements down the column of his throat. His neck vibrated with sound, but none of his words registered, it all went in one ear and out the other.

His hand gently settled on the small of your back and you took a deep breath before you began pulling at the knot of his tie, “Y/N,” he muttered in a warning.

Your head snapped up at his tone, disappointed that you didn’t find the same want in his eyes that you knew was blazing in your own irises. Synapses in your brain were firing at lightning speed, and your heart was beating so quickly that it was like it was trying to keep up. “I missed you,” you whispered to him, allowing your eyes to flitter across his face.

Spencer settled his hands on your hips, firmly grabbing them in exactly the way you wanted, but instead of pulling you closer to him, he stilled their rotation.

Your heart stuttered.

“What happened?” He asked you tentatively, using the pads of his thumbs to rub soothing circles on your hips, trying to keep you from moving while giving you comfort. Despite the way you were sitting in his lap, Spencer still felt worlds away from you – if he was on Earth, you were in a different galaxy. 

Hesitantly, your lips parted, and you took a deep breath before shutting your mouth again, deciding you had nothing to say. While he’d been away, nothing significant had happened, everything in your life had trudged on exactly the way it always did. You went to work at the same job you’ve had since you got out of college with a boss who most certainly had it out for you, and you came home to an empty apartment with your phone volume all the way up, waiting for your boyfriend to call you. You really were pathetic, but you didn’t voice those concerns, instead, you answered, “Nothing happened,” the half-truth easily slid from your mouth. “Can’t I just have missed my boyfriend and want to spend quality time with him?”

Spencer hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head back as his hair moved with him, “Stop, Y/N,” he said.

Without even realizing it, your hands had drifted down to his chest, and your hands were absentmindedly fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, “I didn’t…” you started to say, but your words faltered when you noticed the way he was looking at you. You looked over your shoulder, making sure that the rest of the world was still there as you tried to climb off of Spencer’s lap. “Let me go,” you insisted, hating how small your voice sounded as you pushed against him to no avail.

“I can’t let you go, not right now,” he told you, steadying his resolve as he watched you. You were staring at your hands like they were covered in blood, red-covered palms as you watched, horrified at the idea of them developing a mind of their own. It wasn’t as if your hands had suddenly become sentient entities, your heart and your brain were working against each other, fighting a silent, internal war. “Pick a spot for your hands, and just leave them there,” he whispered to you.

Your hands tremored as you settled them on either one of Spencer’s shoulders, “You don’t find me attractive anymore,” you mumbled, struggling to find the strength to enunciate your thoughts.

Spencer sighed, “Why don’t we take a minute, okay?” Delicately, he moved one hand from its station on your hip and moved it to cup your cheek, holding your face as if it were made of fine china. “What happened while I was gone, honey?”

His hand was wet on your face, or rather, your face was wet from tears that had started to trickle from your tear ducts. You furrowed your brows in frustration, “Why do you assume that something happened? Nothing happened while you were gone, why can’t you just let that be the answer?”

“Because it’s not the answer,” he insisted, dropping his hand back to your hip, continuing to stop you from getting up and moving away from him.

You scoffed, “Is it not the answer, or is it just not the answer you’re looking for, Spencer?”

“It’s not the answer, and I’m looking for the answer. You can tell me anything,” he urged, resuming his soothing movements over your hip.

As you watched his expression morph into a slight panic, you realized he was beginning to think something happened to you. With what he did for work, it was always in the back of his mind, you being in danger of being hurt by other people but what he rarely considered was the idea of you being a danger to yourself. “Nothing happened, okay? Absolutely nothing happened to me while you were gone and everything in the world stayed exactly the fucking same. I went to work every day and I came home and sat around while I waited for you to call, I waited for you to come home and now you won’t even touch me.”

Your tears kept coming, leaving saline stains on his gray shirt as your head spun and his movements stopped. “Work was bad?” He asked softly, using his fingertips to wipe beneath your eyes. He knew about your issues at work, he had been encouraging you to leave the job for months, but you were convinced that a promotion was coming. “You shouldn't have to be miserable every time you go to work.”

“Not everyone gets to be hand-picked for a top job at twenty-one. Some people have to work shitty jobs to make ends meet,” you snapped at him, nostrils flaring angrily.

He didn’t answer right away, you became hyperaware of the pounding of your heart as you waited for his response. As you waited for him to kick you out. “I told you that I’d support you if you wanted to go back to school. I meant it, Y/N,” he told you, brown eyes flooded with concern. “You can leave your job and pursue your dream, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, baby.” Spencer leaned back against the couch cushions, “I can’t help you until you help yourself, love.”

Slouching your shoulders, you felt your eyes starting to line with tears again, “It feels so unfair to have you shoulder more responsibility so that I can go back to school.”

“No,” he said, “What’s not fair is you lying to me and then trying to avoid it with sex. I asked you how your week had been, and you either didn’t care to answer me or you have such bad tunnel vision that you didn’t even hear me.” He gently chided, giving you time to drown in the blatant concern in his eyes, “and what’s worse is you never told me it was this bad.”

You averted your eyes, focusing your gaze on the chessboard behind him as you thought about your next move. In one fell swoop, he could checkmate you, completely catch you off guard, and tell you everything that you didn’t want to hear. Alternatively, you could sacrifice yourself for his benefit, “I hate my job. My boss is making it impossible for me to make any positive stride, and that’s on top of him being a misogynistic douche.” You flexed your hands where they remained on Spencer’s shoulders and sighed, “And yes, I miss you when you’re gone. Yes, I lied to you about it, but what would you do about it? Leave your big important job because your girlfriend is lonely?”

He craned his head to the side, silently encouraging you to make eye contact with him, “I’d hope that you’d feel comfortable enough to tell me how you’re feeling so that we could work something out – we can talk through this. It’s a two-way street though, you have to talk to me. I can make an effort to call and text more if you promise me, you’ll make an effort to communicate with me.”

Slowly, you started to nod, “I… I can do that, but you hate texting,” you reminded him, raising your eyebrows curiously.

“I’ll get over it,” he reassured you, studying your features, “You’re worth it,” he added.

Finally, you pulled your arms back, hugging them around yourself protectively, “I’m sorry,” you murmured, “I don’t know why I am… the way that I am.”

Spencer took a deep breath before giving you a look that told you he had an inkling, “You’re unhappy, with me or the world, it doesn’t matter, but you think the solution to your displeasure comes in the form of an orgasm and that’s just not the answer, honey.”

You hiccupped and wrapped your arms tighter around yourself like you could make yourself smaller, “I still don’t know why though.”

“You’re seeking the rush, not necessarily the act of sex itself, you want the dopamine and oxytocin rush that comes with an orgasm. Your brain convinces yourself that it’s what you need because when you get unhappy like this, all you can focus on is how to feel better and fast,” he spoke to you gently – he knew this wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but it was what you needed to hear. “It’s brief, and it’s just for that moment, and your brain might even recall how your parasympathetic nervous system shuts down after you come, and your body gets tired. You get a rush of serotonin, and you relax enough to convince yourself that it'll be okay, but you need to find something more permanent. I’ll help you.”

Your arms fell limply at your sides, “Do you think I’m broken?”

The small smile he gave you was enough of an answer, “No, in fact, I know you’re not broken.” Tenderly, he reached out and unwound your arms from around your torso, “And since I know you won’t stop thinking about it, I do still find you attractive.” Spencer studied your face, “Where do you want to start?”

“Do you want to help me draft a letter of resignation?” You offered, giving Spencer a shy smile.

He hummed in response, “Yeah, in a bit.” Your boyfriend reached his hands out to you, now being the one who pulled you close, “Come here, darling.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder and sighing as he wrapped his arms around your torso, “I missed you,” you mumbled, entirely deflating your lungs as you let yourself relax.

Spencer reached up, ruffling your hair with one hand and keeping another on the small of your back as he sighed with you, “I missed you too.”

[reidmarieprentiss]

Water Under the Bridge

Summary: Spencer grovels, he knows he needs to work to regain your trust. Your walls slowly come down, you find happiness. Is it with Spencer though?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Warnings/Includes: Derek Morgan <3, violence, typical criminal minds content, gun shots, guns, gun shot wound, (un)requited feelings, alcohol consumption, self doubt, happy ending

Word count: 9k

a/n: i cannot even lie to y'all i completely forgot about this story i am sooooo sorry !!!

main masterlist part one part two

It had been a few weeks since that intense conversation with Spencer, and though things weren’t fully resolved, there had been a subtle shift. Spencer had started making small, almost invisible gestures—little things that didn’t scream for attention but spoke volumes. 

One afternoon, you were deep into paperwork, your desk covered in case files. The exhaustion of the day was catching up with you, and you sighed, rubbing your temples. 

“Need a break?” a quiet voice came from behind you. You looked up to see Spencer standing there, holding two cups of coffee—your favorite order in one hand, and his in the other. 

You blinked in surprise. It had been a long time since he’d brought you coffee, but the gesture felt thoughtful, familiar. "How did you know I needed this?" you asked, unable to hide the small smile creeping onto your face.

Spencer shrugged, his expression soft. “Just a guess.”

There was no expectation behind his actions, no demand for forgiveness. He simply placed the coffee on your desk, then turned back toward his own space, giving you the room to process the gesture on your own terms.

—

Work had returned to its steady rhythm, and though things between you and Spencer weren’t as strained anymore, they were...different. Polite. Professional. But there were moments, small pockets of time, where the old familiarity would creep back in.

During a briefing for a new case, you were reviewing the suspect’s profile when Hotch called for your opinion. Your mind momentarily blanked, the exhaustion of the case starting to cloud your thoughts. 

Spencer caught your hesitation from across the table, his eyes flicking toward you with a quiet understanding. He gently stepped in, providing additional information from the file—almost as if he could sense that you needed a moment.

He didn’t overstep, didn’t make it obvious. He just gave you a subtle nod, like the small lifeline was there for you to take or leave. You caught his gaze and offered a brief, appreciative smile. 

After the meeting, you found him near the coffee machine and walked over. “Thanks for that,” you said quietly.

“No problem,” he replied with a small smile. “I’ve got your back.”

It was nothing monumental, just a brief exchange, but it carried a weight of understanding and a reminder of what you once had—and what was slowly being rebuilt.

—

The tension between you and Spencer still lingered, but something had shifted. Spencer wasn’t pressuring you. He wasn’t trying to force a conversation or make grand gestures. Instead, he focused on the little things, the small ways he could help and support you. And that was how, in the middle of a particularly stressful case, you noticed it.

You were sitting at your desk, staring at the seemingly endless stream of witness statements, trying to piece together a lead. Frustration gnawed at you, the pressure of the case and your unresolved feelings with Spencer weighing you down.

Without a word, Spencer appeared at your side, placing a stack of neatly organized files in front of you. “I cross-referenced the witness testimonies with the surveillance footage. There’s a pattern in their timelines that wasn’t obvious at first.”

You blinked, staring at the files. “You did this?”

He nodded, his expression calm, no hint of expectation. “I figured it might help.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. This wasn’t the Spencer who had pushed you away. This was someone who was quietly, steadily trying to be there for you. You picked up the files, scanning the information. He had found connections you hadn’t seen.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you said softly, looking up at him. There was no grand declaration in that moment, just a flicker of gratitude and trust slowly beginning to rebuild. And for the first time, you felt like you could let down your guard, just a little.

—

Weeks passed, and Spencer continued to show up in small ways. He didn’t push. He didn’t demand. He was just there, reliable and steady in a way you hadn’t expected from him anymore. You noticed the change. It wasn’t loud or overt, but it was there—his remorse, his commitment to making things better.

One day, in the middle of a case, you found yourselves paired together to interview a witness. The professional atmosphere between you was smooth, almost comfortable again. But as you were driving back to the precinct, there was a moment of silence, and then Spencer spoke.

“I know I can’t undo what happened,” he said, his voice soft but clear. “But I want you to know… I’m still here, and I’m willing to wait. As long as it takes. For you to trust me again.” Spencer glanced at you briefly, “I miss my friend.”

His words hung in the air, genuine and without pressure. You glanced over at him, surprised by the calmness in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t expecting a grand gesture from you in return. He just wanted you to know that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was ready to put in the effort.

You nodded, your heart softening. “I appreciate that, Spencer,” you said quietly. “I’m starting to see that. I miss you too.”

—

The case was coming to a close, you had been staring at the whiteboard, trying to make sense of the last few pieces of evidence when Spencer approached quietly. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood beside you, studying the board.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he said after a moment, his tone soft but familiar, like the Spencer you used to know. 

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Thinking too hard? That’s rich, coming from you.”

Spencer smiled faintly, the tension between you easing just a little. “Sometimes, you need to step back and see the bigger picture. You’ve been doing this long enough to know that.”

You sighed, rubbing your eyes. “Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve been seeing the bigger picture lately.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his voice quieter. “You’re not alone, you know. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself. I’m... I’m here.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. He wasn’t just talking about the case. He was talking about everything—the trust that had been broken, the space that had grown between you.

“I know,” you replied softly, your voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and something else—something closer to hope. 

—

A month later, things had continued to ease between you and Spencer. You still weren’t back to where you had been, but you had begun to feel comfortable enough around him to let your guard down a little. The tension wasn’t as sharp, and the moments of silence between you weren’t so uncomfortable anymore.

One day, while sorting through case files, you made a sarcastic remark under your breath, something about the ridiculousness of the situation you were dealing with. To your surprise, Spencer chuckled, glancing over at you with a grin.

You blinked, and then, without meaning to, you laughed too—a genuine, unguarded laugh that seemed to surprise you both. It wasn’t forced or tense, but natural, like old times.

“Wow, I haven’t heard you laugh in a while,” Spencer remarked, his own smile still lingering.

“Yeah,” you said, your smile softening as you looked at him. “Maybe I’m starting to get my sense of humor back.”

The lightness between you felt… good. It wasn’t everything, but it was something. And for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, things were on their way to being okay again. 

It wasn’t a grand reconciliation, but these moments—these small gestures of kindness, support, and patience—were building toward something real. And you were starting to believe that rebuilding trust was possible, even if it was slow.

—

Spencer had been acting like your friend again, and you didn’t know how to feel about it.

At first, it was small things—him stepping in to help with paperwork, offering a quiet word of encouragement when a case got tough. Little gestures that felt like the Spencer you used to know, the one you had trusted, the one you had fallen in love with. But that same Spencer had also been the one who pushed you away, the one who had broken your heart when he refused your feelings. And now, here he was, quietly working his way back into your life, like nothing had changed, like everything could go back to the way it was.

You wanted to be angry. Part of you still was angry. You had been hurt deeply, and that kind of pain didn’t just vanish overnight. Spencer had rejected you when you were at your most vulnerable, leaving you to pick up the pieces on your own. You had worked hard to move on, to distance yourself from the feelings that had once consumed you. And now, just when you thought you were starting to heal, he was back. Trying to be your friend again. Acting like nothing had ever happened.

But the other part of you—the part that remembered how close you used to be—couldn’t help but notice the change in him. Spencer wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t pressuring you. He was just... there. Quietly supportive, offering small signs of care without demanding anything in return. His persistence, his steady presence, was starting to soften something inside you. And that terrified you.

You didn’t want to fall back into the same trap. You didn’t want to reopen old wounds only to have them torn apart again. But there was no denying that Spencer’s efforts were genuine, and it was getting harder to keep your walls up. His actions were slowly chipping away at your resolve, and every time he made you laugh or showed you a quiet kindness, you felt a piece of your guard slipping.

Were you truly over him? That was the question that haunted you, one you didn’t have an answer to. You had tried so hard to move on, to convince yourself that the feelings you had for Spencer were in the past, but now... now you weren’t so sure. His persistence was making you question everything, reopening emotions you thought you had buried. 

The problem was, you didn’t know if you were ready to face those feelings again. What if Spencer wasn’t? What if he didn’t mean it? You couldn’t bear the thought of being hurt again, of opening yourself up only to have him pull away. But the longer this went on, the more you felt the old connection between you returning, bit by bit, moment by moment. 

And so you were stuck, torn between the pain of the past and the possibility of something new. Spencer was showing you he had changed, but could you trust that? Could you trust him? Could you trust yourself not to fall too hard, too fast again?

The uncertainty was maddening, and yet, you couldn’t seem to stop the slow progression of your feelings. Spencer’s persistence was working, and no matter how much you tried to deny it, part of you was starting to hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

—

It started innocently enough, the way all promising things seem to. You met them at a bookstore, of all places. It was a weekend, and you were just browsing, trying to enjoy a quiet afternoon away from the chaos of the job. You weren’t expecting anything, least of all meeting someone who would leave such a strong impression on you. 

You were reaching for a book when their voice broke through the silence. “That’s a good one,” they said, pointing to the novel in your hand. “One of my favorites, actually.”

You looked up, surprised to see a person standing there with an easy smile. They were tall, with sharp eyes that held a warmth you wanted to look into for a long while. Their demeanor wasn’t overbearing, just casual, like they genuinely wanted to offer a recommendation. 

“Yeah?” you replied, glancing at the book. “I’ve heard good things about it.”

“I promise it won’t disappoint,” they added, and something about the sincerity in their voice made you smile back.

That was how it began. A casual conversation over books that somehow stretched into coffee. You learned that their name was Ricky, that they were professor at a nearby college. Their life seemed different from yours—calmer, grounded in routine, free from the dangers and chaos of your work. It was refreshing. They treated you with respect, asked about your opinions, and listened to your stories with genuine interest. And when they smiled at you, it wasn’t just a fleeting look—it was as though they were truly seeing you, valuing you.

There was something about Ricky that you couldn’t ignore. They didn’t know about your history with Spencer, about the complicated mess of emotions you were still untangling. They didn’t need to. They just treated you with the kind of respect and consistency you had been craving for so long. It felt easy with them. Simple.

After that first meeting, Ricky started to show up in your life more often. They texted you to check in, asked you about your day. They were attentive in a way that wasn’t overwhelming but was instead comforting. It wasn’t like you were looking to fall into something serious, not after everything with Spencer. But Ricky was… different. They weren't rushing you, weren't pressing for more than what you were willing to give. They were just there, steady and dependable, and that was enough for now.

One night, after a particularly hard day at work, they invited you over for dinner. You had expected something casual, maybe takeout or a quick bite, but when you arrived at their place, you were greeted with the smell of home-cooked food. “Thought you could use a break,” they said with that same warm smile. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t realized you were missing.

Ricky’s presence in your life began to fill a space you hadn’t known was empty. They weren't just kind—they were consistent, reliable. They showed up when they said they would. They followed through on promises. There was no second-guessing with them, no worrying about where you stood. And that, in itself, was a relief. After months of emotional turbulence with Spencer, this felt like a breath of fresh air.

But as things with Ricky slowly began to grow, you couldn’t help but feel the tug of uncertainty in the back of your mind. You weren’t sure if it was because of your history with Spencer, or because you still weren’t fully convinced you had moved on from him. Every now and then, you caught yourself comparing the two—Spencer’s awkward brilliance against Ricky’s steady confidence. It was hard not to.

Yet, with Ricky, there was no fear of rejection, no walking on eggshells wondering if they would pull away. They didn’t carry the same emotional baggage as Spencer did. There were no lingering unsaid confessions or missed opportunities between you two. Ricky was here, in the present, offering you a chance at something you hadn’t had in a long time—stability.

And you couldn’t deny how much that appealed to you. The question now was whether stability was what you truly wanted… or if part of you was still hoping for something more, something unresolved with Spencer.

Spencer had been making slow, steady progress toward reconciling with you. He could feel it in the way your smiles came a little easier, how the conversations between you two were no longer strained, how you were starting to trust him again—bit by bit. He had convinced himself that, if he kept showing up, kept proving to you that he was different now, there might still be a chance. A chance to rebuild, to maybe even become more than friends. It was a fragile hope, but it kept him going.

That fragile hope was shattered the moment he found out about Ricky.

It wasn’t as though you had hidden anything from him. In fact, Spencer hadn’t even realized you had been seeing someone else. It wasn’t until Penelope, in her usual excitement, let it slip in the bullpen during lunch. “Oh my god, have you met Y/N’s new squeeze, Ricky? They’re so lovely!” she had gushed to JJ and Derek, who nodded along.

Spencer’s heart dropped into his stomach.

He had been standing just a few feet away, filing paperwork, and the sound of Ricky’s name hit him like a freight train. His fingers froze mid-motion, and the world seemed to blur around him. You’re seeing someone? Ricky? When had this happened?

He couldn’t stop himself from listening in, trying to gather as much as he could without fully intruding.

“Yeah, Ricky’s super sweet. Y/N seems really happy with them,” JJ added, smiling as she sipped her coffee. “It’s nice to see her like this after everything.”

Happy? Spencer’s mind raced, the weight of that word sinking in. You were happy—with someone else. Someone who wasn’t him. He clenched his fists, trying to steady his breathing as the realization settled deep in his chest. You had moved on. While he had been working his way back into your life, trying to earn your trust, you had found someone else. And not just anyone—someone you were happy with.

Spencer tried to shake it off, tried to focus on his work, but the jealousy and hurt were gnawing at him, louder with each passing second. The idea of you with someone else, of someone else holding the place he had wanted to hold for so long, made his chest tighten painfully. He had been so sure that if he just kept at it, if he just kept being patient, eventually you’d see he had changed.

But now… now he wasn’t sure what to think.

Later that day, Spencer found you by the coffee machine, and though he had planned to act normal, the words came out before he could stop them. “So, I hear you’re seeing someone?” His voice was tighter than he’d intended, and you looked up, surprised by the edge in his tone.

“Yeah,” you said slowly, studying his expression. “Ricky.” You didn’t elaborate, but Spencer could see the softness in your eyes, the small smile that tugged at the corners of your lips when you said their name. It made his stomach churn.

He swallowed, trying to keep his emotions in check. “You’re happy?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

You nodded, your smile more assured now. “Yeah, I am. Ricky’s... really good to me.” There was a contentment in your voice, the kind of contentment Spencer hadn’t heard from you in a long time. And that’s when it hit him—this wasn’t just a fling or a rebound. Ricky was important to you.

Spencer felt his chest tighten even further. He wanted to be happy for you—he did. But the jealousy, the frustration, and the deep sense of loss clouded everything. He had spent so long trying to make things right between you, and now it felt like he was too late. He had lost you, and it hurt more than he ever expected.

“You deserve to be happy,” Spencer finally said, forcing the words out despite the lump in his throat. “And... if Ricky makes you happy, then... that’s all that matters.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. There was something vulnerable in the way he was standing there, like he was on the edge of something, trying to hold it together. 

“Thank you, Spencer,” you said softly, not entirely sure what else to say. You could feel the tension between you two, the undercurrent of something unspoken still hanging in the air.

Spencer nodded, his hands in his pockets, trying to mask the turmoil he felt inside. He wanted to fight for you, to tell you that he still had feelings for you, that he wasn’t ready to step aside. But he also knew that your happiness had to come first, no matter how much it hurt. He had waited too long, hesitated too much, and now he was seeing the consequences.

Over the next few days, Spencer wrestled with his feelings. On one hand, he wanted to be selfish, to try and win you back, to show you that he was capable of being the person you needed. But on the other hand, he knew that wasn’t fair to you. You had found someone who treated you with the consistency and care you deserved, someone who didn’t leave you questioning where you stood. Spencer had to face the reality that he had lost his chance.

But the hardest part was realizing that, in his jealousy and frustration, he still cared more about your happiness than his own feelings. And that was the most painful truth of all.

Spencer paced back and forth in the bullpen after everyone else had gone for the evening. He had been trying to focus, trying to distract himself with paperwork, but his thoughts kept circling back to you and Ricky. The jealousy was suffocating, and he needed to vent before he exploded.

Derek was leaning against a desk, watching Spencer unravel. He hadn’t said anything yet, but he knew the kid was on edge. He’d seen it coming for a while, the tension between you and Spencer thick enough to cut with a knife.

Finally, Spencer couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I don’t get it,” he blurted out, frustration clear in his voice. “I’ve been trying, Derek. I’ve been patient, I’ve been showing up, trying to be there for her, and... and then Ricky comes along.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk forming on his face. “So that’s what this is about,” he said knowingly. “You jealous?”

“Jealous?” Spencer repeated, practically scoffing. “Of course I’m jealous! How could I not be? She’s with Ricky now, and they’re... they’re everything I should have been. Steady, consistent, caring—everything she deserves.”

Derek’s smirk only grew as he watched Spencer spiral, but he didn’t interrupt. He knew Spencer needed to get this off his chest, and, well, he’d been waiting for this moment. He knew something had been brewing between you two for ages.

Spencer continued, his pacing more frantic now. “I missed my chance, and I know it’s my fault. I messed up. I pushed her away when she needed me, and now... she’s moved on. And the worst part is, she’s happy, Derek. I saw it in her eyes when she talked about Ricky. She’s happy, and I—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, his voice breaking. “I don’t even know if I can be mad about it, because I want her to be happy. But it hurts like hell.”

Derek crossed his arms, nodding slowly. He had always known Spencer had feelings for you, even if the kid hadn’t admitted it to himself for a long time. Now, seeing him come apart like this over you, Derek couldn’t help but feel a bit smug—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be there for his friend.

“Look, man,” Derek started, trying to keep his voice steady, “I’ve been waiting for this conversation for a while. You’ve had feelings for Y/N forever, and I knew something was going on between you two, even if you were too stubborn to see it.”

Spencer stopped pacing and looked at Derek, his frustration clear. “How is that supposed to help me right now?”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “What I’m saying is, this whole thing with Ricky? It doesn’t mean it’s over for you and Y/N. Yeah, she’s happy, and yeah, it hurts like hell because you care about her. But you’ve got to stop thinking about what you should have done and start focusing on what you’re going to do next.”

Spencer frowned, his arms crossed defensively. “And what am I supposed to do, Derek? She’s with Ricky now. I don’t want to come between them.”

Derek leaned in a little, his expression softening but still firm. “I’m not saying you should swoop in and try to break them up. But you don’t have to give up either. You want to be in Y/N’s life? Then keep being her friend. Keep being there for her. Let her see the real you—the guy who’s learned from his mistakes.”

Spencer sighed, slumping into a chair, his frustration giving way to exhaustion. “I don’t know if that’s enough.”

Derek walked over and clapped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Kid, sometimes it’s not about doing the big, dramatic thing. Sometimes it’s about showing up, consistently, day after day, and letting her see who you really are. And if Ricky’s the one that makes her happy, then yeah, you’re gonna have to step aside. But if she starts seeing what I’ve seen for a long time—what I think she saw for a long time, too—then maybe you still have a chance.”

Spencer looked up at Derek, his heart heavy but grateful for the support. “You really think I still have a chance?”

Derek grinned, leaning back. “You never know, Pretty Boy. I’ve seen crazier things happen. But whatever you do, don’t give up just because it hurts right now. You’re too smart to throw in the towel without a fight.”

Spencer nodded, letting Derek’s words sink in. He wasn’t sure what the future held, but one thing was clear—he wasn’t ready to walk away from you, not yet. And maybe, just maybe, Derek was right. Maybe showing up, day after day, was how he could finally prove to you that he was worth it.

And even if it hurt, even if it tore him apart inside to see you with someone else, he was willing to wait—if it meant having another chance with you.

—

It was an ordinary afternoon at the BAU, the usual hustle of agents moving around, paperwork piling up, and the sound of phones ringing in the background. Spencer sat at his desk, trying to focus on the case file in front of him, though his thoughts kept drifting. He was still grappling with his conversation with Derek the night before, still trying to figure out where he stood in this whole mess with you and Ricky.

Then, the moment he had dreaded arrived.

You were at your desk, focused on your work, when the doors to the bullpen opened. Spencer barely noticed at first, but then he heard your voice, light and filled with surprise. "Ricky!" you exclaimed.

His heart clenched immediately. Ricky's here? He looked up, and there they were, standing in front of you, holding a bag of takeout with a bright, beaming smile. Ricky was undeniably attractive—tall, fit, with an effortless style that made them stand out. Spencer’s stomach twisted with jealousy the moment he laid eyes on them. He couldn’t help but notice how perfect Ricky looked standing beside you, the two of you fitting together in a way that felt both natural and unfairly harmonious.

You smiled warmly, standing up to greet Ricky, the happiness evident in your eyes. It was a look Spencer hadn’t seen in a long time, and the sight of it—of how they made you feel—tore him apart inside. Ricky leaned in to kiss your cheek, their affection for you clear as day.

“I brought you lunch,” Ricky said, holding up the bag. “Figured you could use a break.”

You laughed softly, looking at them like they had just handed you a treasure. “You’re the best. Thank you.”

Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off the interaction, though he desperately wanted to look away. His mind was screaming at him to stop torturing himself, but his body refused to move. The way you smiled at Ricky, the ease with which you stood close to them—it all felt like a punch to the gut. Spencer could practically feel the walls closing in on him, his insecurities clawing at his insides.

He hadn’t expected this. He wasn’t prepared to see how good the two of you looked together, how happy you seemed. The rational part of him knew it wasn’t fair to be upset; you deserved happiness, and Ricky clearly made you happy. But the irrational, jealous part of him—the part that still wanted you—was screaming at the injustice of it all.

Before Spencer could even think about leaving, you spotted him.

“Spencer!” you called out, waving him over. “Come say hi.”

He froze for a split second, forcing himself to stand up and walk toward you. Every step felt heavier, like wading through quicksand. When he reached you, he tried to keep his expression neutral, but his heart was pounding in his chest.

“Hi,” Spencer said, his voice a little tight but polite. His eyes flicked between you and Ricky, trying to hide the jealousy swirling in his gut.

Ricky smiled warmly, extending a hand. “You must be Spencer. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Spencer shook their hand, feeling a twinge of resentment bubbling up inside him. “Yeah, nice to meet you,” he replied, his tone short, though he didn’t mean it to be. He quickly released Ricky’s hand, feeling like his skin was burning from the contact. His mind was spinning, trying to process how calm and put together Ricky seemed, compared to the storm raging inside him.

“I brought Y/N some lunch,” Ricky said, smiling again, glancing over at you with such ease and affection. “Thought she might be too busy to grab something.”

Spencer nodded, his mouth dry. “That’s... thoughtful,” he said, though it took effort to get the words out. The thought of Ricky being so caring, so attentive, made his chest tighten painfully. That used to be his role—being there for you, knowing when you needed support.

The three of you stood there for a moment, the awkwardness thick in the air—at least for Spencer. You, however, seemed blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil, still smiling brightly at Ricky, completely comfortable in their presence.

“Well, I’ll let you two enjoy your lunch,” Spencer said quickly, his throat tight. He couldn’t stand to watch any more of this. He gave a stiff nod and turned to head back to his desk, but not before catching a glimpse of the two of you exchanging a look—one that felt intimate, full of unspoken affection. It was the kind of look that made his heart feel like it was cracking open.

As he sat back down at his desk, Spencer’s mind raced, replaying the image of you with Ricky. They were everything Spencer wasn’t—confident, calm, and seemingly perfect for you. He had hoped that his efforts to rebuild trust, to show you that he cared, would be enough. But seeing you with Ricky made him realize just how far away that possibility felt. 

Inside, Spencer was dying. His jealousy clawed at him, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on his work, he couldn’t stop thinking about you and Ricky. About how happy you looked. About how he had missed his chance.

—

It all came to a head during a case that had gone from bad to worse. You and Spencer had been assigned together, and from the moment you found yourselves alone, the tension between you was palpable. Every word exchanged was brief, clipped, and filled with the renewed weight of what had been left unsaid for months. The entire team had been tracking a dangerous and unpredictable unsub, one who had managed to evade capture for days despite the best efforts of the BAU. He was intelligent, calculating, and every lead you followed seemed to lead you into another dead end, tightening the pressure on all of you.

The unsub had taken a particular interest in his victims, following them for days, learning their routines, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He had shown a pattern of escalating violence, and you all knew it was only a matter of time before he found his next victim. The team had been working around the clock, exhausted and on edge, but now things were spiraling out of control.

Late into the evening, a tip came through—an address tied to one of the unsub’s known aliases. You and Spencer were dispatched to check it out, sent ahead while the rest of the team secured other locations. The drive there had been silent, neither of you wanting to broach the thick tension hanging in the air. 

The house was isolated, sitting at the end of a long dirt road, and as soon as you arrived, you could sense something was wrong. The place was eerily quiet, too quiet. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, and instinctively, you and Spencer exchanged a tense glance, wordlessly communicating the same thought: This feels like a trap.

The two of you moved cautiously, guns drawn, as you entered the darkened house. Every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seemed to echo in the oppressive silence, heightening the anxiety already clawing at your insides. Spencer stayed close behind you, the tension between you morphing into something different—something focused and sharp. You both knew you had to rely on each other now, no matter what had passed between you before.

The house was a maze of narrow hallways and closed doors, each one a potential danger. The unsub could be anywhere, lying in wait, ready to strike. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you approached the last room on the second floor. A faint sound caught your attention—a shuffle, like someone moving inside.

You nodded to Spencer, your breath quickening as you prepared to breach the door. He gave you a tight nod in return, his eyes never leaving yours. In that moment, despite everything that had gone unsaid, you trusted him completely. There was no room for the emotional wreckage between you, not here, not now. It was just you and Spencer, partners in the field, as it had always been.

You kicked the door in, gun raised, ready for whatever was waiting on the other side.

The room was empty.

For a split second, relief washed over you—until you heard it. A creak behind you. The unsub had been hiding, waiting, and before you could turn, you were slammed into the wall with a force that knocked the wind out of you. Your gun clattered to the ground as you struggled to regain your footing, your vision swimming.

Spencer reacted instantly, lunging toward the unsub, but the man was fast—too fast. He shoved Spencer back, sending him crashing into a table, and you could hear the wood splinter as Spencer groaned in pain.

Then shots were fired, the deafening cracks of gunfire ringing through the warehouse as adrenaline surged through your body. The world seemed to slow down in that moment, every sound and movement heightened, as you and Spencer dove for cover. Your feet barely touched the ground before you felt it—a sharp, searing pain tearing through your arm, hot and immediate. A bullet had grazed you, cutting through flesh, sending a shockwave of agony radiating down to your fingertips. You gasped, stumbling, the sudden pain momentarily overwhelming you.

"Y/N!" Spencer’s voice cut through the chaos, filled with raw panic as he reached for you, his hands grabbing your jacket and pulling you behind a stack of crates. His grip was urgent but gentle, protective as he maneuvered you out of the line of fire. 

Your vision blurred for a moment, the pain in your arm throbbing in sync with your rapid heartbeat. You pressed your hand to the wound instinctively, trying to stop the blood that was already starting to soak through your sleeve. It wasn’t deep, but it hurt like hell.

Spencer was crouched beside you, his body practically pressed against yours as he shielded you from any further shots. His eyes, wide with fear, flickered down to your arm. His hands hovered over you, trembling slightly, unsure where to touch without hurting you more. 

"You're bleeding," he muttered, his voice thick with worry as he gingerly pushed your sleeve up to get a better look at the wound. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tightly as he surveyed the damage. 

“I’m fine,” you managed to grit out, even though your arm was screaming in pain. You could see the fear in his eyes, how he was barely holding it together. 

“You’re not fine,” Spencer insisted, his voice a low whisper as he pressed his hand firmly over your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. His hand was warm against your cold skin, grounding you in the chaos. “You’re losing blood,” he added, his tone betraying the panic he was trying so hard to keep at bay.

For a moment, everything else seemed to fade—the gunfire, the danger, the chaos surrounding you. It was just you and Spencer, his eyes locked on yours, his fear for you palpable. You had seen Spencer like this before, always worrying about others, but this was different. This was more than just concern for a partner in the field. This was desperation, a kind of fear you hadn’t seen in him before—like he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.

His breath was shaky as he applied more pressure to your arm, his focus completely on you. “Stay with me, okay?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the emotions he was trying to hold back.

“I’m fine, Spencer,” you whispered, trying to smile through the pain, though it came out more like a grimace. 

But Spencer didn’t smile back. He was too focused, too panicked. His fingers pressed into your wound, his movements methodical, yet you could see how much this was affecting him. Every time you winced in pain, his face tightened, like he was the one being hurt. 

“We need to get out of here,” he muttered, his eyes scanning the room for an exit, for any sign of the unsub. The weight of his words hung in the air, but even more than that was the unspoken fear—he wasn’t just scared for your life. He was scared for the things that hadn’t been said between you, for the way things had been left unresolved.

But right now, it wasn’t the time to deal with the emotional storm brewing between the two of you. The only thing that mattered was getting out alive.

“I can’t lose you,” Spencer whispered, almost too softly for you to hear.

You blinked, confused, the pain in your arm momentarily forgotten. “What?”

“I can’t lose you,” he repeated, louder this time, his voice trembling. His eyes met yours, filled with an intensity you hadn’t seen in him in a long time. “I love you.”

The confession hit you like a blow, the words settling into your chest, heavy and painful. This wasn’t the time for this—not now, not with the unsub hunting you both down, not after everything. But the rawness in his voice, the fear in his eyes—it was undeniable. Spencer was terrified, not just of the unsub but of losing you. And not just as a friend, but as something more.

“You can’t be serious,” you hissed, anger flaring inside you despite the circumstances. 

He looked pained, as if this hurt him just as much as it had hurt you. “I thought I wasn’t good enough for you, that I’d mess everything up. Please, Y/N, I—”

“You don’t get to do this now!” you cut him off, the frustration boiling over. “You don’t get to confess your feelings when you know I’ve moved on, just because you suddenly realized you want me!”

Spencer’s face fell, guilt and desperation swirling in his eyes. “I know it’s unfair. I know I messed up, but I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t stand seeing you with someone else. Please, Y/N, just—”

“Why?” you shouted, your voice breaking as you fought through the emotions that had been bubbling under the surface for so long. “Why now? Why did you reject me in the first place if you felt this way?”

The pain in your voice seemed to hit him hard, and for a moment, Spencer was silent, struggling to find the words. “I was scared,” he finally admitted, his voice trembling. “I was scared of ruining what we had, scared that I wasn’t enough. I thought pushing you away would be better for you. But it wasn’t. I know that now.”

Tears stung at your eyes, the hurt and anger you’d buried for months now bubbling to the surface. “You don’t get to decide what’s better for me, Spencer. You don’t get to push me away and then pull me back when it’s convenient for you.”

Spencer’s voice cracked, his desperation clear. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I love you. I need you. Please, Y/N, leave Ricky. Give me another chance. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, torn between the raw sincerity in Spencer’s voice and the betrayal you still felt. You couldn’t deny that part of you still loved him. You had never stopped. But how was any of this fair? How could he expect you to just walk away from someone who had treated you with the respect and care Spencer hadn’t given you when you needed it most?

Before you could respond, the unsub’s footsteps grew closer, and the immediate danger snapped you both back to reality. There wasn’t time for this—there wasn’t time to unravel the mess of emotions that Spencer had just dumped into your lap. You had to survive this first.

The footsteps had stopped, and the sudden silence was deafening. It was too quiet, the kind of stillness that set your nerves on edge, making you hyper-aware of every creak and distant noise in the warehouse. You tried to focus through the pain in your arm, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as you pressed your back against the crates. Spencer was beside you, but his back was turned, his focus drawn away as the weight of everything between you became too much for him to handle in that moment.

You were about to say something, when suddenly a cold, rough hand clamped over your mouth. Before you could react, the unsub yanked you to your feet, pulling you backward with a force that made your body jerk violently. The pain in your arm shot through you, but the fear was stronger. You struggled to breathe, your heart hammering in your chest as the unsub dragged you back into the shadows, his hand tight around your mouth, muffling any sound you could make.

Spencer didn’t notice. His mind had been racing, consumed by the danger you were in, by how much harder it had become to even look at you knowing how badly he had hurt you. He had turned away for just a second—just a second—and that’s all it had taken. You were gone before he could register the absence of your presence, before he could feel the shift in the air.

You thrashed against the unsub, your hands clawing at his arm as he pulled you further away, deeper into the warehouse, but he was too strong. His grip tightened around your face, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered, "Make one sound, and I’ll kill him first.”

Your blood ran cold. You knew he meant Spencer.

You stopped struggling, your breath coming out in shallow, panicked gasps, your mind racing as you tried to figure out a way out of this. You couldn’t let Spencer get hurt because of you. You couldn’t let this man take you away without a fight, but the threat was clear. One wrong move, one wrong sound, and it wouldn’t be just your life at risk.

But then Spencer turned back. He had been about to say something—ask if you were ready to move—but when he glanced over and saw that your spot beside him was empty, his heart stopped.

"Y/N?" His voice came out in a panic, eyes scanning the dimly lit space for any sign of you. It was too quiet, and the stillness of your absence sent his stomach into a free fall.

"Y/N!" Spencer shouted, his voice rising in fear, echoing off the walls. His heart raced as he spun in circles, desperately trying to figure out what had happened. The adrenaline from earlier flooded back, stronger now, sharp and cold. How had he let this happen? How had he let you get taken right in front of him?

He rushed forward, frantic, his mind clouded with the worst possibilities. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. The thought of you in the unsub’s grip, hurt, taken—gone—was unbearable. Spencer couldn’t breathe. His chest constricted with fear, and the guilt, the crushing weight of his failure, suffocated him.

"Y/N!" he called again, his voice breaking as he stumbled forward, every nerve in his body alight with desperation. He had let you slip away. He had failed to protect you. And now he was losing you—not just emotionally, but physically.

Spencer’s eyes scanned the dark warehouse, heart hammering in his chest, until he finally spotted the unsub, gripping you tightly, his hand still covering your mouth. Your eyes were wide with fear, but when they locked with Spencer’s, he saw more than just fear. He saw helplessness, anger, and beneath all of it, trust. You were trusting him to get you out of this.

“Let her go!” Spencer shouted, his voice shaking but resolute. His gun was raised, aimed directly at the unsub, but his mind was racing, terrified of making one wrong move that could put you in even more danger. The unsub shifted behind you, pulling you tighter against his body, using you as a shield. 

"You think I’ll just let her go? You think I’m that stupid?" the unsub snarled, his voice thick with menace.

Spencer’s throat tightened. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to act, to do something, but the unsub had you, and one wrong move could end everything. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen.

"Take me instead!" Spencer suddenly blurted out, his voice desperate but filled with determination. His eyes never left yours as he spoke, his heart pounding in his chest. "Just... take me. Let her go, and I’ll come with you. You want leverage? Take me, not her."

Your eyes widened in shock, the pain in your arm forgotten as the weight of Spencer’s words hit you. He was offering himself, offering his life—for you. The unsub hesitated, clearly surprised by the sudden offer. He loosened his grip on you just slightly, his eyes flickering with consideration as he looked between you and Spencer.

"You think I’m going to fall for that?" the unsub growled, though you could feel his grip faltering as Spencer’s words sunk in.

But Spencer didn’t back down. He stepped forward, lowering his gun, his expression resolute. "I’m unarmed," he said, his voice steady despite the terror coursing through him. "You want to get out of here? Take me with you. Let her go."

Your heart pounded as you watched Spencer put himself in danger, his life on the line, all for you. Tears stung at your eyes, emotions swirling inside you—fear, anger, and above all, a deep, overwhelming sense of love. 

The unsub shoved you forward slightly, his grip loosening enough for you to gasp for air, but he still kept his arm tightly around your waist, the threat still lingering. Spencer’s eyes stayed locked on yours, silently promising that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

Just as the unsub’s grip tightened again, a gun raised to Spencer, the sound of footsteps echoed through the warehouse. The team burst in, guns drawn, and before the unsub could react, they took him down in a hail of bullets. The unsub crumpled to the ground, his grip on you finally releasing.

You stumbled forward, breathless, your arm burning with pain. The world spun for a moment, the chaos of the situation hitting you all at once. But then, Spencer was there. He was at your side in an instant, his hands on your shoulders, his eyes scanning you for injuries, his expression wild with fear and relief.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he looked you over, his hands shaking slightly. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

You could barely process the words. The adrenaline was still pumping through your veins, and the weight of what had just happened—what Spencer had just done for you—was crashing down around you. He had offered himself up, put his life on the line without hesitation, all to save yours.

"I'm... I'm okay," you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked into his eyes. There was so much you wanted to say, but the words were stuck in your throat, tangled with the emotions swirling inside you. 

Spencer’s face was pale, his breaths uneven, but the way he looked at you was filled with nothing but relief. And in that moment, standing there with him in the aftermath of everything, you realized just how much you still loved him. How much you had always loved him. It was undeniable, impossible to ignore anymore.

Without thinking, you threw your arms around him, holding him close despite the pain in your arm. "Thank you," you whispered against his chest, your voice breaking with emotion. "You could’ve been killed, Spencer."

Spencer wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against him, as if letting you go might mean losing you again. His voice was hoarse, filled with the same raw emotion. "I couldn’t let him take you. I couldn’t lose you."

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. "Spencer, you... you put yourself in danger. For me. I don’t understand... after everything, why would you—"

“Because I love you,” Spencer interrupted, his voice soft but firm. His eyes locked onto yours, no more hesitation, no more fear. “I’ve always loved you. And I was an idiot to ever push you away. I didn’t deserve you then, and I probably don’t deserve you now, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch you get hurt. I couldn’t... I can’t live without you.”

The raw sincerity in his voice left you breathless. Everything you had been feeling, all the hurt, the love, the anger, bubbled up inside you. But in that moment, as you stared into Spencer’s eyes, all you could feel was the overwhelming love you still had for him. 

You reached up, cupping his face with your good hand, your voice barely above a whisper. "I still love you, Spencer. But you broke my heart. How is any of this fair?"

Spencer’s eyes filled with regret, his hands holding yours tightly. “I know. I know I hurt you, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me. But please... don’t go back to Ricky. Don’t let this be the end for us. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just... give me a second chance.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, torn between the love you still had for him and the fear of being hurt again. But as you stood there, Spencer’s arms wrapped around you, you realized that you had already made your choice.

With a deep breath, you whispered, “We’ll figure it out. But don’t think for a second I’m letting you off easy.” 

Spencer’s face softened with relief, a small, shaky smile tugging at his lips. "I wouldn’t expect anything less." 

And in that moment, despite the chaos, despite the danger you had just survived, you knew that the two of you would find a way forward—together.

—

Ricky swirled the ice in their glass, chuckling softly as they leaned back in their chair, the dim light of the bar casting shadows over their face. “I still think it’s messed up,” they said with a grin, shaking their head in disbelief.

Derek, sitting across from them, just smirked, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting the glass back down on the table with a quiet clink. “Nah,” he said, leaning back in his chair, completely unbothered. “I knew it would work.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow, their smile widening as they took a sip of their own drink. “You set me up to date her just to push her and Spencer together? That’s some next-level matchmaking, man. I’m surprised you didn’t end up on a bad side of this.”

Derek shrugged casually, his smirk never fading. “I had a feeling it was the push Pretty Boy needed. Y/N and Spencer? They’ve been dancing around each other for too long. I just gave ‘em a little... incentive.”

Ricky laughed, a low, amused sound. “Incentive? You mean you hired your friend to fake date her so she’d realize she was in love with someone else?”

“Hey, I didn’t say fake date,” Derek shot back with a playful grin. “You’re a catch, Ricky. I just knew you’d make her happy enough for Spencer to lose his mind.”

Ricky rolled their eyes but couldn’t stop laughing. “And here I thought I was the rebound.”

“Nah,” Derek said, shaking his head. “You were the wake-up call. Spencer needed to see what he was missing, and you? You helped him get there. Trust me, they’ll thank you for it one day.”

Ricky took another sip, still grinning. “Maybe. But still, man. Messed up.”

Derek just winked, lifting his beer in a mock toast. “To love, manipulation, and getting things done.” 

Ricky clinked their glass with his, shaking their head with a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

"That’s why you agreed to it," Derek said with a wide grin, taking another long drink. The audience had no idea, but now the truth was out, revealed in the easy banter between the two friends. It had all been part of the plan—a plan to push you and Spencer together once and for all.

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @pumpkin-cake

[reiderwriter]

✍️Introduction and Masterlist✍️

About me: Hi! I'm Kacie, I'm 21, and I use she/her/any pronouns. I'm from the UK but I'm currently an English Teacher in South Korea (if you want to know more I'm totally open to conversations about it!) and this is my side blog, so I follow and respond to comments from @studykac

Writing: At this point in time. I only write for Spencer Reid. I will pass on any requests that focus on other characters because I don't currently write for them. A lot of my work is also NSFW. If you are under the age of 18, do NOT interact with any of my posts that are tagged #maturereiding - please block this tag!! When my requests are open you can request through the Ask box, or through DMs, but please keep in mind I do have a full time job, so I will do my best to get things out quickly. You can find my recommendations in the tag #reiderrecommends!

Other interests: kpop, especially Seventeen, SHINee, NCT and BTS, Criminal Minds (obv), NCIS, reading any genre of books (here's a link for my GoodReads page), Percy Jackson, languages (learning Korean currently!), English Literature, Jane Austen etc.

Requests are: CLOSED - find my request guidelines here!

Writing:

Spencer Reid x Reader NSFW

Everyone Looks Better in a Sundress // 3.8k

Summary: The AC at the BAU decides to take a holiday during a summer heatwave, and when you decide the FBI’s dress code is merely a suggestion, you unwittingly catch Spencer’s eye.

Warnings: Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, semi-public sex, fingering, car sex, degradation, name-calling, edging, praise-kink, dumbification

Everyone Looks Better in a Sundress pt. 2 // 2.4K

Summary: After a hot encounter in your car, Spencer pulls you inside your apartment hoping to give you some more relief from the heat.

Warnings: Dom!Spencer, sub!Reader, soft Dom, oral (M receiving), pet names, degradation, face fucking, messy sex, creampie, breeding kink

Margaritas and Mistakes // Part 1 // Part 2

Summary: On a group night out, you get a little more drunk than you want to, and when Spencer shows up looking like the love of your life and not just your coworker, you realise that the margarita’s are having more of an effect than they should be.

Warnings: Suggestive language, dirty talk, heavy petting, hickeys, making out, mentions of arousal etc. (part one)

Show You What Devotion Is ❤️‍🔥

Summary: After a lustful encounter on the jet, you and Spencer decide to try out a friends-with-benefits relationship. What you didn't expect was for his sex drive to be so high, and your need for him to overpower your ability to function properly.

Warnings: So many, check the post for details.

More Than Words 🫶 // 8k

Summary: After telling a white lie to your family about your relationship status, you're forced to ask your coworker Spencer to pretend to be your boyfriend for a weekend wedding.

Warnings: Mostly fluff, penetrative sex, creampie, mentions of Spencer's childhood.

The Us That Could've Been 💔 // 5.7k

Summary: They say to get over a man, you have to get under another. Spencer isn't sure why the idea of you doing just that makes him feel so bad.

Warnings: angst, unprotected sex, creampie, spoilers for season 8, mentions of Maeve, Spencer is emotionally illiterate etc.

Unhappy Holidays 👻🦃🎄🎆// 5k

Summary: You're unlucky enough to run into Spencer Reid at holiday celebrations four years in a row. In the New Year, you're resolving to rid him from your mind forever, but you never were one to stick to resolutions 👻🦃🎄🎆

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, low-key work rivals, semi-public sex, car sex, hate sex, fingering, thigh riding, creampie, unprotected sex (no condoms but contraceptive mentioned), slight spoilers for s4 of Criminal Minds (but not really).

Flirting with the FBI // 7.1k

Summary: To catch a killer, you have to first out him on the FBI's radar. By hacking their systems and flirting with Spencer Reid, of course.

Warnings: Rough sex, Dom Spencer, bimbofication, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, use of slut and good girl, more in the fic warnings.

Spencer Reid x Reader SFW

The Lightbulb Moment // 4.8k

Summary: You want Spencer all to yourself for the first few months of your relationship and he's only too happy to comply. Unfortunately, you're two dumbasses who can't keep their hands off one another.

Just Hanging Out // 3k

Summary: To kick off your vacation, you find yourself at Rossi's mansion with your team for a big summer barbeque. A hammock in the garden catches your eye, and you enlist Reid to help you have some fun in the sun.

(Not smut but highly suggestive, read at your own discretion).

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy? // 2k

Summary: You're a teacher, and you have to call in one of your students' parents to talk about their recent troubling behaviour. It's more embarrassing than you thought when Spencer Reid shows up.

Series

That's What You Get // complete 💕

Summary: After three weeks on a case in Vegas and a particularly draining phone call from your mother, you decide to take Reid up on his offer to show you the sights of Las Vegas. When you wake up the next morning, you realise that one of the sights was a 24hour Wedding Parlor, and that you're now Mrs Reid.

Genres: Fluff, smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters, happy ending.

Playlist: Me and You in 2024

Summary: One song fic a week throughout 2024!

Genres: Various, check individual chapters for specific warnings!♡

Answered Requests

(NSFW) Request inspired by Taylor Swift's False God 🙏// 2.2k

(NSFW) Request for a soft!Dom Spencer with cockwarming and breeding kink 💕 // 2k words

(NSFW) Request for Reader introducing vanilla!Spencer to a BDSM lifestyle ✨// 0.7k words

(SFW) Request for Reader kidnapped by unsub and saved by Spencer 💕 // 2.2k

(SFW) Request for pregnant Reader and Spencer who is an absolute fool for her 🌸 // 1.2k

(SFW) Request for shamelessly flirting with an oblivious Spencer 😊// 2k

(NSFW) Request for post-Maeve Spencer who uses sex as a coping mechanism 🫡//4.6k

(NSFW) Request for alt!sub!Reader meeting the team for the first time (and they totally think she's the Dom) 🤭// 1.5k

(NSFW) Request for CNC office sex with Spencer 🚫// 1k

(SFW) Request for Spencer finding out you knew Emily was alive 😿// 0.7k

(SFW) Request for training session with Spencer 🤼‍♀️// 1.8k

(SFW) Request for I Can See You inspired angst 🥺// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer making the reader beg for it ❤️‍🔥// 1.6k

(NSFW) Request for CNC with soft!Dom Spencer - shower sex 💦// 1.3k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - Professor Reid doesn't know he's distracting the class 👓// 3k

(NSFW) Request for Sub!Spencer begging reader to dominate him 🫣// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for Genophobic virgin!Reader ❤️‍🩹// 5k

(NSFW) Request for Professor Spencer with a jealous gf 🐺//2k

(SFW) Request for reader helping Spencer through recovery 🤕// 1k

(NSFW) Request for possessive Spencer reacting to your little black dress 💃// 2.5k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - Undercover with an "excited" Spencer 🕵‍♂️// 3.6k

(SFW) Request for playing video games with Spencer 🎮// 1k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - munch! Spencer is obsessed with you 👅// 2k

(SFW) Request for Spencer babying an oblivious reader 👶// 2k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - sharing a cold bed with Frenemy Spencer 🛌// 3.5k

(NSFW) Request for reader being distracted while Spencer is reading 📚// 1k

(NSFW) Request for Pillow fort sex with Spencer ⛺️// 2k

(NSFW) Request for car confession and oral with Spencer 🚗// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for dancing the night away with Spencer 💃// 2.5k

(NSFW) Request for the morning after Spencer loses his V-Card 😶// 0.7k

(NSFW) Request for reader confessing to Spencer when he's in his anthrax shower 🚿// 0.7k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer finding readers unusual sensitive area 🤝// 3.5k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer and Hotch!Reader secret relationship 🤐// 6k

(SFW) Request for reader being jealous of Spencer and Lila 🤽‍♀️// 2.1k

(NSFW) Request for gun kink 🔫//3k

(SFW) Request for Shy! Spencer and Flirty!Reader 🫣 // 2.3k

[reidsdimples]

Can you do an angst Spencer and reader where they have an argument about their friends with benefits situation just before he goes to play baseball with Morgan and he is devastated when you don’t show but at the last minute he sees you in the crowd with a ‘Reid’ jersey on 😭😭

Situationship

My response to this request <3

"Because, maybe I'm not ready for that step in this... situationship," you frown as you hold Spencer's face between your hands.

You're straddling him, only wearing his shirt which is open after the two of you essentially attacked each other for the last few hours. You were sore between your legs but still so turned on as you tugged on the ends of his hair. He looked up at you through thick eyelashes and doe eyes.

"It's not like that for me. I'm serious about you. I would never do what he did," he eases you off of him gently and stands. His dark jeans are open and your eyes follow his happy trail down until it disappears behind the waistband of his black boxers.

"I'm not saying you will..." you start. Your last friends with benefits situation ended in disaster.

"You can't keep comparing me to him. I think I've more than proven that my feelings for you go beyond superficial or sexual," he shakes his head and sighs.

"Spencer," you reach for him. He pulls away from your grip and enters his walk in closet.

You and Spencer had been friends for two years before one night, three months ago, things changed and... well it seemed the two of you had wanted each other for a while.

But before... you were friends with Finn for five years, a year of that was spent as a friend with benefits. Except he only led you to believe he wanted more in order to keep you in his bed. Things went south when he got some other girl pregnant. The friendship couldn't be saved after that. And in his own words, he didn't see you as worth anything more than sex.

You had to keep this line drawn with Spencer, you couldn't hope for more because what if he doesn't actually want you that way? What if he just thinks he does? Truthfully you didn't want your heart broken again and you didn't want to lose another friend.

He emerged from his closet with a lilac button up hanging over his brown jeans as his nimble fingers worked the buttons.

"You don't want more with me, I promise you," you plead with him. You pull your leggings on.

"How do you know?" Pain spread across his features in the form of furrowed eyes and puppy dog eyes that clenched your heart.

You didn't want to say you thought he was too good to be true. You didn't want to say he deserved better, because he did.

"That's what I thought," he sassed. "I know where your boundaries lie. I won't invite you to things with my team moving forward."

You could tell that the words were painful for him to say. His team was his family. You hadn't hung out with them before- for this reason.

"I want to support you, I just can't..." you knew your fear was controlling you.

"It's fine. Lock the door when you leave," he pulled on his FBI baseball cap and exited his apartment.

His words and abrupt exit felt like more of a goodbye than just him going to the game. You swallowed hard.

--

Spencer wiped sweat from his forehead. The game had been rough and he couldn't stop questioning why he agreed to participate. You weighed heavy on his mind.

He wrapped his hands around the bat, practicing his swing as he scanned the crowd. JJ and Garcia wave at him and he smiles. Suddenly his eyes spot a familiar head of hair, hair that had been curled in his hands hours before as you moaned beneath him.

You came.

You were sitting two bleachers behind his team with a big iced coffee and what appeared to be a baseball jersey. His baseball jersey. He hadn't worn it obviously as it was a gag gift from Derek.

But you wore it over your signature leggings and were smiling at him like you had resolved yourself to the reality of him affections.

Derek ushered him to the home plate where evidently the team depended on him to win the game. Wonderful.

He remembered his form that Derek taught him and squinted against the sun as he heard you cheering him on. His heart seized when he heard you cheering for him. the ball flew towards him and... miss.

"This guy's got nothing," one of the other team mates taunted.

"Come on baby!" You cheer, unyielding in claiming him. He took a deep breath and focused on the next pitch.

This time he swung just in time, sending the ball through the air with such force it took him a moment to remember what to do next.

"Run!" The team yelled.

"To first base baby!" Your voice broke through the noise. He dropped the bat and took off.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He couldn't believe he was still running between the bases, the thought of scooping you into his arms spurning him forward. His eyes locked on the opposing teammate who was about to hurl the ball to first base as he picked up speed.

Derek ushered him in and there was nothing else to do but what he saw on TV- jump. So he did, a sliding jump sent him to home base before the catcher caught that ball.

Cheers erupted and he knew that he got the winning home run. Derek pulled him off the ground and hugged him as adrenaline pumped to his head. He was laughing and smiling as he met your eyes over Derek's shoulder.

You gave him a small wave and a bright smile.

"Come on, there's someone I want you to meet," he told his team and gestured towards you.

A sense of resolve settled within you as you moved to meet the people he called family. Maybe Spencer really was different. He pulled you under his arm and held you close as you all spoke amongst yourselves.

You knew when he left that apartment it was time to call the sexual stuff quits or take a chance and dive head first into him. You were glad you took a chance as he lazily circled his thumb over your hand while your fingers were interlocked.

[cookiescribble]

Choose Me, Love Me

A/N: oops got a little more angsty than usual 😬 i had this in my head for a while and finally was able to write it, so I hope it came out well! (also I have no idea how guns work but i’m just going to pretend that i do for the sake of the plot 😅) - mod angel

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your temper runs high after a miscommunication during a case, making you feel like your relationship is in trouble. (based on 1x18)

CW: angst (that gets resolved), anxiety, jealousy.

~~~

It had been a long day. 

You came to check on Spencer when you had a lull in your schedule, since you knew he was the only one in charge of watching the victim. You figured he might be having a hard time with babysitting duty. 

Instead, you came in to find the house completely empty. This immediately gave you an uneasy feeling, so you took out your gun as a precaution. It was currently loaded with blanks, since you didn’t want to shoot the victim as a knee-jerk reaction if you were surprised. 

You cautiously walked through the house, a feeling of dread creeping through you. Eventually, you found the backyard doors wide open, and you approached them tentatively. You saw movement in the pool, but you didn’t have time to feel relieved that everyone was alive and safe. 

You saw Spencer, in the pool, being pulled in by his tie, looking like he was about to kiss the woman he was in charge of protecting. 

You felt a surge of emotions so intense you couldn’t even identify all of them; anger? Jealousy? Resentment? Anguish? Heartache? Whatever you were feeling, it wasn’t good. 

You couldn’t even rationalize yourself before acting; it was almost as if your body was moving on its own, since your mind was overloaded with emotions. Suddenly you were pulling out your gun, shooting a blank right at the edge of the pool, away from the both of them but close enough to make them jump. 

They practically jumped out of their skin in fright, probably thinking the unsub had come while they weren’t paying attention. They turned to look at you, your gun still pointed at the pool. A mix of confusion and annoyance was on the girl’s face, but Spencer looked practically petrified, his eyes wide and remorseful. 

You looked at both of them before you spoke, spitting out venom with each word because of how angry you were at that moment. “You’re lucky the unsub isn’t here. You would both be dead before you could even react.” With that, you just turned to walk away, striding back into the house. 

You heard Spencer calling your name, his voice strained and emotional. You didn’t turn back to look at him. You couldn’t. You had to hold your breath to stop yourself from sobbing. 

You heard Derek and Elle approaching from outside the yard, saying something about finding paparazzi taking pictures in the bushes. You heard their voices quickly getting quieter and quieter as you were angrily striding away, but you could still hear their confusion. 

“What’s wrong with her?” You heard Elle ask. “What the hell did you do? She’s pissed.”

You heard footsteps starting to follow you before they were cut off, and you could picture Derek putting a hand on Spencer’s chest when he said. “Kid, I know you don’t know women that well, so let me tell you: do not follow her right now.”

“But-“ Spencer’s voice came out shaky, agonized. “I have to talk to her-“

“No, you don’t,” Derek cut him off. “Not right now. You’re only going to make things worse. You can’t rationalize your way through that kind of anger.”

You guessed his words got through to Spencer, since you didn’t hear anyone following you after that. 

You strode through the house until you reached the car you drove here in, getting in the driver’s seat and slamming the door behind you. You ran a shaky hand through your hair, trying to calm yourself before hitting your hands once against the steering wheel. You put your head in your hands, biting your tongue to keep yourself from yelling. You couldn’t even cry; all your thoughts were jumbled in your head, your heart thrumming so hard in your chest you thought it was going to burst out of it. 

You sat in that purgatory of emotions, sometimes letting out tearless sobs, wanting to scream but having the slightest self control and just containing the sound to sobs. After what felt like a very long time, you heard your cell phone go off, indicating you have a text. You pulled it out of your pocket and looked at the screen:

HOTCH: Come to the station. Now. 

You huffed, throwing your phone in the passenger seat before starting the car. I guess word got back to Hotch already, you thought. 

You tried to compose yourself on the drive back to the station, attempting to figure out some kind of excuse for why you shouldn’t be fired. Hopefully you didn’t have to resort to begging. 

You walked through the station, trying to keep an even pace and a level head. But every time you remembered what you saw, you were filled with anger all over again. By the time you got to the door, your emotions were at a loud simmer. 

Hotch was sitting at a table in a closed off room, looking up at you as you walked in, his face as stoic as always. He gestured to a chair across the table from him. “Sit.”

You closed the door behind you, swallowing and taking a deep breath. This felt like being called into the principal’s office and being grounded by your parents at the same time. 

You took your seat across from Hotch, crossing your legs, trying to compose yourself as he spoke directly. “Care to explain yourself?”

You gritted your teeth as you remembered what happened, the anger making your blood boil all over again. “I went to check out the situation. They were being careless, so I wanted to show them that they needed to be more careful.” You tried your best to keep your voice level, but there was still a hint of animosity. 

“They were being careless?” He raised an eyebrow at you, his voice stern. “You don’t think firing a gun that close to an agent and a victim is just as, if not more, careless?”

You flared your nostrils, angry and ashamed all at once. “I fired a blank-“

“And that’s the only reason  why you’re not fired right now,” he cut you off. “I should be writing a termination letter right now, and I would be if there were real bullets in that gun.” 

You huffed, crossing your arms. “They were out in the open while the unsub, who I don’t think I have to mention has been shooting people in the head, was out looking for the victim. I was trying to protect them.”

He looked at you the whole time you spoke, boring holes into your face. You didn’t even think he blinked this whole time. 

His voice was still stern, but it was now a bit quieter. “Really? Are you sure this is about the safety of the victim, and not your personal relationship?”

You let out a frustrated breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. The team had recently found out about your relationship with Spencer, so there was no avoiding this question. “No,” you lied. “It’s not personal. All professional.” There was no point in lying; he’d be able to see right through you. But you couldn’t admit to your boss that you were tempted to shoot a victim because she put her hands on your boyfriend. 

Hotch’s expression never changed, but you could tell he didn’t believe you. “I don’t want you out in the field for the rest of this case.” He held out his hand, and he didn’t have to say anything for you to know he was asking you to give him your gun. 

You reached for your holster and placed the gun in his hand, more forcefully than you should’ve. “Can I go now?”

He started to stand up, but spoke sternly before he did. “This is a job that cannot let actions be clouded by personal feelings. Your judgment needs to be impartial and professional, and not dictated by emotions. Do I make myself clear?”

You nodded curtly, letting out a deep breath before replying, “Crystal.”

He nodded back at you, standing up and motioning towards the door. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

You walked out the door, rubbing your face with your hands, the stress from the day making your whole body tense. 

You started to walk towards the exit when you heard a voice addressing you. “So, how screwed are you?”

You looked over to see Elle, who probably eavesdropped on most, if not all, of the conversation. You sighed, shaking your head. “Well, I still have a job. That’s about the only good thing that has happened today.”

She leaned on the wall, crossing her arms. “Why’d you do that? What happened?”

You buried your face in your hand, feeling the surge of anger again. You didn’t even try to hide it this time. “I went to the house because I figured Spence could use some help, or at least some company. But when I got there, that… that…” You bit your tongue, stopping yourself from calling her every bad name you could think of. “She was all over him, and if I didn’t do something she would’ve kissed him.” You sucked in a breath, feeling like tears were going to start coming if you didn’t hold your breath. 

She nodded, waiting for you to finish before speaking. “And? Would it really be the end of the world if that happened? Just a little kiss?”

You crossed your arms, your nails digging into your skin. “I just… I couldn’t let it happen. She’s this gorgeous Hollywood model, actress, whatever. If she’s interested in him, why would he want to be with me?” A sob escaped your lips involuntarily as you admit what’s been in the back of your head this whole time. “And I really don’t want that to happen, because… I love him.”

“Have you told him that?” She asked, her voice light but serious. 

You paused before shaking your head. Your relationship with Spencer was still relatively new, and you hadn’t exchanged “I love you”s yet, even though you felt it every time you looked at him

“I think it’s time you do, then,” she replied. “If it’s this important to you.”

You just nodded, knowing she was right. You wanted to tell him for a while now, but you were scared. Scared of your own feelings, of his potential reaction… everything. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. “I… have to go back to the hotel. I’m gonna take some time alone to think.”

She waved you off, nodding, and you finally walked back to your car, knowing you needed to sort this all out in your head. 

…

You were lying down on the hotel bed, alone with your thoughts all day, and you hadn’t heard anything about the case from anybody. You hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten when you heard a soft, familiar knock on the door. 

You held your breath, hoping that he would go away if you didn’t answer. You sat in darkness for a while, ignoring when he asked to come in. Finally, you heard a click in the door and you cursed silently, forgetting you had given Spencer a key to your room when you got here. 

You couldn’t look at him, opting instead to look at the wall opposite him. His footsteps were slow and careful, as if he were approaching a rabid animal. “… Please,” he started, his voice quiet and meek. “Just let me explain what happened today.”

You crossed your arms, still looking away from him. You knew he was making those big, pleading eyes at you, and you wouldn’t be able to handle seeing that right now. You kept silent, but you didn’t make him leave. 

He saw that as a good sign, and approached you, sitting at the edge of the other side of the bed. “Listen, nothing happened between us.” He spoke quietly, his voice level but sincere. “I didn’t know what was happening. I was panicking, trying to think of how to politely turn her down, but everything was happening so fast and I…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath. “… I messed up. I admit that. But I didn’t mean to.”

You listened to his voice, which somehow still sounded like music to your ears even though his words were filled with remorse. You just stayed still, taking everything in, not trusting yourself enough to try to respond. 

He tried to move into your line of sight, standing in front of you, but you kept your head down. 

“… I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’m so sorry. You have every right to be angry with me, just…” His tone was so dejected, and you could tell he was truly pouring his heart out. “… Please, look at me.”

You took a deep breath, slowly picking your head up and meeting his eyes. He was making the exact face you expected, his big, sad eyes silently begging you to say something. 

You tried to search for any words to say, but they all got caught in your throat. Your lip started to quiver as a tear finally fell from your eye. You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. “I…” you started, shaking your head as if that would put all your thoughts in order. “I don’t…”

You opened your eyes to look at him again, and you could feel all your anger crumbling, disappearing all at once. Which only made it feel worse. His somber eyes made your heart ache, and you just couldn’t be the cause of them anymore. After a pause, you patted the seat next to you, and he moved to you immediately, like a puppy commanded to sit. 

You took a deep breath, looking down. “… I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, obviously. I was way over the line.” You wrung your hands together, staring at them as if they were the most interesting scenery right now. “I just, seeing you with her… I felt like all my fears were coming true. That you wanted someone else… someone better than me.” Tears started rolling down your cheeks now. “I know I’m not as pretty as her, and I thought, why would you ever want me if someone like that is within reach?” You rubbed your eyes, shaking your head. “I never thought I could feel jealousy like that, but… every bad thought I’ve ever had about myself came rushing through my head, and I thought for sure I was going to lose you.” You swallowed hard, finally looking at him again, letting the words roll off your tongue before you could take them back. “And I couldn’t bear it, because… I love you.” 

You could hear his breath hitch, bracing yourself. For what? Something bad? Something good? 

He looked straight into your eyes, his hand tilting your chin up towards him. “I love you too,” he spoke, as if he’d never been more sure of anything in his life. “And I would never replace you with anyone. You’ll never need to be jealous. I barely even gave her a second glance, and I only did because I had to protect her. It’s my job.” He wiped a tear off your cheek, his touch gentle and slow. “If I thought she was going to come onto me, I would’ve asked somebody else to go to the house.”

You could finally breathe again, the tears in your eyes now happy ones after hearing his words, a confession of love. You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, and he pressed his cheek to the top of your head. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice radiating such warmth and affection. 

“I love you,” you said again, as if testing the sound it made, like tuning an instrument. It sounded better each time you said it. 

You just sat there in each others’ arms for a while, neither of you speaking a word, just letting the feelings sink in. After a while, once all the tension faded, you both pulled back, looking at each other and smiling. 

After another few moments, you spoke lightheartedly. “I’m really glad you feel the same way, because I definitely almost got fired over this.”

He laughed softly, slight concern in his eyes. “But you didn’t, right? I still get to see you at work every day?”

“We’ll see,” you responded. “Hotch said we have to talk again, so… I’m not out of the woods yet.”

He hugged you to his chest, a hand running through your hair. “I can vouch for you. Maybe it’ll help.”

You smiled at the affectionate touch, leaning into it. “How about you talk to him, and I just skip it altogether?”

He shook his head, a playful smile on his face. “I love you, but I can’t perform miracles.” 

You stayed together the rest of the night, even sleeping in the same room even though you never did that when you were out on a case. It was like you didn’t want to be apart now that you both understood your feelings better. You felt like you could get through anything together now. 

[notlongtolove]

a perpetual possibility

your whispered confession is barely loud enough for you to hear yourself, soft enough that he won’t catch it. your words cut through you, a blade sharp and merciless. you’ve always known you loved him—but you’ve never said it out loud. the knife twists deeper, making a home in your chest, right through your heart. this work is part of the burnt norton series

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst...

content: mentions of a crime scene, blood and knives. brief metaphorical mention of self harm, no actual self harm. situationship core. again. very avoidant. reader cries in spencers bed.

word count: 3.6k

note: part 2 to time present and time past, but i guess it could technically be read as a standalone. this wasn't what i originally had in mind so that may be saved for a part 3. i don't know if spencer is actually allowed to show crime scene photos but lets ignore that shall we. a line: Your eyes dart from one thing to the next as though they might offer some insight, some answers. But you know you’re just trying to piece together a puzzle he’s never invited you to solve.

What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. - t.s. eliot

In all the months you’d known Spencer—takeout dinners, movie nights, shared silences—you’d never once seen the inside of his bedroom. The late and long nights that inevitably ended in bed always unfolded at yours. Tonight had been no different, at least not at first.

The rain had been relentless. You’d tried to call a cab, even as the downpour soaked through your resolve. He’d said he could drive you himself, a half-hearted suggestion with a casual shrug. But then, when the thunder cracked again, he’d offered to let you stay instead—offered, not insisted. There was a sharp distinction, precise and piercing, a clear-cut difference that’s not lost on you. 

“This okay?” he asked, holding up a shirt with a faded Caltech logo. It was too big for you, clearly, but it would have to do. You hovered in the doorway of his bedroom, awkward and uncertain, like a child unsure of what to do with their hands.

“S’fine,” you murmured.

He set the shirt on the bed with a nod. “Right, well, do you wanna shower first?”

“You go,” you said quickly, cutting him off before he could object. “You’re tired.”

“Okay,” he said after a beat, the word gentle, his footsteps already headed toward the bathroom. “Just—call out if you need anything.”

You gave him a faint smile in response, waiting until he was gone before stepping fully into the room. It was heavy with his presence, even in his absence. You stood there, unsure if you were looking for something or hoping not to find it. His walls were dark, so unlike yours. A book sat on his bedside table, and you wondered if it was the one he’d mentioned last week.

You’re no profiler, but your gaze sweeps the room all the same, catching on every detail. The file on his desk—was that why he seemed so drained tonight? The handle of the left drawer, more smooth from use than the right—what was in there that could be so important? Your eyes dart from one thing to the next as though they might offer some insight, some answers.

But you know you’re just trying to piece together a puzzle he’s never invited you to solve. 

So instead, you watch as he tosses his shirt into the hamper from behind the bathroom door, his movements practiced, deliberate. Nobody else gets to see him like this. You trace the corners of his dresser, run your fingers along the edges of his space. Nobody else has ever been this close. Not like you. You tell yourself it’s enough.

It feels like progress, though you know better than to call it that. A weak flutter of hope stirs, something small and fragile, and you try to stamp it out—not progress, no progress to be made here. But still, the voice in your head whispers: it’s something, at least.

You hadn’t planned on staying, truthfully. That was a hope you’d long since buried, a privilege you’d relinquished without ever quite consenting to its loss. Spencer had always been better at boundaries than you—he’d flirt with their edges now and then, but he never let them fall quite like you do. You’d learned not to expect him to.

That’s why you’d stopped asking questions—the what ifs and the if onlys—stopped trying to claw your way through the walls he kept so carefully intact. You’d used to push harder, searching for a reaction, any sign he still cared, that he could still feel, still hurt with the same intensity you did. But at some point, the not-knowing had become easier to bear than the risk of knowing. Because while you’ve made your speeches more times than you can count, you know if Spencer ever said he was done, he’d mean it.

You on the other hand, had tried to walk away more times than you cared to admit, each time thinking it was the last, that maybe it would finally stick. But it never did. Your words always faltered, teetering between resolve and hesitation, walking that razor-thin line between staying and leaving but never fully committing to either.

Your friends had their opinions—you didn’t need to hear them to know. You’d stopped willingly bringing Spencer up in conversation a long time ago. It was a quiet betrayal of silence, slowly keeping pieces of your relationship tucked away from them. Relationship, ha. Could you even call it that? You never thought you’d be the type to settle for something undefined, falling into the well-worn cliché of excuses: he’s different when we’re alone, it’s complicated, they don’t see what I see. You’d always promised yourself you wouldn’t be the girl who believed that the good moments could somehow outweigh the bad.​​ But in the silence of moments together, when his walls softened just enough, it was impossible to believe this was anything other than love. 

Even if he couldn’t say it. Even if you’d both agreed to be ‘just friends’. You knew.

It was in the way his hands lingered at your waist now, pulling you closer, his damp hair curling against his forehead.

“Put a towel in there for you” he murmurs into your neck, “Think you’ll look good in my shirt.” Your heart stumbled at the casual intimacy of the words and you forced a playful shove, masking the hurt in your chest with a coy smile. 

Spencer’s bathroom is nothing like his bedroom—The walls a cold, clinical white, pristine in a way that makes the small space feel even more like a shrine to order. Every surface is perfectly curated, free of clutter or unnecessary items—Spencer’s bathroom is most definitely nothing like yours either. 

As you reach for the towel he’s left for you, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The signs of a long day are evident on your face. You can see it in the fatigue in your eyes, in the smudged eyeliner that’s long since run. Your fingers reach out instinctively, brushing away the evidence of weariness before you step into his shower. Huh, who knew Spencer Reid was a cotton chamomile kind of guy?

By the time you’re out of the bathroom, the room is already casted in a muted glow from his bedside lamp. Spencer is propped up against the headboard, engrossed in the case file you’d spotted earlier, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—an uncommon but always welcome sight. A rare treat for you. 

You stand in the doorway of the bathroom, towel in hand, your hair damp and tangled. You let out a small, uncertain cough to draw his attention, “Um, hey, Spence?”

“Hm?” His voice is soft, distracted.

“We forgot one thing.”

He looks up, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose, “What’s that?”

You tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up against your thigh. The movement draws a teasing glance from him as you add, “Kinda need pants.”

A smirk forms on Spencer’s lips, playful and a little wicked. He stretches out the sheets from his legs and swings them aside, the cool air brushing against his skin as he walks across the floor toward you. There’s a teasing lilt in his voice as he steps into the space between you, his fingers brushing yours as he reaches for your hand.

“You know, in the old days, they just used leaves,” he says, his voice low and warm as he leads you toward the dresser in the corner.

You raise an eyebrow, smirking despite yourself, “In the old days, they also worshipped dung beetles.”

He chuckles, the sound low and amused, and opens the left drawer. “Red or blue?” he asks teasingly, his eyes expectant as he waits for your answer.

“Red,” you say, with a playful nod.

Spencer’s hand moves to retrieve a pair of red plaid boxers. So that’s what’s in there. You take them from him, your fingers grazing his. He watches, a subtle smile playing on his lips as you slip into them. Your damp hair clings to your face as you try to keep his shirt from falling off your shoulder. He leans against the dresser, eyes warm with a hint of amusement.

“What?” you deadpan, fully aware of how disheveled you must look.

“I was right. You do look good in my shirt.”

You scoff, pushing the wet hair out of your face, “You should know that flattery gets you nowhere, doctor.”

His fingers brush your shoulder as he helps you by gently tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “It got you here, didn’t it?” he said, eyes bright with that teasing spark as he leads you toward the bed. 

“Technically, the rain did.”

He chuckled, a low sound that resonated through the space between you, “Hey, I offered to drive you home,” the grin on his face daring you to find fault.

You bristled at that, even as you knew he was teasing. There was an edge of truth to it that you couldn’t ignore. The rain really had been the only thing that had brought you here, with him, in this moment. This was the game you both played—one that kept the lines blurred, that kept you both on this side of real. And as much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, you knew nothing would change. Not really.

You clambered onto his bed, trying to distract yourself. The mattress dips under your weight. His side of it was scattered with case photos—splotches of red, maroon streaks, the cold glint of a knife. Spencer followed your gaze, his hand sweeping across the bed to flip the photos over, stacking them into a precise, face-down pile.

“Mm, don’t look,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

“M’fine, show me,” you countered.

“It’s pretty gory.”

“I can handle it.”

There was a pause. He hesitated, considering, before sliding the first photo into view. You exhaled. It wasn’t as bad as you’d expected—red smeared across a wall, stark against the sterile background.

The next one was harder: a close-up of a hand, blue and lifeless. Your stomach turned, but you pressed your lips together and didn’t look away. 

Spencer hesitated again, his fingers hovering over the next photo. "Oh, come on. It’s not like I don’t know what you do," you said, voice laced with mock impatience. He’s not convinced. "Spencer, I’ve quite literally fallen asleep to you describing how Marquette dismembered his victims. In detail, might I add.” 

With a reluctant sigh, he handed it over. It landed like a punch: A knife, buried hilt-deep in a chest, blood pooling in wide, dark circles. Your breath hitched. Okay, maybe this one had a little kick.

“Stabbed himself,” Spencer said, breaking the silence. “His wife was there. Saw the whole thing.”

“God,” you murmured, horrified. “That’s awful. Didn’t she try to help like, pull it out or something?”

Spencer turns to you, frowning like you’d personally been the one to stab the poor man. “You don’t pull the knife out when you’re stabbed. You’ll bleed out. Everyone knows that.”

“Oh.” The word slips out, small and hollow.

You sit there, feeling a little sheepish, like a student who’d just answered wrong in class. Moments like these always reminded you that you lived in two entirely different worlds. You’d never know the things that came second nature to him. You weren’t built for his world, and you knew it. You couldn’t help but think back to the pretty agent he’d mentioned once—She’d probably know better than to say something like that. She belongs in his team, in his world. She’d fit. 

You know all about his team, or at least the fragments he’d shared with you. There was Penelope Garcia, endlessly chirpy and endearing. Derek Morgan was hard to forget, he teased Spencer relentlessly but loved him all the same. And of course, Aaron Hotchner, whose clipped, commanding voice you’d overheard in late-night phone calls that always seemed to pull Spencer away from you. 

You wonder if your naive questions ever made their way into their office—the bullpen, he called it—as anecdotes. Maybe they’d laugh, just a little. But even that would surprise you. You doubted they even knew you existed. Probably not. Probably better that way, you told yourself. 

“Enough of that,” Spencer says, cutting clean through your spiralling thoughts. He shuffles the photos into a neat stack and sets the last of them on the nightstand, “Get some sleep. I’ve gotta be up early.”

“Early?” you repeat, drawing out the word. You tug the blanket up over yourself, settling into his bed. The sheets are colder than yours, smooth in a way that feels unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

“You can stay, though. Let yourself out whenever—you know where your key is.”

Your key. You’d never taken it back the last time you’d tossed it at him in a fit of rage. He hadn’t offered it back, either. Still, something warms in you at the fact he still acknowledges your past claim on it.

“How early is early?” you ask, peeking at him in the dim light.

“Six,” he says simply, settling into his pillow.

You glance at the clock, its green numbers casting a faint glow in the room. “Spence, it’s one. You have to leave in five hours?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, already tinged with regret.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why?”

You hesitate, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “I don’t know,” you admit softly. “I just thought we’d get to talk or something. I saw this video the other day, wanted to, show you…”

Your words taper off as he leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. For a moment, the only sounds are the muffled patter of rain against the window and the faint rustling of sheets as Spencer adjusts his position. You stare into the darkness, blinking as your eyes struggle to adapt. The sudden shift is jarring. 

“Send it to me,” he murmurs, his voice already softened by exhaustion. “I’ll watch it on the jet tomorrow. Promise.” Then, he leans over and presses a light kiss to your temple, warm and fleeting. “Goodnight,” he says, his breath brushing against your skin.

“G’night…” you reply, though it’s more reflex than anything else.

He’s already drifting off, his breathing steady and even, and you’re left alone with the rhythm of it. You try to follow it, to let it lull you into sleep. 

You roll onto your side, facing away from him, and pull the blanket tighter around yourself. The video you’d seen earlier—the one about that experiment with memory or maybe the one about the stars—floats back into your mind. You’d pictured showing it to him, watching the way his brow would furrow as he concentrated, the slight tilt of his head when something intrigued him. You’d imagined him asking questions, diving into tangents, his words spilling out in that way only he could manage. 

But now, in the silence, it feels like a small, insignificant thing. Not worth sending. Not worth saving. You feel like a small, insignificant thing.

Your chest tightens, and before you know it, tears start to spill over. They carve silent paths down your cheeks. You clench your jaw, willing them to stop, but it’s no use. The ache has grown too deep, too wide. You press your palms into your eyes, trying to contain the sob that threatens to break free, trying to force it back into its corner. 

You let out a sniffle. 

Spencer shifts beside you. “Hey, what—what’s wrong?” His voice is low, rough with sleep but laced with concern.

You shake your head instinctively, but in the dark, he can’t see you. You take a ragged breath, fingers brushing against the dampness on your cheeks, and will yourself to speak, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too cheerily. 

But then his arm is around you, pulling you closer, and you know he doesn’t believe you. You feel the warmth of him press into your side. He lifts a hand, tracing the edge of your jaw before settling it lightly against your cheek.

“You’re not fine,” he says. “You’re crying”. The words so simple, so obvious, that they shatter you.

You swallow hard, forcing a weak, half-hearted smile. “I yawned,” you try to joke, but the lie sounds thin. Even to you, it sounds pitiful.

“Why are you crying baby?” 

The nickname stings. It’s tenderness wrapped in barbed wire. A small sob escapes before you can stop it, raw and sharp.

“Oh, baby.” His voice cracks just enough to make your chest ache. If it weren’t for the tears streaking your face, you might believe he was the one with a breaking heart. “Tell me. Please?”

A hundred reasons run through your mind, but each one is too tangled with a hope you’re too afraid to voice. You search for a response that doesn’t carry the vulnerability of everything you feel. There isn’t one. 

“Nothing,” you whisper, though the tremor in your voice says otherwise. “I just… I’ll just really miss you.”

His thumb brushes against your skin as his hand shifts from your cheek to the back of your neck, the other hand gently tangling in your hair. “I’ll miss you too,” he says, the words a balm to the sting in your chest. 

Not like how I miss you, you think. Never like that. 

Spencer might miss you when he’s on a case, when there’s no one around to laugh at his inside jokes or split a pizza with him the way you do—You take his pineapples, he takes your olives. 

But you? You miss him even when he’s right there, in the space between his bedsheets, breathing beside you. It’s the kind of yearning that doesn’t go away with proximity. Outside, the rain only grows heavier. You wonder if this is how it will always be—him moving at a pace you can’t quite match, leaving you behind in the moments you most want to hold onto. You wonder if he notices the distance growing, or if he’s already made peace with it, content to live in two separate orbits that only sometimes, briefly, collide.

He shifts, his voice barely above a whisper. “Is that really why you’re crying?” The stroking of his fingers in your hair has stilled now, his breathing evening out as his eyes begin to drift shut. 

The question pricks at you, guilt twisting in your chest. He has to be up in five hours, and here you are, clinging to the last moments of the night and keeping him from sleep. You feel stupid, selfish even.

“Yeah, really. Just… got a little emotional—cause, I’ll miss you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to press further. But instead, he just shifts closer, his hand settling more firmly against your neck. His lips finds yours in the darkness. It’s a kiss that’s slow and deep, a rare kind of intimacy that stuns you into silence. You freeze, breath caught, heart drumming against your ribcage. It’s been weeks since you felt a kiss felt like this, something unhurried. But before you can process it, he’s already pulling back. 

“I’ll be back on…” He pauses, his eyes drifting slightly as the exhaustion begins to pull at his usually sharp focus. You can almost see the effort it takes to keep his words clear. You picture his expression in the darkness—a little weary, brows furrowed. “Thursday. We’ll do dinner then, okay?” He continues, “We could go out—”

Your heart leaps before you can stop it. 

“Or just stay in—”

Oh. 

“Whatever you want, your choice,” he adds. 

You know it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s just that he’s so used to this. Still, the casual tone, the gentle shrug of an offer, it makes your chest tighten once again. 

Before exhaustion fully takes him, his eyes find yours one last time, “you know you can tell me anything.” It’s a warm sort of reassurance that only threatens to bring more tears to the surface. You nod, blinking rapidly, willing them to stay hidden. 

You make out a faint smile from him, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, fingers tightening around you. His thumb brushes against your skin, soft and tender, catching the last of the tears that dare to fall. 

“Thursday, yeah?”

“Okay.”

And then he’s settling back into the darkness, his breathing deepening as sleep claims him. The silence that follows is absolute. 

He’d said you could tell him anything. But how could you possibly explain anything when it feels like everything?

I’m crying because I’m sad that you’re always leaving me, again.

I’m crying because I’m angry that it took a storm for you to let me in.

I’m crying because I’m scared that whenever you go, it won’t be me you come back to. 

I’m crying because I’m sad, angry, and scared—because I love you. And I know you don’t love me.

“I love you.” 

Your whispered confession is barely loud enough for you to hear yourself, soft enough that he’s lost in sleep and won’t catch it. Your words cut through you, a blade sharp and merciless. You’ve always known you loved him—but you’ve never said it out loud. The knife twists deeper, making a painful, familiar home in your chest, right through your heart.

Your hand searches for Spencer’s beneath the sheets. The knife in your chest shifts with each breath. 

Spencer’s right. You can’t pull it out, or you’ll bleed out.

So you decide you'll stay. In the silence, in the longing. 

Because it doesn’t hurt as much if I don’t move, you think as you wrap your hand around his.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: j's lullaby (darlin i'd wait for you) by delaney bailey ceilings by lizzy mcalpine

[imreidswifey]

In the Quiet Hours -fluff- (S.R)

Summary: After a petty argument escalates, you and Spencer Reid find yourselves stubbornly sleeping apart for the night. While you struggle to find comfort on the couch, Spencer wrestles with his guilt upstairs.

A/n: This was so fun to write, If you have a request please message me! (I have not gotten one yet and Im running out of ideas)

Warnings:

Minor angst stemming from an argument.

Themes of miscommunication and emotional vulnerability.

Brief mention of sleeplessness and feelings of isolation.

Fluff and reconciliation.

———————————————————————————-

The argument had been ridiculous—one of those petty, pointless spats that escalated faster than it should have. You weren’t even sure why it had started. Something about the way Spencer corrected you during dinner, a habit of his that usually made you smile, but tonight it grated on you. You’d snapped at him, and he’d snapped back, his tone sharper than usual. Before either of you realized it, the air was thick with tension, both of you too stubborn to step back.

By the time you stalked off to the living room, clutching a blanket and muttering about needing space, you were seething. Spencer had called out your name, but his plea went unanswered. You’d settled on the couch, wrapping the blanket tightly around you like armor, determined to let him stew upstairs.

But hours later, as you tossed and turned, your resolve was wearing thin. The couch was miserable—hard cushions and no support. The blanket was too short, leaving your feet cold. And worst of all, you missed Spencer. The way his hand always sought yours in the dark, his steady breathing against your back, the way his presence filled every corner of your world without him even trying. But no, you thought stubbornly, dragging the blanket higher. You weren’t going to march upstairs and give him the satisfaction of thinking he’d won.

Upstairs, Spencer lay on his side, staring at the empty space where you should have been. He hated himself for snapping at you, hated that he’d let his frustration over something so meaningless spiral into this. He’d replayed the argument in his mind a dozen times, dissecting every word, trying to understand why he hadn’t just let it go. But what he hated most was the silence.

Without you, the house felt too big, too quiet. He missed your laugh, the sound of your voice, the way you filled every space with warmth. The bed was cold, and sleep felt impossible without the comfort of you tucked into his side.

By the time he finally got up, the clock on the nightstand read 3:47 a.m. He padded downstairs, finding you curled up on the couch, your face half-buried in the pillow. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in the rise and fall of your breathing, the way the soft light from the streetlamp outside fell over your face. He wanted to say something, but instead, he moved closer, lowering himself onto the couch beside you.

The sudden dip of the cushions startled you awake, and you blinked groggily, turning to see Spencer. His hair was mussed, his tie gone, and his sweater vest wrinkled from hours of restless tossing.

“Spencer?” Your voice was thick with sleep, but there was no mistaking the edge of surprise.

He didn’t say anything at first, just reached out to tuck the blanket more securely around you. Then he leaned down, letting his forehead rest against yours, his voice a soft murmur. “I couldn’t sleep without you.”

You wanted to stay mad, to hold onto the stubbornness that had kept you on the couch all night. But the way he looked at you, his hazel eyes filled with quiet vulnerability, made it impossible.

“You don’t get to just come down here and—” You stopped, your voice catching as his hand found yours.

“I know,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I messed up. I should’ve just apologized earlier instead of letting this… whatever this is, get between us.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I don’t care if you think I’m wrong about dinner trivia or the population of ancient Rome. I just care about you.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden lump in your throat. “You didn’t have to come down here.”

“Yes, I did,” he said firmly, shifting to lie down beside you. His arm slipped around your waist, pulling you against him. “Because I hate being apart from you. Even when we’re mad, I still need you next to me.”

The warmth of his confession melted the last of your resistance. You let out a soft sigh, resting your head against his chest as his fingers traced gentle patterns along your arm.

“We’re still going to argue about this in the morning,” you said, your voice muffled against him.

“I know,” he replied with a small laugh, pressing a kiss to your hair. “But at least we’ll do it after a few hours of sleep.”

You smiled despite yourself, letting his steady heartbeat lull you back to sleep. The argument didn’t matter anymore, not really. What mattered was this—the quiet understanding that, no matter what, you always found your way back to each other.

[jellyfishsthings]

Hold Your Breath My Darling

WARNINGS: angst, like super angst, lovesick and whipped Spencer, earlier seasons Spencer, Hotch trained reader, Ex spy, fem reader, dying (or coming close to it), panic attacks, HOTCHNISS IS A THING bcuz i said so, typical criminal minds violence... there will be a part two soon, please let my know if I am missing anything else

requests are open

The ending was based on this fic by @nereidprinc3ss

part 1

It had been one month since the Incident—a term that spoke volumes without revealing too much. The Incident was the moment everything changed, the day the world they've fought to protect threatened to swallow them whole. One harrowing act of violence had almost stolen her from the living, leaving scars deeper than flesh, echoing through the halls of the BAU and private lives of those who cared.

For Aaron Hotchner, the air was thick with the weight of his own guilt. He wandered through days shrouded in shadows, each movement a reminder of his instinct to protect, to lead, to ensure the safety of his team. And how had he failed? He coped with drowning himself in whiskey after a long day's work—a futile attempt to numb the regret clawing at his insides. In the back of his mind, the echoes of her screams lingered. They came back to him every time he closed his eyes.

His office was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. He stared at a framed picture of the team at some holiday gathering, her flashing one of her radiant smiles, arms flung around Morgan and Reid. It should have been the happiest memory, but now it felt like a ghost lurking in the corner, reminding him of what could have been lost forever. Where there should have been laughter, the room was filled with an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the sound of ice rattling in his glass.

Then there was Emily, who wore her pain like a second skin. Each night, she gave in to silent tears that left her breathless. Hotch held her, wrapped her in his arms, wanting to lend strength but unsure of how to piece together the fragments of their shattering experience. It was during these quiet moments, swaddled in darkness, that they both recognized the fragility of their connection. What they had once built was now tempered by guilt and fear—fear of losing a woman, a kid practically, they had helped qrow and turn into the amazingAgent she was.

Meanwhile, in a sterile white room, Spencer Reid kept vigil at her bedside. He had transformed into a specter of the man he had always been. Days blended into nights, and he often felt unmoored. The memory of her laughter used to be a melody he longed to hear; now it haunted him. In the clinical light of the hospital room, he counted the rhythmic beeping of the machines, which stood stark contrast to the chaos within him. Every time he heard her heart, steady and strong, he found a flicker of hope. But hope was an elusive thing, dampened by the anxiety that had seeped into his bones.

Reid often found himself lost in thought, reflecting on the moments that brought them all together, the little things that made them a unit—a family of sorts. He remembered their case that had turned deadly, the precision of her instincts leading them into a dangerous trap. But he also remembered the resolve in her eyes as they fought, a fierce determination that now seemed barely a whisper in the sanctuary of her hospital room.

For a while, recovery felt like an unattainable vision—like a mirage shimmering just beyond their reach. It was a miracle she was still alive even in a sedated state. When she was admitted in the hospital the doctors wore horrified looks as they finally located her file, asking for goverment permission to unseal it and rightfully so. When Spencer himself read it he felt nauseous to his core and ready to lose his hold on reality.

Bones broken more than one time.

Broken back that function only with a chip insisted in the spine.

Various signs of abuse, which could be traced back to her childhood at eight years old.

Signs of sexual assault and rape to a terrifying degree.

She was covered in old scars.

Yet he knew that the worst damage must live inside her head. What a scary life she had lived. And she was only a few months younger than him. The memories that must haunt her ... he only felt sick at the thought, he could imagine how it would be like to live with them.

Still it made sense. How good she was at fighting, that she was an excellent shot, how quickly she adapted into this new lifestyle. He was filled with questions, how, why, are you well, I still love you you do not have to hide I promise. But he didn't have a choice and so he waited for what seemed an eternity.

Days passed, and with them came the wait. But her eyes still remained closed, and so did the door to their shared perception of certainty. A week turned into a month, and the seasons shifted outside like a clock wound down to a dim hum.

Then, one evening, under the flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital, a breakthrough came. Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing quickened, and suddenly—her eyes opened, revealing the storm brewing inside them. Spencer was at her side, gripping her hand gently, his heart hammering in his chest. Ready to fall down on his knees and thank every diety for bringing her back.

“Snoopy?,” he breathed out, the air catching in his throat. Using after what seemed the longest time the nickname he had for her, the one he only used because he was the only one who knew her crazy obsession with the cartoon.

Her gaze was unfocused at first, wandering into the corners of the room as if piecing together where she was. But recognition slowly dawned on her, and the corners of her lips managed a faint curve.

“Reid?” she croaked, her voice raspy yet threaded with life.

Spencer felt a swell of emotions. Relief surged through him, casting away the shadows that had clung tightly for weeks. “You’re back. You’re really back.”

She blinked, and as realization dawned fully, the weight of her condition pressed down on her. “What happened?”

The moment reverberated with unspoken understanding; the memories were shrouded yet defined by the pain they collectively held. But what mattered now was her presence, the warmth of her being returning to where it belonged.

Yet nothing would ever be the same again.

Her transition to get back to work was tedious and long, but she faced with extreme determination and stubbornness. But one bright Monday morning at the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), and the scent of hope lingered in the air like freshly brewed coffee. The team was abuzz with excitement—she was finally back after her traumatic injury. The office was a cacophony of cheers, “Welcome back!” and “It’s about time!” amid the clatter of keyboards and the rustle of paperwork.

She smiled brightly, radiating enthusiasm as she exchanged warm hugs and playful jabs. Despite feeling a little stiff, she was ready to jump back into the chaos that was the BAU. Her final physical test had gone splendidly, and she had passed with flying colors, much to the delight of her colleagues.

“Just don't overdo it, shortcake,” Derek Morgan chuckled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You wouldn’t want to break a sweat before lunch.”

“I think my stitches would disagree with you,” she replied, tossing her hair back and puffing out her chest, “but who needs stitches when you have determination?”

She winked, but even she could feel the tight twinge near her abdomen as she waved dismissively.

A few hours later, as the excitement faded into the hum of agents at work, she started to feel a slight tugging pain. Her physical test had been strenuous, and perhaps she had overexerted herself a tad too much. Dismissing it as minor, she continued her duties until, unceremoniously, during a particularly animated discussion with Spencer Reid, she felt something give way. Looking down in horror, she saw her bandage had opened—one stitch had given it all up.

“Oh, come on,” she muttered under her breath. “Not now.”

The bathroom was not far, but the urgency and pain propelled her into a sprint that was definitely not recommended for someone still healing. She burst through the bathroom door, clutching her midriff, and locked the door behind her.

Meanwhile, after Snoopy had vanished for a suspiciously long time, Spencer felt a tickle of worry. She had burst into action rather enthusiastically, but it had turned into hours of radio silence. Ever the nerdy detective, his mind began churning. What if she had passed out? What if the bathroom monster had gotten her?

Spencer stood up, adjusted his glasses, and awkwardly edged toward the restrooms, bursting into the first one. Empty. Next, he slammed the door of the supply closet, scanned the room, found it empty, and moved on. He was a bull in a china shop���he knocked on a few more doors before finally giving in and charging towards the ladies’ restroom.

“Snoopy?” he called out hesitantly. “Are you in here? Did you win a new Olympic event—like bathroom hiding?”

Inside, she was struggling for a fresh bandage, maneuvering between the threading of her clothes, still trying to maintain a semblance of dignity despite her predicament. “I’m fine!” she half-shouted. “Just dealing with some wardrobe malfunctions. You know how it is!”

“Are you sure? You sound a little… flustered.” Spencer pushed through the door—pride was overrated, and so was personal space when it came to friends in need.

There she stood, half-naked, staring wide-eyed at Spencer. She was trying to maneuver a roll of bandages across her back, struggling with the awkward angles as she attempted to wrap around her injuries. The moment was a whirlwind of awkwardness and genuine surprise that left Spencer rooted to the floor.

“Oh, uh…!” Spencer stammered, his eyes widening. “I—Sorry! I didn’t mean to—!”

She blushed, realizing the comedic irony of a boy who often got caught in his brain's overdrive now turning into a flustered mess. “Spencer, a little warning next time? I’m just trying to change my bandages!”

“Oh! Right! Of course! Bandages!” He shuffled awkwardly, racking his brain for something—anything—that resembled confidence. “Do you need help?”

“Help?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “With what? Watching me struggle or ensuring a full-fledged theatrical performance?”

Reid swallowed hard and stepped forward, grabbing the roll of bandages. “I have a PhD in cognitive neuroscience, but bandaging wounds shouldn't be too complicated, right?”

She laughed, a melodic sound that diffused the tension as he gingerly held the fabric ready to assist her. “You say that, but let’s just put your academic prowess to the test.”

As he meticulously began to wrap her wounds, their banter threw open a door to easy flirting. “You know, if you hadn’t decided to writhe around like a fish out of water, I wouldn’t have had to barge in here like a raging bull,” he teased, focusing on the bandages but stealing glances at her.

She snorted softly. “And if you hadn’t decided to play the role of ‘Spencer the Bull’ and barged in like that, I might have had a more dignified experience here.”

“Next time, I’ll knock,” he agreed. “But first, if I let you get hurt again, I’ll have to rat you out to HR.”

She feigned shock. “Spencer Reid! How could you? Aren’t we a team?”

He didn’t dare reply immediately, wrapping the bandages with precision while his own cheeks flushed. “They also say you can’t handle a little risk in the name of love—because that’s totally what HR deals with.”

She grinned. “Oh please, they’d love the gossip. ‘Reid and Snoopy engage in dangerous bandaging maneuvers!’”

“Right?” He chuckled. “They’d probably get the wrong idea, and we’d spend our afternoons dodging accusations.”

“Accusations? Of what? Excessive flirting under the guise of medical assistance?”

Their eyes met, and the emphasis was palpable—a line they’d somehow danced across during the cheerful mockery. As the gentle laughter enveloped them, both realizing they had easily slipped into a territory where playful banter morphed into flirty undertones, Spencer’s heart thumped against his chest as he finished the bandage and fought the impulse to lean in a little closer.

“So,” she started, cutting through the air of comfort, “do we have a pact then? No more HR rumbles if you keep barging in on me uninvited?”

“I think that sounds reasonable,” Spencer replied, a charming smile emerging on his lips.

As they shared another laugh, an understanding settled between them—one wrapped in bandages, hints of crushes, and adventure, leaving behind awkwardness and opening the door to a world wrapped in flirtation and camaraderie, all set against the delightful backdrop of the BAU.

Tags: @sturnioloenthousiast

[parfaitblogs]

please headcanon on breaking up with spencer after jj. reader is cold and dry because he keeps neglecting her over jj. i am also one of the angst lovers! 🙏🏻🙏🏻

one thing about me is i haaate the jeid storyline. more than anything. this was so brave of me… bravest girl in the world award goes to me…

okay so i think his neglectfulness will simply come down to him not being able to focus on two emotionally charged events at once. he’s not even neglecting you to talk to jj more, he’s neglecting you to talk to jj about it. in his mind he’s protecting you from more hurt because if he can just sort this weird confession thing out with her, then it can be put behind everyone and all will be fine. because no, he doesn’t not like jj, and no, he does not feel anything other than frustration at her for confessing like that. in fact, he’s more irritated at the wedge it’s shoved into your relationship than anything.

but you don’t know that obviouslyyyy. spencer reid master communicator he is NOT. so to you all these pull asides with jj to talk to her while he’s barely sparing you a fully strung together sentence is providing no comfort whatsoever.

you’re giving him the cold shoulder, he thinks he’s successful in avoiding you until this is resolved, and things go on plainly like that for awhile.

and then he finally talks to jj. probably does get upset with her, and it’s a lot of words contradicting what your own brain is conjuring up about this situation and you don’t even know. so he’s arguably quite surprised when he finally reaches out to you again, and you don’t talk to him.

i think his good intentions would be overwhelmed by the way you felt the entire time, and the principle of the situation would be qualms for a breakup. in my opinion, at least… but i can’t do unhappy ending (yes i can god im such a freaking liar) so like all my other avoidant reader headcanons you’d probably take a short while apart to work through your emotions individually, and then come back and things would end up okay because all it was, was an outsider getting in between your relationship, and spencer reid sucking at showcasing his love for you.

[ozwriterchick]

Spencer Reid fic...

A/Note: This is my first Spencer Reid fic so please be kind. This fic is thanks to @navybrat817 who convinced me to give it a go when I had no faith in being able to write this loveable character.

Characters: Spencer Reid, Other BAU team members; Reader (1 mention of Y/N)

CW: Secret relationship; a bit of angst but not much; some fluff; happy ending; Spencer being a forgetful genius (yes, he's a warning); If i missed anything, let me know

W/C: Approx 2080

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

“Spence, you promised.” You sighed.  This was not the start to your morning you had expected.

Your fiancée, Dr Spencer Reid, lifted his head from his breakfast reading material with a confused look on his face.  He might be a genius with an eidetic memory and one of the main players in the FBI’s famed Behavioural Analysis Unit at Quantico, but he seemed to easily forget the most basic things.

His confusion only lasted until he saw the stack of envelopes in your hand.  “I was supposed to send those, wasn’t I?” he asked.

“They were supposed to go out a week ago Spencer.  The RSVP date is next week!” you reiterated.

“I’m sorry Maat, I’ll send them today.”

You blushed, after all this time, the pet name he gave you when he found out your job and obsession still works on you.

On your 2nd date, Spencer asked what you do for a living.  This led to a deep discussion about your work as a librarian at the Smithsonian and your overpowering obsession with all things ancient history.  In particular, the gods and goddesses of ancient Egypt, Rome & Greece.

His question of which were your favourites didn’t take long for you to answer.

“Well,” you began “My favourite god is Anubis.  He’s the jackal-headed god of the Egyptian Afterlife and mummification and that kind of thing.  Without Anubis, none of the Pharaohs could enter the eternal afterlife.  He weighed their souls and guided the dead, rich and poor, into the Afterlife.”  You realised he’d gone silent and that maybe you’d just word vomited at him and had probably said Afterlife way too many times. You hoped you hadn’t scared him off.

You looked up at him and opened your mouth to apologize, when you saw such a look of awe on his face that you hadn’t seen on a date in a long time, well if you’re being honest, you’ve probably never seen it.  He’d tell you on the day he proposed that his is when he fell in love with you.  When he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

You then, in much fewer words, told him your favourite goddess was Gaia, the Greek goddess of the Earth.

Spencer resolved, at that moment, to read everything he could about these gods and goddesses so he could converse knowledgeably with you.

After he'd done his research, which involved speed reading everything he could find, he decided you were his Maat.  Maat is the goddess of Justice, Harmony and Balance.  When he called you this for the first time, you asked why.  He simply replied that you bring Harmony and Balance are what you bring to his life, it’s what you are for him.

“You’re probably best giving the ones out at work you know, you see them every day.”

He looked at you hesitantly.

“Or are you still not wanting them to know about me?”

This was a small point of contention in your relationship.  Early on, you understood Spencer wanting to keep you safe from the pitfalls of his job.  However, now you are engaged, you thought he’d bring you into that part of his life more.

You know he wants the team, as his pseudo-family, at the wedding, but achieving that would involve actually telling them about you.

Suddenly a plan formed in your brain.  You were glad Spencer’s attention had returned to his breakfast and reading material and he wasn’t looking directly at you, so he didn’t catch on that you were plotting something.

“No, I promise you it’s not that.  There’s just so many important things running through my head at any one time.  I just forgot.”

“Oh, more important than marrying me?” you enquired, a little bit jokingly but also, a little bit seriously.

“Don’t be like that my love, you know that’s not it at all.  I love you so much, I can’t believe I’m the lucky guy that gets to call you my wife soon.”

“I know, it’s just sometimes, I wonder.”

“Well, don’t.   Give them to me, I’ll put them in my satchel now and in the post box on my way to work.”

“Nope, I’m going to send them.  At least that way I know they’re gone and you’re not trying to stall this wedding.”

“Sweetheart” he began, “I’m not stalling.  But if it makes you feel better, then go for it.  At least give me the ones for the team and I’ll give them out today when I get to the office.”

You filtered out the invites for his team, handing them to him and putting the rest in your bag. 

A few minutes later, as he was leaving for work, you gave him a quick peck on the cheek, reminding him that it was his turn to cook tonight.  You smile at the roll of his eyes, he’s not a bad cook but you can guarantee it will be takeout tonight.

You rang Spencer on your lunch break.  He usually took lunch around the same time of day as you, so you knew you could have a conversation without issues of people being around or listening in.  This happened most days he was working in the Quantico office.

During the call, you asked him how his team had reacted to the invitations. You were pretty confident he hadn’t given them out yet and this was all part of the plan.

After he left this morning, you noticed he had, once again, left the envelopes on the kitchen table, forgetting to put them in his satchel.  You knew he hadn’t given them out because he couldn’t, but that also means he hadn’t even tried yet.

“Oh, I haven’t had a chance to give them out yet because…”

“Spencer Walter Reid, I am sensing more and more that there’s something else going on.  If you want to postpone, or cancel, this wedding, you better tell me know.”

Spencer couldn’t believe you would think that, more importantly, he couldn’t believe he’d made you think that.  He knew what the fallout could be of everyone knowing about you and he was just hesitant about that.

"Maat, my love, I’ve never once been hesitant or unsure about marrying you.  It is a big thing, everyone knowing about you, putting you in the line of fire, as it were.  It’s just that massive change that is making me nervous.  Not you.  Not getting married, Never that.”

You sighed loudly. “I believe you Spencer, I just need you to back it up with actions love.  Just promise me they’ll all have their invitations by the end of the day?”

“I promise you, I will give them out today.”

About an hour later, you walked up to the Quantico building asking for SSA Aaron Hotchner, with the envelopes in your bag.  You’d mailed the rest of them, or given them out at your work this morning.

Aaron came down and confirmed your security clearance with the front desk and asked why you didn’t just let Spencer know.  You told him that you’d been waiting on Spencer to give out some invitations and he kept forgetting them so you figured you’d have to do it yourself if you wanted it done, and probably as a surprise.

You hesitated when the lift doors opened on their floor. Were you doing the right thing forcing this to happen?  You didn’t want to irrevocably damage your relationship with Spencer by forcing the meet and greet with the rest of Spencer’s team.

You stepped to the side so that you couldn’t be seen from inside their offices.  “Is this wrong Aaron?” you asked him.  “Maybe I should just take them home and not force this meeting.”

“Listen, you know Spencer loves you, we both know he wants this, but I get why he’s hesitant about, well, sharing you with the team.  Sometimes I wonder, if Hayley hadn’t been exposed to this..”

“Hotch, Spence told me all about what happened, it wasn’t your fault.  I just don’t want to make him angry by forcing the team to meet me, but we are fast approaching the rsvp deadline for this wedding.”

“Do you want me to send him out here.  I really think he’ll be ok with whatever you do.”

“No, let’s do this….” You explain your plan to Hotch who grins like he’s masterminded the whole thing with you.

Hotch opens the door to the BAU offices and walks in with you beside him.  You can’t believe this is the first time you are seeing where Spencer works.  Of course you see the back of his head because his desk kind of faces away from the main doors.  He looks like he’s deeply concentrating on whatever it is that he is reading.

Some of the team members are milling around one of the desks and when you walk in with Hotch they look up to greet him and you see the startled looks on their faces.  They all looked at each other, then back at you and Hotch, waiting for someone to say something.

“Mornin’ Hotch” said the one you pretty much knew to be Derek Morgan.  From Spencer’s detailed descriptions of each person, you were confident you knew who each person was in the group.  “New team member?”

“No Derek.” Hotch replied.

“Well then hello gorgeous Mama” he grabbed your hand to shake it and lifted it to his lips to give you a kiss.

You could see Spencer out of the corner of your eye and he was just working out that a conversation was going on without him that maybe he wanted to be a part of.  You saw him turn around and realise who it was with Hotch.  The look he gave you was both priceless and stunned at the same time.  You could clearly see the confusion on his face as to why you were there.

He stood up hesitantly raising his eyebrows at you.  You gave him a small smile so as not to give anything away.

“Well, I have some invitations for you lovely people to an upcoming event that you might want to attend.  So I came to give them out because my.. ummm.. assistant” you said pinning Spencer with a glare, that none of the team seemed to catch.  “Kept forgetting to post them.”

Spencer heard what you said and his brain was even more confused.  How could you have the invitations, he’d brought them with him that morning.  He lifted his satchel and opened it, realising he had, once again, left them at home.  He looked up at you, suitably apologetic in his glance and then put his head down, got up from his chair and made his way over to the rest of the group as you gave out the envelopes.

“Wait, you forgot Spencer.” Said the one you knew to be JJ.  A sort of best friend to Spencer, who you felt might be the one who felt the most betrayed that he hadn’t told her about you.

“Oh I didn’t forget Spencer” you said. “But maybe you should open the envelopes and you might see why.”

One by one the envelopes were opened and the shocked looks on their faces said it all, as they read:

‘You are cordially invited to the wedding of Y/n Y/l/n and Spencer Reid’

Derek turned to Spencer “Pretty Boy, you dirty dog.  You’ve been gatekeeping this gorgeous woman for how long?”

Spencer walked over to you, put his arm around your waist and replied “Oh, for about 3 years now” he happily turned and gave you a peck on the cheek.

“And you’re getting married?  Spencer, why didn’t you say anything” asked Garcia.

“And why are we only just now meeting her?” JJ again.

“Well, you know with everything, Spence thought it would help keep my safe if as few people as necessary knew about me but, as you can see from those invitations, we’re fast coming up on a certain day that you guys can’t miss.  Please say you’ll all come.  We would so love to have you there and I’d love to get to know all of you better.”

There was a chorus of yes, and of course, and Derek even put in a “try and keep me away”

You were so happy that this had gone well and that Spencer didn’t seem angry at all and that all of his work colleagues really wanted to know you and help celebrate your wedding in a few weeks.

Taglist: @wolfbeanpotion

Let me know if you want to be added.

[missarchive]

in love and war - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? district 3 spencer reid x cold district 7 fem!reader

category: slow burn, star-crossed lovers, ANGST!!!

content warnings: typical hunger games violence and gore. reader is basically johanna mason. suicide. major character death!!!

word count: around 7k

a/n: second post! please please please leave a comment, or send me some asks. i love feedback!!

The Capitol’s anthem blared over the dusty square of District 7, its piercing, triumphant notes slicing through the oppressive silence that had settled over the crowd. The sound was sharp and artificial, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s control over every aspect of their lives. The crowd, a sea of tired faces etched with lines of hard labor, stood motionless. Not even the wind dared to stir the suffocating stillness.

You stood in the center of it all, your chin high, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Your hands were curled into fists at your sides, the nails biting into your palms, but you welcomed the sting—it was a tether, a reminder to hold your ground. Fear churned in your chest like a storm, but you refused to let it show. Not here, where the Capitol’s eyes bore into every detail. Not now, when weakness could feel like surrender.

The escort—a garish figure swathed in layers of shimmering emerald fabric that glimmered like scales—stepped forward. Her unnaturally bright smile stretched wide, her too-pale face powdered to an unsettling perfection. She carried an air of frivolous delight that clashed violently with the grim reality of the moment.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl filled with slips of paper, each one carrying a name, a fate. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as she unfolded the slip, the paper crackling like thunder in the silence.

“Y/N L/N.” She called, her voice almost sing-song, as though your name were a punchline in some grotesque joke.

Your stomach dropped. It was as if the ground beneath you had vanished, and for one dizzying second, you felt weightless. Around you, the crowd shifted, parting like a tide. The faces you’d known all your life turned down, their gazes fixed on the ground. No one met your eyes—not out of malice, but out of helplessness. They couldn’t bear to see the fear that mirrored their own.

Your body moved on its own, each step measured and deliberate, a march toward your fate. You straightened your spine, forcing a calm you didn’t feel, willing yourself not to stumble. Not here, not in front of them. The Capitol would take your life, but you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

The stage loomed closer, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh afternoon sun. The escort’s sugary smile widened as you ascended the steps, her eyes glittering with a disturbing mix of glee and detachment. The weight of her gaze, coupled with the cameras trained on you, made your skin crawl. The icy dread clawing up your spine felt almost unbearable, but you pushed it down, burying it beneath a mask of resolve.

You took your place beside the male tribute. A boy your age, his face pale and drawn, with eyes that darted nervously over the crowd before finally settling on the ground. You’d seen him before—briefly, in passing. Maybe at the lumberyard or the market. You tried to recall his name, but your mind, heavy with the gravity of your fate, couldn’t hold onto the thought.

The Capitol had chosen its players, and now the game would begin.

The train to the Capitol hurtled forward through a blur of dense forests and barren plains, but inside, it was eerily silent. The only sound was the relentless chatter of the escort, her voice a cloying melody of superficial pleasantries and Capitol propaganda. She spoke of fashion, of glory, of the grand spectacle awaiting you, her words as empty as the smiles she had worn during the reaping. You ignored her, your gaze fixed on the window.

Outside, the world rushed by in muted greens and browns, a stark contrast to the gleaming metallic interior of the train. The plush seats and gilded fixtures exuded a nauseating opulence that mocked everything you had ever known. The Capitol’s promise of luxury was a cruel jest, a reminder of their excess against the backdrop of your district’s suffering.

Yet, when the meals came, you ate. The richly spiced meats, the delicate pastries that melted on your tongue, the sparkling drinks that fizzed against your lips—it all tasted of betrayal, but you swallowed it anyway. Every bite, every sip, felt like succumbing to the Capitol’s siren call. It was a grotesque imitation of comfort, designed to dull the edge of fear, to make you forget, even for a moment, what awaited you.

But the arena loomed in your mind, a shadowy specter that refused to be ignored. The thought of it gnawed at you, relentless and unyielding, like a ravenous beast caged just beneath your consciousness. Blood. Death. Survival. The knowledge of what you would have to do, of the lives you would have to take, coiled around your thoughts like barbed wire.

You forced yourself to push it all down—the guilt, the sorrow, the horror. You had no choice. Survival demanded that you bury your humanity, and the Capitol was counting on it.

At the front of the carriage, a small holographic display flickered to life, its cool blue glow casting faint shadows on the polished walls. The screen showed the reaping ceremonies from the other districts, each one a carefully orchestrated tableau of misery.

Districts 1 and 2 were first. Volunteers stepped forward with practiced bravado, their faces alight with the twisted pride of those who saw the Games as an honor. Their confidence, their hunger for glory, was a stark contrast to the quiet dread that settled over you like a shroud.

Then the broadcast shifted to District 3. The boy’s name was announced, and the camera panned to him.

“Spencer Reid.”

He was tall and lanky, his frame awkwardly angular as he stepped forward. The camera lingered on him, capturing every flicker of unease. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand, his movements hesitant, as if he could somehow shrink himself into nothingness. His face was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights, his lips pressed into a tight, uncertain line.

He climbed the stage slowly, his shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for the weight of the Capitol’s gaze. Among the other reaped tributes—many of them brimming with bravado or resignation—he looked out of place, a fragile figure thrust into a world of brutality.

But when the camera zoomed in on his face, you saw something unexpected. Beneath the surface of his fear, hidden in the depths of his wide, intelligent eyes, was a spark of defiance. It wasn’t loud or overt—it wasn’t a rebel’s roar or a warrior’s fury. It was quiet, subtle, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself to exist.

You stared at the hologram, transfixed. Spencer Reid didn’t look like a fighter. He didn’t look like a killer. But there was something about him—a quiet resolve that made your chest tighten.

The hologram flickered to the next district, but his image lingered in your mind, a puzzle piece that didn’t yet fit. In the Capitol’s cruel game, you knew better than to hope. But for the first time since your name had been called, you felt the faintest stirrings of something you couldn’t quite name.

The training center was a swirling chaos of noise and motion, a cacophony of clashing weapons, shouted instructions, and the low hum of tributes murmuring strategies. Each station buzzed with activity as tributes from every district worked with single-minded determination, their eyes sharp, scanning the room for threats and opportunities alike. The air was charged with tension, a palpable reminder that everyone here was both a potential ally and a likely enemy.

You gravitated toward the weapons station, your steps purposeful despite the oppressive atmosphere. Your fingers closed around the handle of an axe, the smooth wood familiar against your calloused palms. The weight of it settled in your grip, solid and unyielding. It was a grim comfort, a connection to the forests of District 7, where axes were tools before they were weapons. Here, though, it was a tool for survival, one you knew you would have to wield with deadly precision.

Across the room, Spencer stood at the survival skills station, a stark contrast to the hardened tributes around him. He lingered near a trainer demonstrating knot-tying techniques, his posture slightly hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. His slight frame and nervous energy drew attention, a handful of tributes sparing amused or derisive glances in his direction.

Yet, he absorbed everything with a quiet intensity. His eyes flickered over the trainer’s hands, cataloging each movement, every knot and technique. His sharp mind seemed to analyze and store every detail, not missing a beat. But he wasn’t just watching the trainer—he was studying the other tributes, too. The arrogance in their stances, the overconfidence in their eyes, the way they dismissed him without a second thought. Spencer noted it all, filing it away, hoping that these observations would one day give him the edge he so desperately needed.

You first noticed him during a combat demonstration. The trainer had called for volunteers, and to your surprise, Spencer stepped forward, his thin fingers hesitantly wrapping around a wooden staff. The moment was over almost as soon as it began. A career tribute from District 2—a towering boy with broad shoulders and a predator’s grin—disarmed him with ease, knocking Spencer to the ground with a swift, calculated strike.

Spencer scrambled to his feet, his glasses askew, his hands fumbling to adjust them. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the careers’ laughter. Their mocking echoes rang through the training hall, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s engineered hierarchy.

Yet, he didn’t slink away. Instead, he stepped back, watching the careers’ movements closely. He reached for the notebook tucked under his arm, flipping it open and furiously scribbling notes, his brow furrowed in thought. Each failure seemed to fuel his focus, his mind dissecting every detail, breaking down what went wrong and how he could do better next time.

Something about him caught your attention. Maybe it was his stubborn determination to keep trying despite the odds stacked against him. Maybe it was the way his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote, but his gaze stayed steady, as if he could out-think the inevitability of the Games. Or maybe it was because he reminded you of someone—a faint, long-buried memory of someone who had needed protecting once, and how it had torn at you when you couldn’t.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” you said bluntly, stepping into his path as he left the station.

Spencer startled, nearly dropping his notebook. His knuckles turned white as he clutched it tighter, holding it like a lifeline. “I… I know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet but remarkably steady. His hazel eyes met yours, nervous but resolute. “But there’s not much I can do about that… Unless you have a suggestion?”

You raised an eyebrow, studying him for a beat. He wasn’t cocky like the careers or resigned like so many others. He was clever, you could see that, and he had a spark of something most tributes didn’t: hope, no matter how faint.

“Stick with me in the arena,” you said, your tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “You focus on keeping us alive. I’ll handle the killing.”

He hesitated, his sharp mind clearly running calculations, weighing the risk and reward of your offer. “Why?” he asked finally, his gaze searching yours.

“Because you’re going to be dead weight otherwise,” you said bluntly, crossing your arms. “And I don’t want to fight your ghost on top of everyone else’s.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. “Fair point,” he said softly, nodding.

You turned away, heading back toward the weapons station. Over your shoulder, you added, “Don’t make me regret it, Reid.”

He didn’t reply, but when you glanced back, you saw him adjust his glasses, straighten his posture, and follow.

The arena was a sprawling expanse of forest, its towering trees stretching endlessly toward the sky, their gnarled branches intertwining to form a suffocating canopy. The dense undergrowth was a labyrinth of roots and thorns, each step a gamble against the hidden dangers lurking beneath. The air was heavy, saturated with the earthy scent of pine, damp moss, and the faint metallic tang of decay. Overhead, the sky was a hazy gray, muted and ominous, as though even the sun refused to bear witness to the bloodshed below.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant boom of a cannon—a haunting reminder that lives were being snuffed out one by one. The eerie stillness of the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if the very land recoiled from the Capitol’s violence.

You and Spencer had been separated during the chaos of the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Amid the screams and the clash of weapons, you had fought your way to an axe, its familiar weight a small comfort in the madness. Spencer, ever the strategist, had snatched a small pack and disappeared into the tree line, avoiding direct confrontation. It wasn’t until hours later, when the initial slaughter had subsided and the forest had swallowed the remaining tributes, that you found him.

He was crouched low among the undergrowth, his shoulders hunched as he worked with trembling hands to set a rudimentary snare. The cord slipped in his grip, and he muttered a quiet curse under his breath, his frustration evident. Despite the tension in his frame, there was an odd focus in his movements, a determination to make himself useful even here, where everything was designed to kill.

“You’re terrible at hiding,” you said, stepping into view. Your voice broke the stillness like a crack of lightning, and he flinched violently, his hand jerking the snare out of place. His wide eyes darted to you, and for a split second, you saw fear flash across his face. But then recognition settled in, and his body relaxed just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he exhaled shakily.

Even so, you could see the doubt lingering in his expression, the silent question of whether you would keep your word. Whether you would protect him—or if the promise was as fragile as the alliances so many others had already shattered.

“I’m better at traps,” he said defensively, gesturing to the mangled snare. His voice wavered, but there was a thread of defiance woven through his words. “Not much use if I’m dead, though.”

You sighed, letting your gaze sweep over the dense forest. Every shadow felt like a threat, every rustle of leaves a prelude to attack. The arena’s oppressive atmosphere bore down on you, the Capitol’s eyes undoubtedly watching, waiting for a misstep.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost resigned. “Let’s find somewhere safer.”

He hesitated, glancing at the ruined snare before looking back at you. For a moment, you thought he might protest, insist on finishing what he’d started. But then he nodded, pushing himself to his feet and clutching the pack tightly.

As the two of you moved deeper into the forest, the unspoken understanding between you solidified. The arena was no place for trust, but in that moment, you both understood what was necessary. Spencer’s sharp mind and your strength would keep you alive—for now. Together, you were a tenuous partnership, forged in the fire of desperation, bound by the fragile hope of survival.

Days passed in a blur of relentless survival, the forest around you becoming both your sanctuary and your prison. Spencer’s quick thinking kept you ahead of the others, his mind proving sharper than any blade. He devised traps with a precision that belied the trembling of his hands. One night, a tripwire he rigged sent a sharpened branch hurtling toward a career tribute, the impact punctuated by the sharp, deafening boom of a cannon. You froze, listening as the sound echoed through the trees, a grim acknowledgment of another life taken.

But for all his brilliance, Spencer’s lack of combat skills was glaringly obvious. The fragility of your alliance was brutally highlighted when a career tribute ambushed your camp at dawn. You had been sharpening your axe when the attack came—a blur of movement and the glint of a blade in the weak morning light. Spencer had scrambled back, his hands flying up in instinctive defense, but it was you who stood between him and death.

The fight was savage and merciless. Your axe cleaved through the air with deadly precision, each swing driven by adrenaline and the primal need to survive. Blood sprayed across your face, warm and sticky, as you buried the blade deep into the career’s chest. The sickening crunch of bone gave way to silence, broken only by your ragged breathing.

You stood over the lifeless body, the axe slipping from your trembling hands, its handle slick with blood that dripped in slow, viscous trails down your arms. The metallic scent was overpowering, mingling with the damp earth beneath your feet. Spencer emerged from behind a tree, his face ashen and his glasses askew. He stared at the carnage with wide eyes, his expression a mixture of shock and guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice trembling, pitched higher than usual.

You wiped a streak of blood from your eyes with the back of your hand, spitting a glob of your own onto the ground. “Fine,” you said shortly, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. “Let’s keep moving.”

The nights were the worst. The Capitol’s mutts prowled the forest, their distorted howls piercing the stillness and sending chills racing down your spine. The Gamemakers seemed to delight in tormenting the tributes, their traps and horrors pushing all of you to the brink. Spencer stayed close during those long, restless hours, his sharp mind constantly working to outthink the Capitol’s cruelty. But the strain of it all was evident. The sleepless nights, the gnawing hunger, the constant threat of death—it wore on both of you.

Sleep came in fleeting moments, and when it did, it brought no peace. Nightmares plagued you, images of blood-soaked battlefields and the cold, lifeless faces of those you had killed. You would wake with a start, your hand instinctively reaching for the axe by your side. Spencer, ever vigilant, would glance up from his notebook, offering a weak, wordless reassurance.

One night, as the oppressive silence stretched between you, he broke it. “You don’t have to stay,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant rustle of leaves. He was hunched over his notebook again, the pen in his hand tapping rhythmically against its edge. “I know I’m just a liability. If you leave… you’d have a better chance.”

His words hit you harder than they should have, stirring an ache in your chest that you didn’t want to acknowledge. You scoffed, forcing a veneer of indifference. “Don’t be stupid,” you said, glancing down at the axe lying between your legs. The wood was stained a deep crimson, a grim testament to your survival. “You’d be dead in a minute.”

“Probably,” he admitted, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he seemed impossibly fragile. “But that doesn’t mean it’s fair to you—to have to carry my weight.”

You leaned forward, your eyes locking with his. His vulnerability was laid bare, and for a fleeting moment, you saw past the fear to the resolve underneath. “Fair doesn’t matter here,” you said, your voice firm. “Survival does. And you’re not dying on my watch, Reid.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, unspoken promises threading through the tension. Spencer didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered on you, a quiet gratitude shining in his eyes. In the brutal reality of the arena, fairness was a luxury no one could afford. But in that moment, you knew you’d fight to keep him alive, even if it meant sacrificing a part of yourself.

The Gamemakers were growing impatient, their orchestrations more desperate and cruel. Walls of fire erupted in the forest, their heat searing and relentless, driving you and Spencer forward. Rivers swelled and burst their banks, churning torrents swallowing the land and leaving no room for retreat. The Capitol’s games were designed for spectacle, and now, they demanded a climactic confrontation.

It came in a clearing, a barren stretch of earth encircled by the towering trees that had once been your refuge. You and Spencer stood in the center, backs pressed together, the forest closing in around you. The air was electric with tension, heavy with the anticipation of violence. Your axe was clenched tightly in your hands, its familiar weight a lifeline in the chaos. Across the clearing, the last remaining tributes emerged from the shadows, their faces hard and eyes gleaming with a deadly determination.

The careers were relentless. Their movements were precise, their strikes calculated, honed by years of brutal training. They were predators, and you were their prey—but you refused to be cornered.

The first blow came from the left, a flash of steel aimed at your head. You ducked, swinging your axe upward in a wide arc that sent the attacker sprawling. Before you could strike again, another career was upon you, their weapon slashing toward your side. Spencer’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

“Y/N, duck!”

You dropped to the ground just as a handful of crushed leaves sailed over your head. The air ignited in a blinding flash, the chemical reaction disorienting your attackers. Spencer had discovered the trick earlier, his sharp mind identifying the properties of the plants scattered through the arena. It bought you precious seconds, enough to regain your footing and strike.

Your axe moved with ruthless efficiency, the weight of it an extension of your will to survive. It cleaved through the air, connecting with flesh and bone in a sickening symphony of destruction. Blood sprayed across the clearing, warm and sticky, coating your hands and arms as you fought with everything you had.

Spencer, though less skilled in combat, was no less vital. His quick thinking and unorthodox tactics kept you alive, each small advantage tipping the scales in your favor. He ducked and dodged, his movements frantic but purposeful, throwing dirt in an attacker’s eyes or tripping them with a hastily arranged snare.

The clearing became a battlefield, the ground slick with blood and churned by desperate footsteps. The coppery scent hung thick in the air, mingling with the earth’s damp tang and the acrid smoke from the Gamemakers’ fires. The cacophony of screams, grunts, and clashing steel reverberated through the forest, a grotesque chorus that seemed to echo endlessly.

Finally, the chaos began to subside. One by one, the careers fell, their arrogance and brutality no match for your combined determination. The last tribute standing faced you with defiance in their eyes, but their movements were sluggish, their strength waning. Your axe swung in a final, decisive arc, and the cannon’s resounding boom signaled the end.

As the clearing fell silent, you turned to Spencer. He stood hunched, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, his glasses smeared with dirt. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, his eyes met yours with a flicker of relief. For a fleeting moment, the two of you simply stood there, surrounded by the carnage, the enormity of what you’d just survived sinking in.

But you knew this wasn’t the end.

The forest loomed like a living nightmare, shadows twisting and stretching as if they sought to devour what little light dared to filter through the canopy. Every sound, every faint rustle of leaves, clawed at Spencer’s already frayed nerves. His breaths came shallow and ragged, his legs protesting with searing pain as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Branches lashed at his arms and face, leaving thin, stinging cuts, but none of it registered.

All he could think about was you.

“Y/N!” he screamed again, his voice a raw echo of his mounting panic. The name reverberated through the forest only to be swallowed by the oppressive silence. His heart pounded erratically, a frantic rhythm that matched the wild thrum of his thoughts.

You were out there. Alone.

And then, like a cruel omen, he saw it—a trail of blood.

Spencer’s breath hitched, his body locking in place as he stared at the crimson streaks spattered across the dirt. His mind involuntarily cataloged the details: arterial spray, not a steady drip—suggesting deep, possibly fatal wounds. The sight rooted him with dread, but the desperate need to find you propelled him forward.

“Please,” he whispered under his breath, a fragile prayer to an indifferent world. “Please, not you.”

The blood led him deeper into the forest, the undergrowth thickening as the trail veered toward a small clearing. Sunlight filtered hesitantly through the branches above, dappling the ground in patches of gold that felt out of place against the grim tableau ahead. At first, the clearing seemed empty, just another cruel trick of the arena.

Then he saw you.

Spencer stumbled forward, the sight of your crumpled body hitting him like a physical blow. You were slumped against a tree, your form unnaturally still, streaked with dirt and blood. The once vibrant color of your skin was replaced by a deathly pallor, your chest rising and falling so faintly that he nearly missed it.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked, and he fell to his knees beside you, his trembling hands hovering over your battered frame as if afraid his touch might make things worse.

Your injuries were horrifying. Deep, angry gashes carved into your side, your clothes soaked with drying blood. Bruises bloomed across your face, dark and angry, nearly obscuring your features. Your lips were cracked and dry, the faintest tremble the only sign of life.

“Please, no,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he pressed his fingers against your neck, searching for a pulse. The moment he felt the faint, fragile beat beneath his fingertips, a sob broke free from his chest.

“You’re alive,” he murmured, tears spilling freely down his face. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

But the relief was fleeting. The blood around you was too much, the wounds too deep. A surge of helplessness clawed at him, and his hands hovered, unsure where to start. His mind, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish, drowned in panic and fear.

“Y/N, wake up,” he pleaded, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His thumb brushed against the streaks of blood and dirt marring your skin. “Please, I need you to wake up.”

A faint groan escaped your lips, the soft sound pulling him from the edge of despair. Your eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of exhaustion and pain. Finally, your eyes opened, glassy and unfocused, but alive.

“Spencer?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and weak, but it was enough.

“I’m here,” he choked out, his tears falling unchecked. “I’m here, Y/N. I thought I’d lost you.”

Your gaze slowly sharpened, focusing on him through the haze of pain. “What… happened?”

“You were attacked,” he said, his voice breaking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I failed you.”

You weakly lifted a hand, your fingers brushing against his. He caught it immediately, holding it tightly as though letting go would mean losing you again. “You couldn’t have known,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

“Don’t say that,” he snapped, his fear spilling out as frustration. “Don’t act like it’s okay. It’s not—I can’t—” His voice faltered, cracking under the weight of his emotions. He looked away, his shoulders trembling.

“Spencer.” Your voice, though faint, cut through the storm inside him.

He turned back to you, his tear-filled eyes meeting yours. Even in your battered state, there was a flicker of strength in your gaze, a reminder of why he couldn’t fall apart.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’re the only thing that’s kept me going, Y/N. You’re the only thing that matters.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, mingling with the blood and grime. Despite the pain, you managed a faint smile. “You’re not going to lose me,” you said softly.

Spencer leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, careful of your injuries. “Promise me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I promise,” you whispered back, though your voice wavered with exhaustion.

For a moment, the horrors of the arena receded, leaving only the two of you in the fragile stillness of the clearing. Spencer clung to that moment, to the fragile hope that it could last. But deep down, he knew the arena’s cruelty wouldn’t allow it.

Spencer cradled you against him, his arms encircling your fragile, battered body like a shield against the arena’s relentless cruelty. Each of your shallow breaths, brushing faintly against his neck, felt like a fragile thread tethering him to hope. The world around you seemed to pause, the usual cacophony of the arena muted to nothing but the gentle rustle of leaves and the haunting, distant growls of the Capitol’s muttations.

His heart pounded as he finally pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. The dim light filtering through the trees illuminated the anguish and resolve in his expression. His eyes, filled with a fierce determination, searched yours as though he could absorb your pain and bear it for you.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and trembling with conviction. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever again.”

One of his hands cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the grime and blood streaked across your skin. Despite the searing pain coursing through your injuries, you leaned into his touch, craving the connection and comfort he offered. The way he looked at you, with a mix of tenderness and desperation, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just survival that drove him—it was you.

“Spencer,” you murmured, your voice raw but steady enough to convey the depth of your feelings. “You saved me.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was tinged with sadness. “You saved me first,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you.

For a moment, time itself seemed to stop. The horrors of the arena melted away, leaving only the two of you in a fragile bubble of shared understanding. Without hesitation, Spencer leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, a promise, and a plea all at once. Every unspoken word of fear, gratitude, and love found its voice in that fleeting moment.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, the quiet mingling of your breaths grounding you both. Spencer’s voice was raw when he spoke again, the vulnerability in his words laying his heart bare. “I love you,” he whispered, the confession slipping free like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

Your hand found his, your fingers intertwining with his as though they were meant to fit together. “I love you too,” you replied, the sincerity in your voice making the moment feel almost sacred.

Though the kiss and the confession hung between you like a protective shield, reality pressed back in. Spencer glanced around, his sharp mind already assessing the next steps. He helped you to your feet with painstaking care, his touch gentle but firm as he ensured you wouldn’t collapse. “We need to find shelter,” he said, his tone decisive. “You need rest, and I need to make sure you’re safe.”

Together, you stumbled through the dense underbrush, Spencer’s arm steadying you every step of the way. He moved with deliberate caution, his every thought focused on your survival. After what felt like an eternity, you came upon a hollow nestled beneath the sprawling roots of a massive tree. It wasn’t much—a dark, cramped space hidden from sight—but in the arena, it was a sanctuary.

Spencer guided you inside, his every movement a careful balance between urgency and gentleness. Once he was sure you were settled, he set to work, his trembling hands tending to your wounds with an almost reverent care. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, his focus never wavered.

The night descended upon the arena with a heavy, oppressive silence, the darkness pressing in like a living thing. Inside the hollow, you both finally allowed yourselves to rest. Spencer pulled you close, his arms wrapping protectively around you as though sheer will alone could keep the horrors at bay.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “I’ll keep watch.”

Your hand clutched at the fabric of his shirt, a weak but determined gesture. “No,” you whispered, your voice resolute despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “We’ll keep watch together.”

But the adrenaline that had fuelled you both through the day ebbed away, replaced by an unbearable fatigue. Sleep claimed you both, drawing you into its embrace. In the warmth of Spencer’s arms, the terror of the arena faded, leaving behind the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the fragile hope that, for at least a few precious hours, you were safe.

The cannon echoed in the distance, signaling the death of the second-to-last tribute. Spencer’s heart sank as the reality settled over him. It was just the two of you now.

You turned to him, bloodied and exhausted, your eyes wide with the same realization. “Spencer…”

“There can only be one,” he murmured, his voice hollow.

The Capitol’s anthem blared overhead, and the cold voice of the announcer filled the air. “Congratulations to our final two tributes! Only one may claim victory—who will it be?”

The unspoken command hung heavy between you, suffocating in its finality.

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t do it, Spencer. I won’t.”

“And I won’t hurt you,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “But there’s no other way. They won’t let us both walk out of here.”

“Then we find a way to beat them!” you cried, desperation lacing your voice. “We’ll refuse. We’ll—”

Spencer grabbed your shoulders gently but firmly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Y/N, listen to me. We’ve been lucky to make it this far, but there’s no beating them. Not like this.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t falter. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, we can survive this together. We’ll figure it out. We—”

“Y/N.” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “You have to live. I need you to live.”

Your breath hitched, panic rising as you saw something in his expression—a quiet determination, a resolve that shattered your heart. “Spencer, no. Don’t you dare.”

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. “You are everything good in this world,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You deserve to live. You deserve to go home.”

“I can’t go home without you!” you cried, your hands clutching his shirt as if holding him could anchor him here, with you.

Spencer leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss filled with all the love and sorrow he couldn’t put into words. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Before you could react, he stepped back, his hands slipping from your grasp. Your heart dropped as he picked up the knife you’d discarded moments earlier.

“Spencer, don’t!” you screamed, scrambling toward him, but he shook his head.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I love you.”

And then, before you could stop him, he turned the blade on himself.

“NO!”

You caught him as he collapsed, cradling him in your arms. Blood soaked through your hands, and your sobs tore through the quiet of the arena. His breathing was shallow, his lips trembling as he tried to speak.

“I… couldn’t let it be you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You have to win. Promise me… promise me you’ll live.”

“Spencer, please,” you begged, clutching him tightly. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

But his eyes fluttered closed, and with one last ragged breath, the cannon boomed.

The hovercraft descended moments later, and you didn’t resist as they pried Spencer from your arms. His blood was on your hands, your clothes, and your soul, and yet you couldn’t muster the strength to fight them. The Capitol’s voice returned, dispassionate and final, declaring you the victor. The words echoed through the cold, metallic space around you, hollow and meaningless.

You were the last one standing. The survivor.

But at what cost?

The world blurred as the medical team swarmed you, their hands prodding and pulling, their antiseptic words promising you safety and care. None of it mattered. Your eyes stayed fixed on Spencer’s limp form as they wheeled him away, disappearing behind a sterile door. The emptiness he left behind was suffocating.

He had sacrificed himself so you could live.

The words repeated in your mind, a haunting mantra that clawed at your sanity. The memory of his final smile, soft and full of love even as his life slipped away, seared itself into your soul. You wanted to scream, to rage at the injustice of it all, but you felt hollow. Numb.

The hovercraft docked, and the transition from the arena’s horrors to the Capitol’s opulence was jarring. Lavish rooms, bright lights, and hollow congratulations assaulted your senses. The Capitol citizens cheered your name, their voices clashing in an orchestra of sickening delight. You barely heard them.

Snow himself greeted you, his snake-like smile as unnerving as ever. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice laced with a false warmth. “You’re a symbol of strength, of survival. The Capitol admires your resilience.”

Your response was a vacant stare.

Days blurred into nights as you went through the motions. The Victory Tour loomed, a macabre parade meant to celebrate your survival while parading the Capitol’s power. But all you could think about was Spencer—the way he had looked at you, the way his voice had trembled when he said goodbye.

In the privacy of your room, you allowed yourself to grieve. The tears came in silent waves, unstoppable and all-consuming. You clutched the token he’d worn—a simple bracelet made of knotted twine—now yours to carry. It was the only piece of him you had left.

They called you a hero, but you felt like a thief. You had stolen his chance to live, even if he’d willingly handed it over.

On the day of your first public appearance, you stood before a crowd of Capitol citizens, their faces painted with mock sympathy and admiration. The weight of your loss bore down on you, threatening to crush you beneath its enormity.

“I survived the arena,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “But survival isn’t victory. Not when it costs everything.”

The crowd applauded, oblivious to the truth in your words. But somewhere, deep within you, a spark ignited—a quiet, simmering rage.

Spencer had believed in you, even in his final moments. He had given you a chance to live, to fight for something more than just survival. And while the Capitol celebrated its spectacle, you made a promise to yourself.

You would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

You would remember him.

And one day, you would ensure that no one else would have to pay the price he had.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[pathologicalreid]

for the fear of falling apart | part three

when it seems like a return to normalcy is impossible, you decide that something has to give, but will it bend or will it break?

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst content warnings: fear of drowning, therapy, mommy and daddy issues, sigmund freud, nightmares and ptsd, sleep deprivation, takes place during 15x4 "saturday" (max does not exist in this au), stalkers, yelling, police, domestic disturbance, broken dishes, severe self image issues, crying, implies that jj is sometimes not the greatest friend, marriage and marriage counseling, mentions the death of grace lynch, the chameleon arc, reader and spencer are both broken people sry. things get resolved (or do they?) word count: 5.13k a/n: i'm trying to come to terms with the fact that people will not like how this part goes, but i do think it's important to remember that this is not where it ends. it's probably easy to guess what episode I'm rewriting next. lol. let me know your thoughts and feelings because i am dying to know.

“Are you glad to be back at work?” Your therapist asked you, writing down your personal information on the form on her clipboard before she met your stare.

Chewing impatiently on the inside of your lip, you glanced over to the clock that was hung above the door, dooming you to another forty-five minutes with Dr. Harmon. “Yes, I love desk duty,” you told her, flashing a fake smile in her direction.

The older woman looked at you doubtfully, and you silently begged for her to sign your return to duty forms. “I thought we spoke about using sarcasm as a coping mechanism,” she responded in a way that made you feel chastised.

You raised your eyebrows at her, gray hair neatly combed into a tight bun, you had spent more time with your therapist for the past two months than you had any of your family – the rest of your time was spent retraining your body, usually within the limitations of your doctor’s orders. “And I thought we talked about there being worse coping mechanisms that I could be using,” you countered, leaning back in her chair.

She shrugged helplessly, “Well, I’m not sure about signing your release forms. You could be a liability in the field.”

Eyes widening, you tilted your head to the side, “No, no, no, I’ve grown a new appreciation for the desk workers in the BAU. I even stopped laughing when people refer to Agent Anderson as Grunt Anderson,” you informed her, nodding as if that would help convince her of your honesty.

Checking off a box on your form, she set the clipboard on her side table, just out of your view. Taking a deep breath, Dr. Harmon leaned forward and folded her hands over her knee, “Have you spoken to your sister since the last time I saw you?”

You leaned your head back, staring at the tiles of the ceiling as any hope of returning to the field left your body.

One of your very first dates with Spencer had been at the Academy’s shooting range, you had a lucky spot there, it was where you had aced your qualification as a cadet, and it was pure luck that it had been available when you arrived.

As your paper target was brought forward, you slipped off your headphones and set your weapon down, studying the results as you chewed on your bottom lip nervously.

“Hey,” Spencer said from behind you, casually leaning against the wall behind you.

You jumped slightly as the sound of his voice took you away from your anxiety, “Hey,” you echoed, holstering your weapon as you sent your target back for someone to change it out.

“I thought you were going to come to the BAU after therapy,” he explained, arms crossed in front of his chest in his charcoal suit, camouflaging himself with the steely gray of the shooting range.

Pursing your lips, you made sure you had your phone in your pocket before grabbing your bag, “I wanted to get some practice in before my requalification test.”

He looked surprised for a moment, “Did your therapist sign your return to duty?”

“No,” you muttered, knowing that you wouldn’t be eligible to take your firearms requalification until after you had been cleared by a psychiatrist.

Any surprise quickly left his face, “What did she say, then?”

You rolled your eyes, “She told me that it’s possible that my strained relationship with my parents is negatively affecting my performance in my sessions. Then she threw a Freud biography at my head.”

“Did you talk to her about the nightmares?” He asked, following you as you checked out of the shooting range, waving to a gaggle of cadets as they noticed the BAU agents in their general vicinity.

Faltering as you opened the door, you flung the glass door open and trudged out of it, “I have it under control,” you lied through your teeth, continuing your way to the elevator.

The tapping of Spencer’s shoes signified that he was following you, holding his hand over the sensor while you stepped in and using his knuckle to press the parking garage button, “You were up all night last night,” he retorted, “She could help you develop a coping mechanism that works for you so that you can get some rest, angel.”

You were getting tired of those words, “Well, maybe we’ll reach a breakthrough next week. You never know.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being so unamenable,” he accused.

Shaking your head as you stepped out of the elevator, you hoisted your bag back over your shoulder, “Is unamenable genius-speak for pain in the ass?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is,” he retorted, swiping the keys out of your hands before unlocking the car and getting in the driver’s seat. You had been cleared to drive weeks ago, but Spencer still insisted on driving you.

You groaned, “My recent brush with death has made it difficult for me to let bygones be bygones.”

Pulling out of the parking spot, he carefully placed both of his hands on the steering wheel, “And here I thought we were actually going to move on with our lives.”

“No one holds a grudge like a youngest child,” you informed him, leaning your head against the window and wishing you had driven separately.

Being at home wasn’t much better than being at Quantico. You quickly changed and settled yourself on the couch while Spencer sat across from you, legs crossed in the wingback chair as he finished filling in a crossword book that you had started that morning.

You watched the clock tick, the diffused orange light of the sunset beamed through the curtains, and you felt yourself settle. Stiff joints and aching muscles unwound on the supple leather of the couch, and as you let your eyes fall shut, you felt the breeze of someone walking by before Spencer stopped in front of you.

Gently, he draped a knit blanket over you, tucking you in before crouching and dropping a gentle kiss to your temple.

Y/N is down, she’s been hit. We need an ambulance now.

I know, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.

It’s okay. I’ve got you.

“Honey, wake up.”

You startled awake on the couch, wadding up the blanket in your fists as your eyes adjusted to the dim environment of the apartment. The sun had set, dipping below the skyline as you stared ahead.

Concerned brown eyes bore into you as you caught your breath, Spencer reached over and flicked on the table lamp next to you, “You’re alright,” he cooed, gently enough to make you want to cry. “It was just a bad dream,” he told you, cupping your cheek and studying your expression.

Nodding absently, you pulled yourself into a sitting position, the familiar knit blanket falling in a puddle around your waist. “I was in the parking garage again,” you preemptively answered his next question. You were usually in the parking garage, sometimes you were on the beach, and once you had been fully underwater.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Spencer asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

You shook your head and ignored the defeated look on Spencer’s face, instead burying your face in your hands and taking a few deep breaths.

He waited for a moment before speaking again, reaching out and adjusting the bunched-up fabric of your t-shirt, “Are you hungry? I made soup.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, crossing your arms in front of your stomach, afraid it would start growling at the mention of food.

As you watched Spencer get up and walk over to the kitchen, you let yourself feel like everything was alright for the slightest moment. You wanted your apartment to be your safe space where there were no serial killers or sisters or hospitals, but there was a classified file on the kitchen table, photos of you and your sister littered the walls, and there was an entire drawer in the home office dedicated to your hospital stay.

Melding into the couch cushions, you ignored the stiffness in your side, the scars that marred your skin were healed over, but the memory would stick with you for a lifetime. It felt like a phantom pain, irritating your skin whenever you thought too much about it, or whenever your therapist asked you about Grace Lynch.

It didn’t bring you a lot of comfort to know that she was dead, murdered by her own father after conning her ex-girlfriend into giving her money. Everett Lynch was the threat now, and you were stuck on the bench.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you rested your cheek on your knee as Spencer ladled soup into a bowl and presented it to you, complete with a few ice cubes to cool it down. He waltzed back into the kitchen to clean up when his phone rang.

You ignored his conversation while you stirred the ice cubes around in your bowl, the soft clinking of them mesmerizing your tired brain. You ate while he spoke on the phone, mentioning something about a case. Pushing any thoughts of serial killers away, you just ate your soup.

Sipping at the broth, you grew curious about what was going on over the phone, but you tried to mind your business, scooping at the last noodles in the bowl before setting it down on the coffee table.

“Who was that?” You asked, eyes following Spencer as he walked back over to the living room, slipping his phone in his pocket as he sat next to you on the couch.

He paused for a moment, and you immediately regretted asking, “Uh, it was JJ.”

You supposed it had to mean something that he elected to tell you the truth instead of lying to you, but you were no longer feeling optimistic, “Ah.”

“Don’t start,” he said immediately.

You turned to him, raising your eyebrows curiously and pushing yourself into the corner of the couch – away from him, “Start what, Spencer?”

Spencer put his hands up, “Picking a fight with me over JJ’s feelings. JJ, Tara, Luke, and Penelope are working on a stalker case, it’s nothing that we need to worry about.”

“I’m not going to pick a fight with you, I already told you that I forgive you,” you told him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He groaned in frustration, “You can say it all you want, but you haven’t. You haven’t forgiven me.”

As he usually was, Spencer was right, you hadn’t forgiven him for lying to you about what had happened between him and JJ. You wanted to. You wanted to find it in yourself to be the bigger person and just tell him it was fine. All you wanted was to move on, but you were crashing into roadblock after roadblock. “Are you going to work that case?”

“No, it’s a classic stalking case, they’ll make it without me,” he said, turning on the couch to face you.

You swallowed thickly, “You can go if you’d rather be there,” you reassured him, wondering if he’d be happier at work than at home with you. Someone needed to make a decision, someone needed to decide whether or not the two of you were going to keep going or if you were going to call it off. You didn’t want it to be you, you were afraid of which option you might choose.

Spencer frowned, “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I’m not,” you answered.

“Yes, yes you are,” he challenged, leaning forward to get a better look at you.

Shaking your head, you threw your hands up in surrender, “You don’t have to go. You can stay here. You live here. Who the fuck am I to tell you to leave?”

“And now you’re escalating the situation,” he observed, straightening up and watching you carefully.

You didn’t consider yourself an angry person. The two of you didn’t fight often, but as you considered your options, you wondered if it could help. Maybe you could replicate the feeling of a good cry. Maybe all you need is a good fight. Just talk it out – loudly. “I’m not escalating anything. I’m not starting anything. In case you haven’t noticed, this has been going on for months.”

He had noticed, he could probably give you an exact date and time to point out when everything fell apart. Was it inside the pawn shop? Was it in the courtyard outside of Rossi’s wedding? “I thought we had made some real progress at the hospital,” he challenged.

Getting up from the couch, you took a deep breath and tossed the blanket over the back, “You cannot seriously think that. You’re too smart to believe that, Spencer. The idea that we fixed everything while I was hopped up on Xanax and painkillers. It’s… it’s…” you stumbled over your words for a moment. It’s crazy. You wanted to tell him, but you couldn’t do that to him. Spencer had spent his whole life having that word thrown at his mother, and he spent adulthood fearing he’d have a schizophrenic break. “It’s outlandish,” you finally finished.

Spencer looked up at you from the couch, “Is it outlandish to think that the history we have together would help mend our relationship?”

You rolled your eyes, “I don’t know, Spencer, let’s take a look at your history with my sister,” you snapped.

“Oh, come on,” he protested.

“No,” you commanded, “Sit down and shut up. I’ve spent months waiting for you to get it, but apparently, I need to spell it out for you.”

To your surprise, he listened, watching you in silence as you took a deep breath, picked up your soup bowl, and brought it into the kitchen. Your heartbeat pounded like thunder in your ears.

Standing in front of him, you crossed your arms in front of your chest, “I want you to empathize with me.” You calculated every word you said, “We’ve known each other for nine years. We’ve been together for seven, and I- I had the rug pulled out from under me. God, you went on a date with my sister. You took her to a football game as a hater of organized sports. My beautiful, prom queen, soccer star, gem of the family older sister.”

“It wasn’t a date, Penelope went with us,” Spencer added patiently.

You peered down at him, “When you asked her to go with you, did you do it with the intention that you would be taking her on a date?”

His shoulders slackened, “Yeah,” he answered softly.

“And you know that she loves you. If you went to her right now and told her you wanted to be with her, that there’s a chance she’d consider it. She’d at least have to think about it,” you told him, confidence dissipating as your hands started to tremble and you silently begged yourself not to cry.

Spencer watched you suspiciously, “What gave you the impression that I want to be with her instead of you?”

You faltered, just for a moment, “Why wouldn’t you want to be with her?” You asked exasperatedly, letting your arms fall limply at your sides.

Pinching his eyebrows together, your boyfriend looked at you like you had grown a third eye, “She’s married? Her kids are my godchildren?”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you cursed yourself as tears stung your eyes, “Are those seriously the only reasons you can think of?” With all the brain power you knew he had, you couldn’t help but be disappointed.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Spencer groaned, “Putting aside the fact that I’d be destroying a marriage, not because it doesn’t matter, but because being with your sister isn’t even something I’d consider. This might not have occurred to you, but I have absolutely no interest in being with someone other than you!”

You huffed, “Please, she’s beautiful and athletic and older and you’ve known her for fifteen years!” You shouted over your shoulder, making your way back to the kitchen. There wasn’t anything you needed from in there, you just needed to keep moving.

“But she’s not you!” He yelled from the couch, finally getting up and following you to the kitchen.

Spinning around on your heel, you threw your arms in the air, “God, I know!” You swung your arms down, accidentally sending the bowl you had set on the counter down to the floor, breaking on impact. “Shit,” you muttered, immediately dropping to a crouch and starting to pick up the ceramic shards.

“Hey, wait, let me get it,” Spencer insisted, grabbing a kitchen towel from the drawer before laying it on the floor. He carefully picked up the larger shards, waving your hands away.

You clenched your hands and glared at him with bleary eyes, “Why? Why am I not allowed to clean up the mess that I made?”

Spencer sighed, “You’re crying. I don’t want you to get hurt because you can’t see well,” he told you, prompting you to sit back on the tile and watch him continue to pick up.

You crisscrossed your legs and watched him, “I’m sorry for yelling,” you whispered, so quietly that you weren’t even sure he had heard you.

Nodding in acknowledgment, Spencer gathered up the kitchen towel and set it on the counter, setting his hands on the counter and taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry for raising my voice,” he echoed your sentiments. He moved to the hall closet to get out the broom, interrupted by a knock on the door.

Confused, you poked your head over the counter and watched as Spencer opened the front door.

“Good evening, officer,” he greeted, casting a sidelong glance over at you.

Fuck.

You scrambled to your feet, careful not to step on any pieces of the bowl that remained on the floor and wiping beneath your eyes as you made your way to the door, peeking around the corner to find two DC Metro officers. “Agent Jareau?” One of the officers said curiously.

“Hi,” you waved timidly, looking between the two of them with your tail between your legs.

He looked surprised at the revelation of who lived here, recognizing you from a case you had consulted on months ago. “We were called here on a report of a domestic disturbance, your neighbor in said she heard ‘a lot of yelling before there was a crash and then everything went quiet’.”

The summation of events did nothing to slow your racing heart, “We had uh… we were having a disagreement, and I knocked over a bowl. It was an accident,” you reassured the officer, reaching out and taking Spencer’s hand as a sign of good faith.

“Are you sure?” He asked, looking at you expectantly.

You nodded in confirmation, “I’m really sorry about any inconvenience, but I promise there’s nothing to worry about.”

The DC Metro officers studied Spencer suspiciously, and you protectively moved in front of him. They were trained to see the worst-case scenario, but there was nothing happening here, “Well then, just uh… try to keep it down, I suppose.”

The two of you waved as they walked away, once the door was closed, you turned to face Spencer, “Are you alright?”

He looked a little pale, “I’m alright,” he nodded, gathering himself before going back to the hall closet. “That was weird,” he added.

Spencer’s interaction with police officers was limited to work with the bureau and his time in prison. He never had to explain an underage drunk person in the car or run when a party got too rowdy, but he wasn’t concerned with the confrontation, he was concerned that, for a moment, before you got there, those officers saw Spencer as a violent person. You stayed put, watching him sweep up the last of the bowl and take care of the sharp pieces with a keen eye.

“I’d never hurt you,” Spencer said softly, unnecessarily explaining to you.

You nodded, “I know. You’re not like that, baby. You’re not a violent person.” In fact, you had only seen Spencer aggressively violent one time in your life, and that was when his mother’s life was on the line. Stepping over to him, you lifted yourself so that you were sitting on the kitchen counter, meeting his eyes.

“She is not you,” he murmured, reaching out and taking both of your hands in his.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, your shoulders slumped ever so slightly, “I am well aware,” you offered.

He took a deep breath, “JJ would never ask me to recite Henry James to her or offer to go to the planetarium with me even after we spent all day on a case or sit through one of my lectures just to hear me talk about something I’m passionate about,” he began. "I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation about something I’m passionate about with your sister. Not one where she didn’t interrupt me or pawn me off on somebody else,” he told you, disconnecting one of your hands to wipe new tears from your cheeks.

“I- I’m not…” you breathed, overwhelmed as he sang your praises.

“I know you compare yourself to her,” he cut you off, “it’s normal for you to compare yourself to your older sister. I just didn’t know how lowly you thought of yourself until all of this was dug up.”

Frowning, you cocked your head to the side, “I do not compare myself to her,” you remarked.

He hummed in response, “It wasn’t up for debate. I’m not interested in your sister. I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship with anyone except for you. I am sorry that I never told you about the football game, but by the time you joined the team, six years had passed, and I didn’t think it was pertinent to tell you that your sister had rejected me. That is entirely on me, and I can’t change it. I can, however, spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

Your breathing hitched, and the ghost of a potential proposal once again floated through the air, it made your heart ache. “One of these days you’re going to have to actually ask me to marry you,” you whispered, not sure how much longer you’d be able to sit and wait while he neglected to act upon his words.

“What do you want right now?” Spencer asked, studying your facial expression.

You have spent three months being mad at him, and you had to believe it all came down to tonight. Neither of you could keep going with things the way they were. “I’m not sure,” you answered.

Patiently, Spencer inquired, “Do you want to break up?”

If you told him you hadn’t thought about it, you’d be lying. It broke your heart to think about ending things with him, to think that six years together didn’t mean something to the both of you. Spencer had never given any inclination that he was interested in anyone else, so maybe he should’ve told you about the football game, but you shouldn't have let your insecurities block any attempt at reconciliation. “No,” you responded truthfully.

He had tried, too. The one-sided conversations he had with floral bouquets, taking time off of work to help you while you recovered, and he had even limited his contact with your sister. “Do you want to go to couple’s therapy?”

You had heard through the grapevine that your sister was trying marriage counseling with Will, something about working on their communication skills. With that in mind, you nodded, “We can try it out.”

“Do you know what you want?” He asked, settling a hand on your thigh.

Through the sheer curtains, you looked outside, “I want to go,” you informed him, hopping off of the kitchen counter and to your shared bedroom, pulling on a pair of socks.

Confused, Spencer followed you around the apartment, “Wait. Where are we going?”

“I’m going,” you said simply.

He looked surprised at this, “It’s the middle of the night in the twenty-second largest city in the country, you’re not going out alone.”

You paused for a moment at his concern, watching the defeated look on his face morph into one of relief when you responded, “Then put your shoes on,” you encouraged.

As you waited by the door, mindful to not walk through the apartment with your shoes on, he stopped in your bedroom for a moment before coming back out and slipping his sneakers on. “Where are we going?”

Grabbing your keys off of the hook, you opened the door and held it for Spencer as he followed your lead. “You know at the start of Moby Dick when Ishmael says when he finds himself growing grim about the mouth and wanting to knock people’s hats off, he takes to the sea?”

He nods, taking the keys from your hand and locking the door behind him, glancing briefly at your neighbor’s door before handing your keys back to you, “I’m familiar,” he confirmed.

“Well, I’m feeling rather grim about the mouth,” you told him assuredly, slipping your keys into your pockets and slowly making your way down the hold staircase of your apartment building, listening for Spencer’s footsteps right behind you.

Even with your back turned, you knew his expression would be one of confusion, “So, you want to take to the sea?”

You quickly shook your head, the very last place you wanted to be was near a body of water in the middle of the night, “Not particularly, but maybe the park and some fresh air would do me some good.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he confirmed, stepping around you to hold the front door open so that you could walk outside, the cool night air stinging your face as you did.

Taking a deep breath, you looked at the night sky, the stars hidden through the city’s light pollution.

Upon reaching the park, which was just a small green space down the street from your apartment, Spencer led you to a cement bench, the two of you sitting down and sitting in silence. You welcomed the cold air filling your lungs, watching the fountain from a distance and admiring the way the headlights of a few passing cars reflected off of the water.

He kept a hand on your back, gently moving his hand up and down your spine as the two of you reveled in the startling nighttime peace. “I haven’t been fair to you,” you murmured nervously, looking over at him.

“None of this has been fair to anyone,” he reminded you.

You sighed, “JJ confessed her feelings, not the other way around, and I- I shouldn’t have held that against you for so long.” The admission came to you easily, holding your breath as you waited for him to agree.

Spencer’s silence worried you, but then he finally responded, “I probably would have done the same thing, but I don’t think it’s right for me to speculate how I would or wouldn’t have acted in your shoes.”

“I just… she’s always been perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect agent, and I’m… I’m just me,” you said helplessly, staring ahead at the fountain.

He took a deep breath, “You’re perfect to me.”

“Stop,” you chastised halfheartedly.

Chuckling, he placed his hand over yours, “I mean it. Sometimes perfection is about the final concoction and not about getting all of the steps right. You don’t need the perfect journey, and, to me, nothing proves that more than you.”

You hummed, “You’re sweet.”

 “For what it’s worth, I think, given the opportunity, you could be a perfect wife,” he said, nudging your leg with his knee, getting your head to snap to the side.

Jumping up from the bench, you smacked your hand over your mouth at the small black box that he had set on the stone surface. “What are you… what?” You asked breathlessly, looking behind you in the way people usually did when they were surprised, waiting to see if you were being pranked.

“It doesn’t have to be an engagement ring,” he reached down and snapped the box open, showing you the glimmering ring inside. “It can just be a promise because I am promising you right now, this is it for me. You are the only person I can see myself with, and I’m ready to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Gaping at him, you looked between him and the ring before closing your mouth, “That sounds an awful lot like an engagement ring,” you told him, out of breath.

He nodded, “That’s because I want it to be.”

“Okay,” you answered.

“What?”

You giggled, he evidently hadn’t expected that answer, “Yes, Spencer.”

He stood up, tackling you in an embrace, “Thank goodness.” He said, relaxing into you as you returned his hug.

Over the past few months, you had been almost afraid of him asking you, worried that it would feel like an excuse. A band-aid over a bullet hole. But as you held each other tightly, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of right. This was where you were always meant to be. “Will you put it on me?”

He nodded slowly, sniffling as he pulled away from you, the warmth of his body leaving you as he nimbly took your left hand, slipping the ring on your fourth finger. The metal felt foreign on your skin, but you welcomed it nonetheless. “That has been sitting in my sock drawer for a year,” he admitted, placing both of his hands on your waist and meeting your eyes.

You beamed up at him, at both the revelation that he bought you a ring well before any of the trials and tribulations of the last few months and that he hid the ring in the one place you never touched – the seemingly bottomless abyss of unmated socks that Spencer called his sock drawer. “Thank you,” you breathed.

Spencer leaned his head down, hovering his lips just above your own, “For what, love?”

Blinking small tears out of your eyes, you answered, “For not giving up on us.”

He smiled, “Never,” he whispered before dropping his lips to yours, the intimacy of something as small as a kiss enough to bring butterflies to your stomach. “Do you want to go home? Or are you still feeling grim about the mouth?”

“Let’s go home, Spence,” you told him, pressing one last kiss to his lips before the two of you began the trek home, hand in hand.

taglist: @football1921 @thedancingnerdmermaid @dollarstore-lydia-deetz @cillsnostalgia @alivesarcastically

@hellsingalucard18 @poetoflawed @lillysfrogsandbogs @mega-kittyglitter-1 @sndixz

@k-corbett @nott-my-riddle @guiltyyassin @starkeyellow @rainydayathogwarts

@roblino @awildfirestarting @getawaycarsficrecs @syd-maximoff @melodyflowersblog

@stargirlls-world @ovando13

[reidmarieprentiss]

Ghost of You

Summary: Instead of Maeve, you, Spencer's girlfriend, are shot while Spencer is watching. Except, like Emily, no one confirmed your death.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt, fluff, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: death, guns, shooting, light smut (18+), grieving and mourning, lying and deceiving, loss, funeral, mistrust, illusions to vomiting, spencer getting drunk, happy ending

Word count: 14.3k

a/n: again ,, i'm sorry i don't know what's wrong with me ,, i live and breathe angst like i need it to survive

main masterlist

The room was oppressively silent, filled with the tense breaths of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit team members who were either physically present or listening intently over the comms. The stark white walls of the abandoned warehouse where you were held captive only amplified the gravity of the situation. 

Spencer Reid stood, his body rigid, his eyes locked on you—his partner, his love, tied down to a chair in the center of the room. His jaw was clenched, every muscle taut with barely contained fury and fear. Diane Turner, the woman responsible, paced before him with a demeanor that was chilling in its calmness.

“All you have to do is kiss me, Spencer. Just one kiss to prove you don’t love her, and she walks free,” Diane's voice was soft, almost coaxing, as she gestured nonchalantly with the handgun she held.

Spencer’s response was a strangled mix of defiance and desperation. “I can’t do that. I won’t.” His voice was firm, unwavering despite the tremor of fear that threatened to undermine his resolve.

Diane’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk as she turned her attention back to you. “Well, then I suppose we have a problem,” she said as she stepped closer, the gun now pointed directly at you.

The team listened and watched, helpless. Hotch’s hand hovered over his weapon, his mind racing through any possible solutions. JJ’s face was pale, her fingers gripping the edge of the tactical table. Rossi murmured a prayer under his breath, while Garcia, back at Quantico, had her hands clasped tightly, her eyes closed as she hoped for a miracle.

The moment stretched, a torturous eternity compressed into seconds. Then, Diane’s finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, a brutal punctuation that shattered the tense silence.

Your body slumped as the impact threw you backward, the chair skidding across the concrete floor. Spencer’s cry was guttural, filled with a raw pain that echoed through the room and the comms, reaching every member of the team.

As chaos erupted, with team members rushing into the warehouse, Hotch was the first to reach you. His experienced eyes quickly assessed the scene. Feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers, he locked eyes with you as you barely managed to open yours.

“Let them think,” you whispered hoarsely, the effort to speak clearly costing you.

Understanding immediately, Hotch nodded subtly. As he called the medics over, he helped to obscure their view, ensuring that your whispered directive remained between the two of you. The medics, following his lead without question, prepared the stretcher and body bag with efficient, silent agreement to the unspoken plan.

As you were zipped up, hidden from view, the last thing you saw was Spencer, his face a mask of agony, being held back by Rossi, who whispered words meant to comfort but which couldn't touch the depth of Spencer's despair.

—

As the echoes of the gunshot faded, the stark reality of what had transpired settled heavily upon the entire BAU team. Inside the cramped FBI surveillance van parked discreetly a block away, the air was thick with grief and stifling silence. Each member of the team was caught in the throes of their own personal hell.

Emily Prentiss felt a crack in her usually impenetrable armor. Her hands, hidden from view, trembled slightly as she replayed the scene over in her mind, wishing there had been something more they could have done to prevent this tragic outcome. Rossi, who had seen too much loss in his years, wore a somber expression, his eyes dark with the weight of unspoken thoughts, perhaps reminiscing about losses past and the cruel repetitiveness of their job.

JJ, standing beside a silently crumbling Spencer, placed a gentle hand on his back, her touch light but filled with a world of empathy. Her eyes, usually so bright and confident, mirrored the horror and sadness that had momentarily overtaken her usual resilience. She knew all too well the pain of loss, yet knowing did nothing to soften the blow.

Penelope Garcia was a statue of despair; her colorful attire and vibrant demeanor dimmed by the shadow of your apparent demise. The screens before her that usually flickered with data and leads now only reminded her of the loss, the dreadful permanence of the moment your chair had fallen back, the moment that had seemingly snuffed out a light amongst them.

Derek Morgan, whose strength often served as a pillar for the team, stood rigid, his body tensed as if ready to spring into action, to undo what had been done. His jaw was set, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and profound sorrow. He felt a protective rage for the family he’d built here within the BAU, a family that had now been irrevocably scarred.

As the team returned to Quantico, each member was engulfed in their own silent reflection. The bullpen, usually abuzz with activity and light-hearted banter, was subdued, a somber shadow of its former self. Spencer's desk, a mess of papers and books, remained untouched, a stark reminder of the vibrancy of your relationship with him, now painfully absent.

In the days that followed, the team tried to navigate their grief while maintaining the facade of normalcy. Meetings were quieter, coffee breaks more solitary, and the weight of your absence was a constant, unspoken presence. Even as they delved into new cases, your memory lingered, a ghost in the machine, driving them forward but also holding them back, a reminder of the stakes at play in their line of work.

—

In the silence of the apartment he once shared with you, Spencer found himself enveloped in the echoes of a life that now felt like a distant memory. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the loneliness settled around him like a dense fog, suffocating and cold. The apartment, once filled with the warmth of your presence, now served as a mausoleum of all the dreams and plans that would never come to fruition.

Spencer would wander through the rooms, his fingers trailing along the surfaces, half expecting to feel the electric touch of your hand in his. Your clothes still hung in the closet, and on particularly difficult nights, he found solace in the faint scent that lingered on your shirts. Pulling one out, he’d clutch it to his chest, sinking onto the bed as sobs wracked his body, the fabric dampening with his tears.

Books you had left on the nightstand, bookmarks still nestled between the pages where you had last stopped, became his new companions. He read every word you had read, traced the lines you might have touched, hoping to glean some part of your thoughts, your essence, from the text. It was a ritual that brought him a painful comfort, a way to feel close to you, to imagine that you were still there discussing the plot twists and character arcs with him.

Even your coffee habits became a part of his mourning. Spencer, who had always preferred tea, found himself brewing coffee each morning. He winced at the bitter taste, nothing like the soothing herbal blends he favored, but it was your taste, and that was what mattered. Each sip was a reminder of the mornings spent in shared silence, a newspaper between you and a mug in your hands, and he cherished these imagined moments as he sat alone at the kitchen table.

At work, Spencer's grief manifested in a quiet protectiveness over anything that had been yours. Your desk, an unassuming space cluttered with case files and trinkets, became sacred ground. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching your things, rearranging the chaos that was so distinctly you. When others offered to clean it or pack it up, he refused, his voice low but firm. It was a line he could not allow anyone to cross, not yet.

Despite the pull to isolate himself in the apartment surrounded by your belongings, Spencer knew he needed to be around people, around the living reminders of normalcy and duty. The BAU was a place of shared purpose, and being there, immersed in the work, allowed him moments of respite from his grief. Yet, even surrounded by his colleagues, the solitude he felt was profound, as if a vital part of him had been hollowed out, leaving him forever incomplete.

—

The arrangements for the funeral were meticulously crafted, cloaked in secrecy and necessity, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on Hotch as he orchestrated the somber affair. It was kept small, intimate, with only the BAU team in attendance. Hotch explained that your family was holding a separate, private celebration of life, a half-truth designed to protect the delicate fabric of the operation and to keep your true fate concealed.

Your family, forewarned by you of the possible outcomes of your dangerous gambit against a formidable foe, had been bracing for this day. You had instructed them with clear, calm precision: should news of your death reach them, they were to detach, to grieve privately and avoid any direct contact with your professional life. If Spencer—or any other team member—reached out, they were to embody the role of the bereaved, too shattered by grief to speak of you. This directive was to hold for three years, after which, if silence remained unbroken, they could assume you were truly gone.

At the funeral, the air was thick with a palpable sorrow, the team huddled together under the gray expanse of the sky, their expressions somber, eyes glistening. Spencer summoned a strength he didn't know he still possessed to deliver a eulogy that touched the very core of all who listened.

Standing before the small gathering, beside the casket that symbolically held you, Spencer's voice was steady, imbued with a deep melancholy. He spoke of your zest for life, your laughter that could light up a room, and your profound impact on his own life. He wove in lines from your favorite poets and authors, their words a tender tribute to your love for life, literature, and him.

"I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," he concluded, his voice breaking slightly, the finality of the statement hanging heavy in the air.

—

In the small, cramped space of the Kansas precinct, the air hung heavy with the kind of solemnity that often accompanies a tragedy. Spencer was set up at a makeshift workstation, papers and photographs from the case splayed across the table in a meticulous arrangement, his focus as sharp as ever. But even the most disciplined mind couldn't fully shield itself from the emotional tremors of personal loss.

JJ noticed the victim's boyfriend first, his face etched with grief and confusion, a mirror to the very emotions Spencer had been wrestling with since your apparent death. Her instinct was protective, maternal almost; she stepped forward, intending to steer the man away, to spare Spencer the inevitable surge of his own raw, unresolved grief. But Spencer saw the boyfriend and saw a reflection of his own torment.

He stood up, his movements a bit too stiff, the mask of the professional profiler firmly in place but his eyes betraying a deep, abiding sorrow. "I can talk to him," Spencer offered quietly, his voice firm despite the tremble he couldn't quite suppress. JJ exchanged a worried glance with Hotch, who observed silently from the corner. They were hesitant, aware of Spencer's vulnerabilities but also of his uncanny ability to compartmentalize his pain.

Sitting across from the boyfriend, Spencer's empathy was palpable. His voice was gentle yet carried the weight of his own grief. "I—I lost my girlfriend too, she was... taken, in front of me. I'm so sorry for your loss," he shared, the words costing him more than he expected.

The man's response was choked, the kind of raw emotion that comes from this kind of grief. "I can’t even imagine—I feel like I can’t breathe every time I think about it."

Spencer nodded, his professional demeanor flickering. "I understand. But it's not your fault, you couldn't stop this man."

"What if I could though? I could have been there, I could have done something," the man insisted, his voice tinged with desperation and guilt.

That sentiment struck a chord too close to Spencer's own heartaches. He was there, he watched, unable to save you, powerless and shattered. His response was visceral, a burst of emotion too powerful to contain. "It’s not always that easy, okay? It’s not my fault!" His voice rose sharply, his hands slamming down on the table with a force that startled both himself and the man sitting opposite him.

Hotch, who had been watching the interaction with growing concern, recognized the signs of Spencer's unraveling. Without hesitation, he stepped in, his presence commanding and reassuring. He gently but firmly guided Spencer away, leading him out of the precinct as Spencer’s façade crumbled, revealing the raw, unfiltered pain beneath.

Outside, under the less scrutinous eyes of the public, Spencer sobbed, his body racked with the kind of sobs that shake the very foundation of a person. Hotch, strong and steady, offered his shoulder, a silent pillar of support in the storm of Spencer's grief.

As he held Spencer, Aaron felt a profound sense of guilt and responsibility. He knew the reasons behind your decision, understood them intellectually, but the emotional fallout, the raw pain Spencer displayed, was a stark reminder of the human costs of such decisions. In that moment, Hotch vowed silently to do whatever it took to support Spencer, to help him find a path through the thicket of his grief. 

—

Spencer took it upon himself to dig deeper into the remnants of your digital life. The walls of your shared apartment closed in around him, every corner filled with memories, every drawer a repository of a life paused mid-breath. He should have been resting, healing, using the time Hotch had given him to mourn and gather strength. Instead, he was driven by a relentless need to understand, to unearth the reasons behind the tragedy that had unraveled both his world and yours.

Sitting at the dining table cluttered with your personal effects—emails printed out, texts transcribed, voicemails played back into the empty room—Spencer's initial hesitation about invading your privacy had dissolved into a desperate need for answers. With each new piece of information, the narrative of your last days became clearer, and with it, his anger and guilt intensified.

Why didn't she tell me about the threats? Spencer's mind raced as he sifted through the digital breadcrumbs you'd left behind, each one a stark reminder of the danger you had faced alone. He felt betrayed, not by your love, but by your silence. The team was a family; they protected their own. The idea that you had borne this burden alone, without leaning on him, on them, gnawed at him relentlessly.

Then, among the tangle of threatening messages and cryptic warnings, one email stood out starkly. It was meticulously detailed, outlining a chilling ultimatum: your life for the safety of everyone else you cared about. His hands trembled as he read it, the implications of those words slicing through the fog of his grief. Had you planned to sacrifice yourself from the start? Was this why you had kept silent?

The realization hit him like a physical blow. His blood ran cold as the pieces fell into place. You hadn't just been taken from him; you had walked into the maw of danger with eyes wide open, hoping to shield him, to shield all of them from further harm.

But who were they? This shadowy group that had orchestrated such terror, that had driven you to such an unthinkable decision? The question echoed in the increasingly claustrophobic apartment, bouncing off the walls lined with books you’d both loved, past the pictures of happier times.

Spencer knew he couldn't do this alone, not anymore. Despite your choice to keep the threats from him, he realized that to honor your sacrifice, he needed the team. They were stronger together, and this was bigger than any one of them—bigger than his grief, his anger, his betrayal. It was about justice, not just for you, but for the sanctity of the life you had all built together.

Determined, Spencer gathered all the evidence, his resolve hardening. He would bring this to the team, to Hotch. They would find them. They would end this, once and for all. And perhaps, in doing so, he would find a way to forgive you, to forgive himself, and maybe find a path back from the precipice of his own consuming grief.

—

As the investigation intensified, the entire BAU team, honed by years of profiling complex criminal minds, began to uncover a series of subtle discrepancies and cryptic messages scattered across the case files and your personal communications. These inconsistencies didn't fit the expected pattern, weaving a complex web of suspicion that permeated the office atmosphere.

"Have you noticed these anomalies in the communication logs?" Spencer asked during one of their briefings, his eyes dark with both determination and unspoken grief.

"Yes, and these tips coming in—they don't add up," Emily replied, looking over the scattered papers and digital messages displayed on the screen.

Hotch watched the exchange closely, his mind racing with the implications of their findings. He was caught in a precarious balancing act—eager to dismantle the network behind the threats while protecting his team from the explosive truth about your staged death.

"We need to tread carefully," Hotch interjected, his voice steady but laced with caution. "This isn't just about following leads. We need to consider the broader implications."

Spencer, fueled by a relentless drive to seek justice for your loss, responded with a hint of frustration, "I know, but we can't just slow down. They're still out there, and who knows what they're planning next?"

Hotch paused, the weight of his secret knowledge pressing down on him. "Spencer, I understand your urgency, but we must ensure we're not walking into a trap. It's not just about finding them; it's about making sure we're ready for what comes next."

The team nodded, though Spencer's expression showed his internal struggle to balance his raw desire for justice with the strategic caution Hotch advised.

As they delved deeper, connecting the dots between the obscure threats, the mysterious inconsistencies in your case, and the shadowy group behind it all, Hotch's role became increasingly complex. He had to guide and sometimes redirect their efforts, always careful not to reveal too much too soon, especially to Spencer, whose emotional state remained fragile.

"We'll get them," Hotch assured the team, his voice firm yet heavy with the gravity of their task. "And we'll do it the right way, as a team, ready for all consequences."

The challenge loomed large, demanding everything they had to stay united and prepared for the potential revelations ahead. Hotch's leadership was crucial, walking the tightrope between maintaining secrecy and steering towards disclosure and resolution, all while safeguarding the team's integrity and emotional well-being.

—

As the seasons shifted to Fall, the relentless march of time brought both frustration and a forced return to routine for the BAU team. Despite the lack of significant breakthroughs in unraveling the conspiracy that had seemingly claimed your life, Spencer and the team remained vigilant, their resolve undiminished but tempered by the demands of their ongoing cases. The initial fervor had quieted into a persistent, underlying current of determination.

Unknown to the rest of the team, including Hotch, you were far from idle. In a twist laden with risk and secrecy, you had enlisted Emily Prentiss in a clandestine investigation. Emily, with her own history of deception for survival, was a perfect confidante and co-conspirator. Together, you delved into the shadows, tracking the elusive threads that connected your apparent demise to a larger, more sinister plot.

"We need to be careful," Emily cautioned during one of your late-night meetings in a nondescript safe house. "If the rest of the team finds out, especially Spencer, it could jeopardize everything."

"I know," you replied, your voice full of determination and regret. "But we can't let them continue to threaten the team. Spencer... he wouldn't understand, not yet."

Your efforts were meticulous and calculated, driven by the dual goals of protecting the team and dismantling the network that had forced you into hiding. The data you collected was encrypted and stored securely, only accessible to you and Emily. You traced financial transactions, monitored communications, and connected dots that were invisible to those not initiated into your secretive endeavor.

As the leaves began to fall and the chill of autumn set in, you and Emily had started to piece together a comprehensive picture of the criminal syndicate. It was broader and more complex than anyone had suspected, with tendrils reaching into unexpected places. The stakes were high, and the danger to the team was real and imminent.

"Once we have enough evidence, we'll bring it to Hotch," you decided, knowing that the moment of revelation was fast approaching. "We have to be thorough. This has to end, Emily."

Emily nodded, her expression grim but resolute. "We'll get them, and then you can finally go back home. To Spencer."

The thought of reuniting with Spencer and the team brought a bittersweet pang to your heart. You longed for the day you could return to the life you had been forced to leave behind, to reveal the truth and hopefully mend the fractures your disappearance had caused. But until that day, secrecy was your shield and patience your weapon.

—

On a brisk October morning, the Manhattan streets were bustling with the usual blend of haste and routine. Hidden beneath a wig, colored contacts, and a prosthetic nose, you moved with calculated caution, tailing a key member of the criminal network that had turned your life upside down. Despite the disguise, certain features—a constellation of moles, the unique curve of your jaw—remained tellingly distinctive to anyone who knew you well. You were acutely aware of the risks, especially since Hotch had mentioned that the BAU team was in the city for a case. Yet, the opportunity to close in on one of the circle's members was too critical to pass up.

Meanwhile, Spencer, his morning routine altered by a mundane decision to grab coffee, found himself halted mid-step. Across the crowded street, a familiar pattern of moles on the skin of a seemingly random passerby caught his eye. His heart raced, his mind refusing to accept the ghostly possibility. Shaken to his core, he didn't head to the precinct as planned but instead found himself running back to the hotel, driven by a surge of hope and confusion.

Bursting through the hotel corridor, Spencer reached Emily's door, pounding on it with a desperation that bordered on panic. Emily, alarmed by the urgency, quickly opened the door.

"Spencer? Are you okay?" she asked, her concern deepening as she took in his pale, distraught appearance.

"I saw Y/N," Spencer managed to get out, his voice trembling.

Emily's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain the facade. "No, you didn't, Spencer. That's impossible," she insisted, her voice steady but her insides churning.

"No!" Spencer's voice rose, too loud for the early hour, his agitation palpable. "It was her, I saw her moles."

"Spencer... we buried her. You were there," Emily tried to anchor him back to reality, her words heavy with shared grief.

At her words, Spencer's composure shattered completely. Tears streamed down his face as the weight of his grief, mingled with the surreal hope of what he thought he'd seen, overwhelmed him. Emily, her heart breaking for him, pulled him into her room and embraced him tightly, trying to offer comfort.

Inside, Emily felt like she was teetering on a precipice, the deceit weighing heavily on her conscience. Holding Spencer as he sobbed, she felt the acute sting of guilt—like the worst person, dead or alive, for keeping such a monumental secret from someone who was more like a brother to her. 

—

In the dimly lit motel room, the tension was palpable as you recounted the latest development in your covert mission to Emily. The stark, functional space was a far cry from the comforts of home, echoing the stark reality of the path you had chosen.

"I got him, that's four down," you stated, your voice devoid of emotion, focusing solely on the task at hand. "Em, he's gone," you announced, your tone cold, almost detached, as if to shield yourself from the gravity of your actions.

"Gone? Like, gone gone?" Emily's voice was tinged with caution, her words measured, probing the depths of what 'gone' really meant in this clandestine war you were waging.

"Gone," you reaffirmed, the finality in your voice leaving no room for ambiguity.

"Phew, okay. Don't ever tell Hotch that," Emily sighed, a mix of relief and concern flickering across her face as she paced the cramped confines of the room. Her hands settled on her hips, a gesture that spoke of her inner turmoil. "How many does that leave?"

"Three. I’m so close I can taste it," you replied, a fierce determination lighting your eyes. The end was in sight, but with each step forward, the lines of morality blurred further.

"Y/N... I want them put away, gone, whatever, as much as you, but I need you to think about what you’re doing. Please, let us arrest them," Emily implored, her voice heavy with the responsibility of her role both as your confidante and as an FBI agent.

"I didn’t kill anyone, Emily," you snapped back, frustration and fatigue bleeding into your words. "He’s gone, he can’t hurt us anymore. He's not dead."

"I don’t even want to know," she murmured, her voice low, resigned to the complexities of the situation. Emily knew better than to press further; the less she knew about the specifics, the better she could maintain her role within the BAU and support you from a distance. "Okay, who’s next? What’s the next move?"

The conversation shifted back to strategy, both of you aware that each decision, each action taken, drew you deeper into a web from which there might be no untangling. The mission to dismantle the network that had terrorized your life and threatened your loved ones was nearing its critical phase, and with Emily's reluctant support, you prepared to face what came next, each step forward shadowed by the potential costs of the choices you were making.

—

In the bustling heart of the BAU, the sudden exclamation from Penelope Garcia broke through the usual hum of focused activity, drawing everyone's attention toward her tech-laden sanctuary. Her screens flickered with streams of data, her fingers danced across the keyboard, and her eyes were locked onto a particular piece of information that had just surfaced.

"Hotch! I got something," Penelope called out, her voice a mixture of excitement and urgency, beckoning the team leader to her side.

Hotch, his expression instantly shifting to one of focused concern, made his way quickly to Garcia's station, the rest of the team's eyes following him. They gathered around, curious and anxious about the potential breakthrough.

Penelope pointed to a specific line highlighted on her screen. "This right here, this was one of Diane's contacts," she explained, her voice steady despite the rapid pace of her discovery. "He was seen here in DC."

The revelation sent a ripple of alertness through the room. This contact could be a significant link in unraveling the network behind the threats and possibly lead them closer to understanding the full scope of the conspiracy that had ensnared you.

"Good work, Garcia," Hotch commended, his eyes scanning the information displayed. "Do we have any current visuals or known associates in the area?"

Penelope quickly typed away, pulling up additional data. "Working on it now, sir," she replied, her concentration absolute as she sifted through security feeds and intelligence reports.

As Garcia continued her search, Hotch turned to the rest of the team. "This could be a major lead. I want everyone on this—start pulling together all we know about Diane’s operations and any other contacts that might connect back to this one. Spencer, I need you to help Garcia with the profiling aspects. We need to anticipate their next moves."

—

The operation at the abandoned military building, initiated by Garcia's crucial lead, was intense and fraught with danger. The structure, looming and dilapidated, its windows boarded and the facade scarred by the elements, was a fitting hideout for the remnants of the criminal network that had caused so much turmoil.

Derek Morgan, with his characteristic blend of bravado and precision, took point as the team approached the shadowed entrance. With a powerful kick, he sent the door crashing open, splinters flying, as he bellowed, "FBI! Hands where we can see them!"

The interior was chaos incarnate. The suspects, caught by surprise but desperate, reacted violently. Gunfire erupted almost immediately, echoing off the hollow walls, as the team took cover. Commands were shouted, and the sound of scrambling feet mixed with the sharp reports of gunfire. Despite the chaos, the BAU team's training and resolve shone through. They moved with practiced efficiency, their actions coordinated under Hotch's calm directives.

It wasn’t long before the situation was under control, with each member of the crime circle detained, their plans for escape foiled by the team's decisive intervention. However, amidst the takedown, Spencer Reid's actions stood out. His usual composure was replaced by a raw, almost visceral intensity. Observing from a distance, Hotch saw Spencer deliver a fierce blow to one of the suspects who had tried to fight back. It was uncharacteristic, a clear sign of the deep-seated anger and pain that Spencer had been harboring.

Hotch understood the cathartic nature of Spencer's reaction; he knew the young agent needed to vent the pent-up emotions that had been simmering ever since your supposed death. It was a moment of human frailty, one that Hotch knew he would address later in a private conversation to ensure it didn’t spiral into something more destructive.

As the dust settled and the suspects were secured, Hotch’s mind turned to the daunting task ahead. The team was unaware of the full scope of what you and he had orchestrated. The truth about your survival, hidden under layers of deceit and protective maneuvers, was going to surface, and Hotch was acutely aware that the revelation would not be received lightly. The trust they had in him, and potentially in you, would be tested.

He contemplated the right moment and the right words to use, knowing that the bond of the team, the very cohesion that made them effective, could be jeopardized by the forthcoming disclosure. Forgiveness, he knew, was not guaranteed, but necessary for healing. 

—

As Hotch and Emily prepared to meet with Spencer, the weight of what they were about to disclose hung heavily in the air. Choosing a neutral location, they rented a separate room in the motel you’d been staying in to ensure privacy for the sensitive conversation.

Upon Spencer's arrival, his knock was met with a quick response. "Spencer, come in," Hotch greeted, his voice betraying none of the apprehension he felt.

As Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately found Emily seated casually on the bed. His mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, his initial confusion giving way to a fleeting, inappropriate guess at their intentions. However, as Emily gestured for him to take a seat, it became clear that the gravity of the situation was far from what his fleeting thoughts had entertained.

"Spencer, this is hard, but we have something we need to tell you," Emily began, her tone serious, cutting through any lingering misconceptions.

Hotch took over, his expression somber. "I need you to know, Spencer, that everything we did was for the protection of the team and all of our loved ones. And at the request of Y/N."

The mention of your name caused a visible reaction in Spencer. He stiffened, his face paling slightly as the name he'd mourned in silence was spoken aloud. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tight with a mix of hope and rising anger.

"Y/N...she’s—she’s alive," Emily stated bluntly, her words deliberate.

"That's not funny," Spencer snapped, standing up quickly, his chair clattering to the floor. The suggestion seemed cruel, a twisted joke at his expense.

"Reid, it's not a joke," Hotch intervened firmly, stepping forward to emphasize the truth of their words. "She never died that day in the warehouse. She went into hiding."

Spencer's reaction was immediate and fierce. "You're telling me this now? After how long—how long have you both known about this?" His voice rose, a sharp edge of betrayal slicing through the thickening tension in the room.

"Spencer, please understand, we—" Emily tried to interject, her face a mask of sympathy and regret.

"No, don't 'Spencer, please' me, Emily!" Spencer cut her off, his voice laced with sarcasm and hurt. "You both lied to me. To all of us. How could you possibly justify that?"

Hotch met Spencer's gaze steadily, recognizing the pain and anger boiling over in the younger man. "It was Y/N's decision, to protect everyone. We were respecting her wishes, Spencer."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to accept that? That you all decided my mental and emotional torture was worth the cause?" Spencer's voice was cold, his usually warm eyes now sharp and accusing.

"We thought we were doing the right thing, Reid," Hotch replied, his voice even but firm. "I know it's hard, but she did it thinking of you, of all of us."

Spencer shook his head, his emotions a whirlwind of anger, relief, and unresolved grief. "Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it, Hotch. Not even close."

The room fell silent, the heavy truth settling around them like a shroud. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed visibly as he stood towering over the small coffee table separating him from Emily and Hotch. His voice was sharp, laced with a bitter edge that neither of them had often heard before.

"This is some kind of sick test, right?" Spencer snapped, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You pull me in here, say something like that—"

"Spencer, please," Emily interjected, her voice steady but her eyes revealing the strain of the moment. "It's the truth. Y/N is alive. She's been in hiding. We couldn't tell you—"

"Couldn't tell me?" Spencer's laugh was hollow, humorless. "Or you chose not to tell me? Which one, Emily? Because last I checked, we're supposed to trust each other."

Hotch stood up, his presence a calming force in the room, though it did little to soothe Spencer's frayed nerves. "We did it to protect her and everyone else involved. It was Y/N's decision, and she specifically asked us to keep it from the team until it was absolutely safe. You of all people know the dangers that come with our line of work."

"That doesn't give you the right to lie to me, to us!" Spencer’s voice rose, a rare flash of anger crossing his normally composed demeanor. "To fake her death? Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?"

"We understand it was hard, Spencer," Hotch said, his tone softening. "But we had no other choice. The threat was too great, and it still is. That's why we're telling you now—because we need you to understand and to help us finish this, the right way."

Spencer shook his head, his anger mingling with a resurgence of pain, the old wound torn open anew. "And you think just telling me this now makes it all okay? That it justifies everything?"

"It's not about justification," Emily added gently. "It's about trust, and yes, we're asking a lot of you. We're asking you to trust us now, after we've kept this from you. But we need you, Spencer. Y/N needs you."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Spencer's shoulders slumped slightly, the initial surge of anger giving way to a complex storm of relief, betrayal, and confusion. He sat back down slowly, his mind racing as he processed the enormity of what he'd just been told.

"I need to see her," Spencer said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I need to hear this from her."

"And you will," Hotch assured him. “But right now, we just need to ensure it's completely safe—"

Hotch's assurance was cut short by Spencer's sharp retort, the anger and betrayal he felt boiling over. "No fucking buts," he seethed, each word dripping with venom.

"Spencer," Emily chided, taken aback not just by his tone but by the raw edge of his language.

"Emily," Spencer shot back mockingly, his patience frayed to its very ends. "Where is she? Take me now or accept my resignation from the BAU."

The room fell into a charged silence, Hotch and Emily exchanging a look that conveyed the gravity of Spencer's ultimatum. Hotch knew this was no idle threat; Spencer's entire demeanor screamed of a man pushed to his limits.

Understanding the stakes, Hotch pulled out his phone without breaking eye contact with Spencer. He quickly sent you a text, concise and to the point, indicating he was bringing Spencer to your location. Once the message was sent, he pocketed his phone and stood, gesturing toward the door with a nod.

"Come on then," Hotch said, his voice firm, as he led the way out of the room and down the breezeway.

The walk was tense, each step echoing hollowly in the corridor as Spencer followed, his mind racing with a tumult of emotions—anger, anticipation, confusion. What would he say? What would he do? The scenarios played out in his head in a relentless loop.

Finally, they arrived at your door. Hotch knocked, a formal, almost perfunctory sound against the heavy wood. Spencer held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of dread and desperate hope coursing through him.

The door swung open slowly, revealing you standing there, alive, a sight that was both immensely relieving and incredibly infuriating to Spencer. For a moment, he could only stare, taking in the reality of you—so familiar yet so distant after everything that had transpired.

The moment was fraught with tension, a silent standoff as emotions swirled palpably in the air. Spencer's relief at seeing you alive was overshadowed by a barrage of questions and accusations, his previous affections now tangled with a sense of betrayal.

“Hi, Spence.”

The moment you spoke, a simple greeting barely above a whisper, the atmosphere thickened palpably. Spencer's gaze was intense as he took in your appearance, noting every change that the months of separation and stress had etched into your features. The person before him was both deeply familiar and unsettlingly altered. You looked worn, shadows beneath your eyes, and a tension in your posture that spoke volumes about the ordeal you had endured.

The sight of you, so changed yet still unmistakably you, ignited a complex torrent of emotions in Spencer. The pain of your loss, the relief of your presence, and the sharp sting of betrayal all collided in a devastating rush.

"Fuck you," he spat, the words harsh, laced with hurt and anger. Without another word, he turned sharply, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he stormed off, leaving the tension of the room to coil tighter in his wake.

Hotch, standing a few steps behind, remained silent, his expression grim. He understood the depth of Spencer's reaction, the relief and betrayal too potent to process in the heat of such a sudden reunion.

Emily, who had lingered by the doorway, gave you an apologetic look, her eyes conveying sympathy and concern. She knew the road to reconciliation, if it was even possible, would be long and fraught with emotional landmines.

As Spencer's retreating figure disappeared around the corner, the reality of the situation settled in. The revelation of your survival, meant to be a moment of shocking relief, had instead reopened wounds that had never fully healed.

—

Spencer's return to work was a study in silent turmoil. He moved through his days mechanically, engaging only when absolutely necessary and avoiding any unnecessary interaction, particularly with Hotch and Emily. The news of your survival and return had been a bombshell he was still struggling to process, and his feelings were a tangled mess of betrayal, anger, and an unwillingness to face the new reality that you were back, alive and in the same space as him.

When you officially returned to the BAU, the team's reactions were mixed. While betrayal hung heavy in the air, time and distance from the initial shock allowed some semblance of forgiveness to seep through the cracks of strained relationships. As you walked in, the emotions were palpable: hugs were exchanged, tears were shed, and in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Penelope, the heart of the team, slapped you, only to burst into tears and apologize profusely soon after. Despite the rocky reception, it was clear there was relief mingled with the hurt, a complex welcome back.

Observing your old desk, untouched and exactly as you left it, you couldn't help but express your surprise. "Wow, my desk hasn't been touched?" you remarked, a mix of nostalgia and sadness in your tone.

Derek chuckled sadly before responding, "Reid wouldn't let us move your things."

At Derek's words, Spencer, who had been passing by, couldn’t hold back his biting retort. "She was fucking dead, you can trash it all now for all I care," he spat venomously, his words laced with unresolved anger.

The harshness of his comment drew a heavy sigh from Hotch, who had been monitoring the team's dynamics closely. Knowing he needed to address Spencer's ongoing struggle, he called him into his office for a private conversation.

"Look, you don’t have to be okay with what happened, or forgive any of us," Hotch began, his voice steady yet empathetic, understanding the depth of Spencer's pain. "But you do have to be professional. We're a team, and we need to function as one, regardless of personal feelings."

Spencer, standing rigidly across from Hotch, his jaw set and his eyes cold, listened without responding. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the deceit, sorrow for the past, and a grudging acknowledgement of Hotch’s words. 

—

Your first week back at the BAU was a tightrope walk of navigating old connections and mending frayed bonds. By the end of it, you realized a conversation with Spencer was inevitable and necessary. The tension had been palpable, and his avoidance was a clear sign of unresolved issues between you two. With a tentative breath, you approached him, your voice carrying a mix of hesitation and resolve.

"Spencer… hi, I just have a quick question," you started, trying to keep your tone neutral.

"What?" His response was curt, clipped with an edge that made you flinch slightly, though you weren't entirely surprised.

"Um, well all of my things are still at the apartment. I guess I was wondering if I could come get them? Or I could have movers do it, I—I found an apartment," you explained, the words tumbling out more quickly than you intended.

Spencer's reaction was immediate, his stomach twisting painfully at the implication of your words. "You’re—you’re not going to live with me anymore?"

"I didn’t—I didn’t think you would want me to," you replied softly, the hesistence evident in your voice.

"Of course I want you to, I mean, Jesus Christ, I don't know. Maybe you're right, maybe I don’t," Spencer confessed, his emotions raw and conflicted.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for the conversation that needed to happen. "I think we need to talk about more than living arrangements…"

"No shit, Y/N." Spencer's reply was deadpan, his frustration boiling over. "You can come home tonight, for a bit."

"Okay, okay. Of course. I'll see you at, let's say 7?" you proposed, hoping to set a definite time for what would undoubtedly be a difficult discussion.

"Yeah," he agreed, albeit tersely.

As Spencer turned to walk away, not wanting to extend the conversation any longer than necessary, Emily, who had overheard the exchange, called out to him. "Reid!" She jogged to catch up to him at the elevators, but he ignored her initial call.

"Spencer," she tried again, her tone pleading, "please."

"What, Prentiss?" he snapped, his use of her last name marking a clear sign of his irritation and distancing.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and—and I hope tonight goes well," Emily offered, her apology sincere, though it did little to soften Spencer's demeanor.

"Hey, maybe don’t fucking eavesdrop and focus on not being a shitty friend instead?" Spencer retorted sharply, his words cutting through the air like a knife. He didn't wait for her response, stepping into the elevator and disappearing from view, leaving Emily standing in the hallway, her expression one of regret and concern.

The elevator doors closed on Spencer, encapsulating him in his turmoil, a storm of anger, betrayal, and lingering affection swirling chaotically within him. Tonight’s conversation would be a turning point, one way or another.

—

At precisely seven in the evening, you stood outside the apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary, a place filled with love and shared secrets. Now, it held a different energy, charged with tension and unresolved conflicts. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door, bracing yourself for the conversation ahead.

Spencer opened the door swiftly, his expression unreadable. He stepped aside to let you in, his movements precise, controlled. "Before you say it again, no, nothing has been touched," he stated right away, his tone a mixture of resignation and bitterness.

You nodded, taking in the familiar surroundings that now seemed somewhat foreign. "It looks nice, I missed being here," you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

"Yeah, well I missed you being alive, and now I miss when you didn't lie to me and fake your death!" Spencer retorted with mock enthusiasm, his words sharp, each one landing like a blow.

You couldn’t help but wince slightly at his tone, the raw edge in his voice a clear reflection of the pain he felt. "You got me there," you admitted with a sad chuckle, acknowledging his anger and the legitimacy of his feelings. "Can I explain why I did it?"

"You better," he responded tersely, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, his posture defensive yet expectant.

With a heavy sigh, you began to unravel the story, the words heavy with the weight of the decisions you had made. "When the threats started coming in, they weren't just directed at me—they were aimed at everyone I care about, including you. The people we were up against... they made it clear they wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. I couldn't risk your safety, or the team's."

You paused, the heaviness of the moment settling around you as you searched Spencer's face for any sign of softening, any hint that he might understand the depth of the desperation that had driven your actions. 

"They, um, they got to Sam,” you managed to say, your voice breaking into a sniffle. Sam had been your closest confidant, a spy much like Emily once was—a detail Spencer was unaware of, which fueled a fresh wave of anger within him. 

The revelation that there were still secrets kept from him, critical pieces of your life and decisions made without his knowledge, stirred a renewed turmoil in Spencer. His brow furrowed deeper, confusion and betrayal etching his features as he processed the new information.

You drew a deep breath, steadying yourself as you pieced together the narrative that had dictated your life for the past tumultuous months. "Sam was highly trained, I think they went for them first to show how serious they were. I knew if they started there, it wouldn’t be long before they got to my family, or you. And the thought of losing you was more than I could bear."

The words hung heavily in the air, laden with the gravity of the choices you had faced, each decision infused with a desperate instinct to protect.

"I thought by faking my death, by disappearing, it would draw their focus away from you, from everyone. It was supposed to be temporary, just until we could neutralize the threat," you explained further, your voice thick with emotion and regret. Each word was a plea for understanding, a bridge you hoped would span the chasm of hurt and betrayal that had opened between you and Spencer.

The room felt smaller, the air between you charged with tension and unspoken questions as you awaited his response, hoping for understanding, yet bracing for further backlash. 

"It was the hardest decision I've ever made," you continued, your voice faltering slightly. "Leaving you, lying to you... it went against everything I believed in. But I did it because I believed it was the only way to keep you safe. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now how much hurt it caused."

The room was thick with emotion, the air charged with the weight of revelations. Spencer pushed off from the wall, his movements slow as he approached you. The distance between you felt immense, filled with months of pain and separation.

Spencer's anger, simmering just beneath the surface, erupted as he struggled to reconcile your reasons with his own harrowing experience. 

"Let me get this straight…” he seethed, his words laced with a palpable bitterness. “You faked your death, let me believe I lost you because you couldn't stand the thought of losing me? That sounds a bit fucking selfish, now doesn't it?"

You tried to interject, to explain further, but Spencer was relentless, his pain turning his usual precise speech into a torrent of raw emotion. "Spen—"

“Why was watching you die supposed to be better for me?” he cut in sharply, not allowing you to get a word in edgewise.

“I—I,” you stuttered, floundering under the intensity of his gaze and the force of his anger.

“I—I, nothing. Because it wasn’t. I mourned, grieved, suffered. I watched. You. Die.” His words were punctuated, each sentence a hammer strike, his voice rising with each syllable, expressing the depth of his anguish.

Seeing Spencer in such raw, unguarded turmoil was a stark deviation from the composed, analytical person you knew. The pain etched across his features, the fury in his voice—it was all too much, a vivid portrayal of the deep scars your actions had left on him.

"I'm so sorry, bug," you murmured instinctively, using the affectionate nickname that had always been reserved for softer, happier times.

"Don't!" he exploded, his voice filling the space between you with a harsh, jarring intensity. His next word was softer, but no less intense, "don't," he repeated, the anger subsiding into a plea.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it slipped out," you quickly apologized, realizing too late the mistake of using such a personal term in such a fraught moment.

Spencer stepped back, putting physical distance between you as if the space could help shield him from the emotional barrage. His next question was quieter, vulnerable, "Did you think about me? At all?"

The simplicity of the question, asked with such genuine uncertainty, twisted at your heart. "Spencer... every single day," you responded, your voice thick with emotion. "The thought of getting back to you was the only thing keeping me going."

"Don't you dare say that to me," he snapped, turning his back to you abruptly, a clear signal of his overwhelming feelings of hurt and betrayal. His body language closed off any further attempts at consolation or explanation.

You stood there, helpless, watching his shoulders tense as he wrestled with the revelations and his own feelings. The divide between what you had intended with your actions and how they had devastated him was now painfully clear. This conversation, necessary as it was, had unearthed a torrent of pain and resentment that wouldn't easily be soothed.

"Where do we go from here?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper, almost drowned out by the gravity of the moment.

Spencer paused in his pacing, a physical manifestation of his inner unrest, and faced you. "I don't know, I'm really, really fucking mad at you," he admitted bluntly, his voice a raw edge of honesty that cut through the tense air.

You nodded, accepting his anger as just and warranted. "I know," you replied softly.

"I’m mad at Hotch and Emily too, and it’s your fault," Spencer continued, his frustration spreading outward, casting a wider net of blame.

"Don't be mad at them, please. They were just helping me," you tried to explain, hoping to shield your friends from his anger.

"And lying to me! God, Y/N, I buried you, I gave a eulogy!" His voice rose, the pain evident in his exclamation, each word underscored by a memory of grief.

Your heart ached anew, the sorrow palpable. "Oh, Spencer, that must have been so hard," you murmured, your voice tinged with genuine remorse.

"Were you there?" he suddenly asked, a sharp turn in the conversation that caught you off guard.

"What?" you were taken aback, not fully grasping his meaning at first.

He fixed his gaze on you again, intensifying. "Were you at the funeral? Hiding somewhere? Did you have to listen?" he demanded, his inquiry sharp, seeking uncomfortable truths.

"No... I wasn’t there," you responded quietly, the truth laying bare another layer of separation between what he had experienced and what you had chosen.

Without another word, Spencer turned abruptly and stormed off towards his office, leaving you frozen in place, rooted by fear and regret. Moments later, he returned, holding a piece of paper — his eulogy, written for a ghost. "Allow me to share," he spoke cruelly, the words dripping with bitterness.

He thrust the paper into your hands, his eyes not leaving yours, challenging, daring you to read the words he had prepared to say over what he believed was your final resting place. The paper trembled in your grip, each word a testament to his grief and the depth of his betrayal.

“I mourned someone who was alive, who had decided that faking her death was better than trusting the people who loved her,” Spencer simmered, his voice sharp as a blade. 

You looked down at the eulogy, the words blurring as tears welled up in your eyes. “Spencer, I...”

“No,” he cut you off sharply, stepping back. “You chose this path. You chose silence and deception. How am I supposed to move past that? How are any of us? You can at the very least read what I felt, I hope it hurts.”

The room felt suffocatingly small as the reality of what had been broken between you settled in. Spencer’s words were a clear signal of the chasm that had formed, a divide possibly too wide to bridge. He had shared his pain in the most tangible way, leaving you to grapple with the enormity of the hurt you had caused.

As he turned back to his office, leaving you standing there with the eulogy in hand, the silence that followed was a painful reminder of all that had been lost and the long, uncertain road ahead if there was ever to be reconciliation.

—

When Great Trees Fall

Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

—

Reading Spencer's eulogy, filled with such heartfelt pain and profound love, shattered the last defenses around your heart. It was as though all the sorrow you'd held at bay came crashing down, overwhelming you with a grief so intense it felt physical. His words, "I’m glad I got to spend your life with me, even if I can’t spend mine with you," echoed in your mind, each syllable a poignant reminder of what had been lost between you two. The emotional weight was nearly unbearable, leaving you feeling as if death, the one you had faked to protect him, was now clutching at your soul for real.

Once you managed to gather yourself, a semblance of composure clinging by a thread, you dragged your feet to Spencer's office. The door was open, and you paused at the frame, leaning heavily against it. When Spencer looked up and saw the raw anguish on your face, his heart constricted with conflicting emotions. On one hand, seeing you so broken stirred a vindictive satisfaction within him; on the other, it tore at him, hating to see the woman he loved in such profound despair.

"Did you read it all?" Spencer's voice was soft, cautious as he watched you struggle with your emotions.

You nodded, barely managing to keep the sobs at bay. Speaking was beyond your capability at that moment; even breathing felt like a chore.

Spencer observed you with a complexity of feelings churning inside him. "You loved Maya Angelou," he started, his voice trailing off a bit, "but you didn’t like that poem, it made you sad." 

You sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself, a meager attempt to find some solace in the hold of your own embrace.

"Y/N…this isn’t forgiveness, but—" Spencer hesitated, his offer hanging in the air, "—do you need a hug?"

Your response was immediate and desperate, "Oh god, please," you sobbed out, rushing into his lap. The physical proximity to Spencer, once so normal and now so charged, brought a rush of comfort and more tears.

You curled into him, your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in his neck, and your body fitting into his lap as if molded to be there. Spencer, after a brief moment of hesitation, wrapped his arms around you as well. One hand gently stroked your hair while the other soothingly scratched your back. He couldn’t help but inhale deeply; you smelled different, tainted by the generic scents of motel life, yet underneath it all was your natural scent—a reminder of countless shared moments, grounding him even in the midst of turmoil.

In that embrace, a silent acknowledgment passed between you both. This wasn’t reconciliation, nor was it forgiveness, not yet. It was a moment of mutual need, a complex dance of grief, love, and countless unspoken words, each seeking solace in the simple presence of the other amidst the chaos of emotions unleashed by your return and the revelations that followed.

—

After the intensity of the emotions shared in that long, clinging hug, a tangible shift occurred between you and Spencer. As the wave of your sobs finally subsided, Spencer, with a gentle firmness, eased you from his lap. It was clear he needed some space, a moment to gather his own scattered emotions, and you understood immediately. The depth of what had transpired, the shared physical comfort, had been a momentary reprieve in the storm, not a resolution. With a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, you whispered a tearful goodbye, preparing to leave, feeling the ache of separation anew.

As you reached the door, Spencer's voice stopped you. It was hesitant, filled with a vulnerability you hadn't heard in a long time. "Don’t move into an apartment, I want to try," he said, his words tentative yet filled with a profound significance.

You turned around, gasping slightly at the implication of his words. There was hope there, a delicate thread of possibility that perhaps not all was lost between you two. His statement, simple yet heavy with meaning, suggested a willingness to mend the fractures, to rebuild from the debris of heartache and deception. You nodded, unable to form words, your heart swelling with a mix of relief and cautious optimism.

Feeling a sense of hope for the first time in over a year, you left Spencer’s apartment with a sense of hope. Spencer’s words echoed in your mind, a promise of potential reconciliation and healing. The journey ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, but the mere possibility of trying, of working through the layers of hurt and betrayal together, was a balm to your bruised heart.

—

The situation was precarious. The joy of knowing you were alive was shadowed by a chaos of emotions Spencer couldn't neatly categorize or understand, and in a moment of weakness, he turned to the one thing he had avoided for years—alcohol. The few bottles you had left behind became his solace for the evening, a poor substitute for dealing with the whirlwind inside him.

When his call came through in the middle of the night, your heart skipped a beat at the sound of the special ringtone you had set for him—a signal of the deep bond you still shared despite everything.

“Hello? Spencer? What's going on?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and concern.

“Y/N!! What's up?” Spencer's voice was unusually buoyant, slurred with the unmistakable tinge of inebriation.

“I'm sleeping, bug. Are you drunk?” your words were tinged with worry, not just for his state of intoxication but for the underlying turmoil that must have driven him to it.

“Bug,” he giggled, a sound so out of character that it tugged at your heartstrings. “Why do you call me that? Do I look like a bug? You look like an angel, you almost were an angel.”

The mix of humor and pain in his voice was disconcerting. “Spencer…” you began, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

“Did you know I almost called my old dealer? I wanted to forget so bad, your death made me want to do drugs. Isn’t that crazy?” His tone was light, almost flippant, but the words struck a deep, alarming chord.

Hearing him so vulnerable and on the edge, you knew you had to act. “Spencer, bug, I'm going to come over, okay? Are you home?” you asked, already pulling on your clothes, preparing to head out.

Spencer laughed, a sound that was more unnerving than reassuring. “Duh, love!”

“I’ll be there in 15,” you assured him, your voice firm, trying to convey both your love and your resolve.

“Make sure you aren't wearing anything!” he called out just as you were about to hang up, his judgment clearly impaired.

Ignoring his inappropriate comment, you quickly gathered your things. The drive over was tense, your mind racing with worry about what state you'd find him in and how you could help steer him back from the brink. This was a Spencer you hadn't seen before—raw, unraveling, and dangerously close to old demons. 

—

As you stood outside Spencer's apartment, your concern heightened by the minute, you called out softly yet urgently, "Spencer! Open up, please!" It was late, and your voice was hushed to avoid waking the neighbors, but the silence from inside the apartment only fueled your worry.

When there was no response, you swiftly used your old key, the one you'd luckily thought to bring, anticipating a situation like this might arise. Pushing the door open, you stepped quickly inside, scanning the apartment for any sign of Spencer.

You found him in the bathroom, a heart-wrenching sight: curled over the toilet, visibly shaken and unwell. "Oh, baby," you murmured as you knelt beside him, "I'm here, do you need anything?"

"I need you," he sobbed through gags, his voice desperate and raw.

"I'm here, Spence. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere," you reassured him, rubbing his back gently as he heaved, trying to soothe him with your presence and touch.

Once the worst of his nausea had passed, you helped Spencer to his feet and supported him as you both made your way to the bedroom—what had once been your shared space. You carefully propped him up with pillows and fetched him a glass of water.

"Drink," you instructed gently, raising the glass to his lips. He complied, taking large gulps of water, his actions still a bit clumsy from intoxication. "How much did you drink?"

"Your wine," he mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head against your chest, seeking comfort in your closeness.

"How many bottles?" you pressed, trying to assess just how much alcohol he had consumed.

"Two," he admitted, his voice muffled against you.

"Oh, Spencer…why?" you asked softly, concern and sadness threading through your words.

"I miss you...but you're right here." His words were a poignant reflection of his struggle to reconcile the you he had lost with the you who was now before him. "It’s like...I can't put together the you that's sitting here," he continued, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "and the you I watched die. How did you not die?"

You began to scratch his hair gently, a familiar gesture that always soothed him. "Let's not talk about that right now," you suggested with a soft smile, wanting to keep the mood light and focused on his immediate comfort.

He huffed a bit childishly, the alcohol still loosening his inhibitions. "Okay. Can you get naked then?" he asked, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed, both amused and a bit shocked by his bluntness.

"What? It’s been a long time, a guy's got needs," he retorted, his tone playful yet earnest, clearly still under the influence. Your laughter filled the room, a light moment amidst the heavy emotional backdrop. 

Spencer's playful inquiries, despite his inebriated state, lightened the mood, and you couldn't help but respond with warmth and amusement. His words, though tinted with alcohol's bluntness, reminded you of the intimacy that had once defined your relationship. 

"Okay big boy, how’s this, I’ll spend the night, and you can ask me in the morning?" you suggested softly, your smile attempting to bridge the gap between comfort and the promise of discussing things more seriously once he was sober.

"Mmm, I like it when you call me big boy... Are you going to sleep in our bed?" Spencer's voice held a hint of hope, his earlier flirtatiousness blending with a genuine desire for closeness.

"Yeah, Spence, I can," you affirmed, committing to staying close, to help anchor him through the night's emotional turbulence.

"Naked?" he ventured again, half-teasing, half-serious.

"Spencer!" you laughed even harder, shaking your head at his persistence. 

Your laughter, mixed with gentle chiding, reminded both of you of the deeper connection that still lingered, resilient despite the trials. As the night settled around you, the decision to stay seemed to offer a tentative step towards reconciliation, a quiet acknowledgment of the unresolved feelings and the potential for healing that lay ahead.

—

Spencer lay awake for a few moments before you stirred, soaking in the reality of having you beside him once again. The complexity of the past year's events seemed to blur at the edges as he focused on the simple, profound comfort of your presence. As he gently brushed your hair away from your face, he was struck by a wave of affection and longing that had been suppressed under layers of grief and anger.

When you murmured his name, his heart swelled. "Good morning, my love," he whispered back, his voice low and filled with emotion.

Snuggling closer to him, you found solace in the warmth of his chest, a familiar haven that felt both nostalgic and right. "Morning, you feel so good," you mumbled, the words muffled against his skin, conveying more than just physical comfort—they hinted at the deep emotional connection that neither time nor circumstances had been able to erase.

"Yeah?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, a soft rumble of contentment that you felt more than heard.

You nodded, pressing a little more firmly into him, affirming your shared comfort. "Best pillow in the world," you declared, your voice a sleepy murmur of contentment as you pressed a kiss above his heart. 

Your playful banter brought a lightheartedness that the room hadn't felt in a long time, lightening the weight of the past's shadows that had settled between you. Spencer’s heart lifted with every laugh and every teasing remark, feeling more like himself than he had in months.

“Thank you for coming over last night,” he said, his voice soft with genuine gratitude, feeling the echo of your kiss still warming his chest.

“Of course, bug. How are you feeling now?” you asked, your concern for his well-being shining through despite the jokes.

“Not great, definitely need some water, and a warm bath,” he admitted, rubbing his temples lightly.

“This isn’t another ploy to get me naked, is it?” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Spencer tensed for a moment, a flush of embarrassment coloring his face. “Oh god, I did that, didn’t I?”

“You did, but it’s okay. I’d say we’re even, but I’ll let you tease me for two years,” you replied, your smile broadening as you looked up at him, inviting a lightness back into the moment.

He sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement. “Three years and you’re taking the trash out for the next month,” he countered, trying to maintain a semblance of negotiation despite the smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” you sat up abruptly, feigning shock but quickly breaking into laughter.

Spencer laughed too, a sound so warm and genuine it filled the room with an ease that had been missing. “I told you I want to try, I meant it.”

“So, I can live here again?” you asked, the question loaded with more than just the inquiry about moving back in; it was about rebuilding, about truly coming home.

“Do you want to?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with a nervous hope, his eyes searching yours for an affirmation.

You leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, meaningful gesture that spoke volumes. Your hands caressed his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. His hands responded instinctively, pulling you closer, securing you atop him in a gesture that reaffirmed his need for your presence.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and inviting.

“Yes, now can we make up for lost time? I heard a man has needs,” you whispered back, your voice playful yet thick with emotion.

Spencer’s response was a low chuckle, his arms tightening around you as he rolled, reversing your positions with a gentle but firm maneuver that spoke of his longing and the desire to reclaim the time and intimacy lost. The morning light, the soft sheets, and the rediscovery of each other's touch warming the pit of your stomach.

“Is that a gun in your pajamas or are you just happy to see me?” you smirked, teasing him playfully.

“It’s the morning, but I’m happy to see you, all of me is,” Spencer replied with a low, seductive tone, leaning down to gently bite your lip in a playful yet intimate gesture.

You gasped, delighted by the escalation, and put your hands on Spencer’s ass, pulling him closer into you. Spencer's lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, his kisses light yet purposeful, tracing a path that sent shivers down your spine. 

"You know," he murmured against your skin, his hands deftly and gently lifting the bottom of your top to remove it fully, "I've thought about this, about you, about us, every day."

Your response was a breathless laugh, tinged with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you'd both been through. "And here I was thinking you might have forgotten me," you teased, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Spencer chuckled, the sound warm and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Forget you? Impossible. And God, you’re just as beautiful as I remember." His hands continued their gentle exploration, reaffirming his familiarity with you as he groped your breasts, twisting your nipples between his fingers. Each touch was reverent, as if he was memorizing you all over again.

The air between you grew warmer as you twisted and groaned, the morning light casting dancing shadows across the room as you moved together. Spencer leaned down then taking your nipple between his teeth and tugging, just how you liked. Your back arched, pulling on his hair harder and making him groan. 

"Is this how you always greet people in the morning?" you whined, choking out the words as Spencer’s hands found the hem of your pants, pausing as if asking for permission without words.

"Only the ones I love," he replied seriously, looking into your eyes with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. With a slow nod from you, the fabric slipped away, forgotten on the floor.

As Spencer’s exploration continued, his fingers danced across the fabric of your underwear, tracing the edges with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in his eyes.

"You make it hard to stay mad at you," Spencer whispered, his voice low and husky with emotion. His fingertips brushed lightly over the delicate fabric, sending a shiver through your body. His touch was gentle as he familiarized himself with your core, as if rediscovering something precious that he thought he'd lost forever.

You responded with a soft moan, encouraging him with a slight arch of your back, pressing closer into his touch. "Maybe we should focus on making up for lost time instead of remembering," you suggested, your breath catching as his fingers pressed on your clit through the fabric with more confidence, his touch growing bolder.

Spencer smiled against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. "I like the way you think," he murmured, his hands gliding around to the small of your back, his fingers deftly and carefully making their way under the elastic. The slight tension of anticipation was palpable, your breaths mingling, quick and shallow.

As the last barriers of fabric were gently removed, you felt so vulnerable “Spence, bug, baby…can you please–,” you cut off with a moan as Spencer rubbed direct circles on your clit now. “Take off your pants, please. Want to see you.”

Spencer responded immediately to the soft urgency in your voice, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you both. There was a pause in his movements, a brief moment where his eyes locked onto yours the intensity of his gaze was a silent promise, reassuring and raw.

"Of course," he whispered back, his voice slightly rough with emotion. With a nod, he pulled back just enough to comply with your request. The sound of fabric sliding over skin mixed with the quiet breaths that filled the room. Soon, Spencer laid back on top of you, the last remnants of clothing discarded, his vulnerability matching yours.

The sight of him, bare and unguarded, reignited a familiar warmth that spread through your chest, an ache of longing and love that had been tempered by time and trials. As he returned to you, the space between you charged with anticipation, your hands reached out, tracing the lines and contours of his body that you had memorized long ago but felt like you were discovering all over again.

Spencer's hand resumed its place at your core, slipping a finger inside of you, his touch sending shivers across your skin. His movements were perfectly calculated, exactly what you needed, he knew how to play your body like an instrument. As he curled his long finger inside you, it brushed that sweet spot deep inside your walls, causing a deep whine to spill from your parted lips.

"Spencer!" His name was a plea, an acknowledgment, your voice carried through the quiet room, a mix of delight and affection. 

Moved by the desire to reciprocate the overwhelming sensations, you reached down, intent on giving Spencer the same pleasure he was giving you. But Spencer, aware of his own limits after such a long separation, gently caught your hand as you grabbed his cock under the sheets.

"Oh, my love, darling, no. It will be over too soon if you do that, it’s been too long," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with need and restraint. The sincerity in his plea, the raw admission of his vulnerability, made you pause, a giggle escaping you despite the intensity of the moment.

"That’s kind of sweet—OH," your words cut off abruptly as Spencer added another finger, allowing his palm to catch on your clit as he increased the pace, pounding into you. “Fuck! Fuck, oh my God, Spencer!” You cried, arching further than you thought possible.

Spencer's movements became faster if possible, trying to bring you to orgasm, not knowing if he’d last long enough once he was inside you. 

"That's the spot, darling?" His voice was a low hum, filled with both satisfaction and anticipation as he sensed your approaching climax.

Unable to form coherent words, you simply nodded, the overwhelming sensations rendering you speechless. His chuckle was low and resonant, adding another layer of intimacy to the moment. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, a thrilling contrast to the warmth of your shared skin.

"Are you going to finish for me, love?" His words were both a question and a gentle command, spoken softly yet with an undeniable intensity that urged you closer to the edge.

His presence, so close and so attuned to your needs, enveloped you in a sense of complete trust and surrender. As you approached the brink, the world narrowed down to the here and now—the feel of Spencer, the sound of his voice, and the gushing of your core around his fingers.

“Fuck! I love you!” you screamed

Spencer slowed his motions, letting you calm down from your high. The intensity in his eyes softened as he processed your heartfelt declaration. The room was thick with emotion, tangible and raw.

"You love me?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability lacing his tone. It was clear he needed to hear your words again, to believe them fully in the context of everything that had happened.

"What?" You were still coming down from the intense high, your mind a bit hazy, but his question drew you back sharply to the moment.

"You said you love me, is that true? You mean it? Still?" His questions tumbled out, each one underscored by a yearning for reassurance.

"Spencer Walter Reid," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze more directly. The use of his full name was both a playful and earnest touch. "I love you right now more than I loved you yesterday, and I'll love you more tomorrow than I do today."

His expression flickered with relief and lingering doubt. "What about a year ago?"

"I love you a year's worth more," you responded firmly, your voice steady and sure. 

The simplicity and depth of your words seemed to reach him, a visible relaxation in his posture as if a weight he'd been carrying was lessening. There was a long pause, a silent communication as you both lay there, the emotional distance narrowing as understanding and love filled the gaps.

Spencer's response was a tender whisper, "I love you too," filled with relief and affection. He leaned up to kiss you deeply, a kiss that spoke of reunions, healing, and promises. It was a moment of pure connection, a reaffirmation of everything you meant to each other.

Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, the playful sparkle returning to your own. "Spence?"

"Yes, love?" His reply was soft, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, a sweet note in the quiet of the room.

"Can we have sex now?" You mumbled out shyly, with a silly smile.

"Yes, love," he laughed, the sound rich and joyful, dispelling any remaining tension. 

As Spencer leaned in to kiss you once again, the connection deepened with a palpable intimacy that seemed to resonate through the room. Each kiss was a deliberate exploration, his hands moved with a familiar reverence, tracing the contours of your body with a gentleness that spoke of profound love and respect.

The softness of your skin under his fingertips felt like the finest silk, each touch igniting sparks that seemed to travel through every nerve, awakening a hunger that had been suppressed by the pain and separation of the past months. Your responses to his touches, the soft moans and gentle sighs, encouraged him further, each sound a melody that he had longed to hear.

Your hands were not passive; they roamed across his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch, a silent dialogue of push and pull that drew you ever closer. The warmth of his body against yours felt like a balm, soothing away the remnants of any lingering pain, the physical closeness helping to heal the emotional scars.

As the pace of your heartbeats quickened, so did the rhythm of your movements together. Each motion was synchronized, a dance refined by years of intimacy and renewed in this moment of reunion. The emotional intensity of the connection made every touch, every kiss, feel more profound, filling the room with an energy that was as nourishing as it was exhilarating.

Lying there with Spencer, wrapped in his arms as the early morning light began to fill the room, you felt a peace that had been elusive for too long. It was as if each ray of sunlight was blessing your reunion, affirming the rightness of your being together. In these quiet moments, tangled in sheets and each other's arms, the world outside didn't matter. What mattered was the love that had survived the greatest test, emerging not just intact but stronger, a testament to both your resilience and the depth of your bond.

—

“What happened to all of my coffee?” You teased, turning around with the mostly empty canister in hand.

Spencer's response to your playful accusation about the coffee was met with an equally light-hearted rebuttal. "Okay first, it's stale," he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes in mock indignation, holding up the nearly empty canister. "Then why didn't you throw it out?" you challenged, enjoying the back-and-forth that felt so natural, so reminiscent of easier times.

"I could never throw anything of yours away," Spencer replied, his tone shifting to something more sincere, the levity fading into a genuine expression of his feelings.

"Spence, that is so sweet, baby," you said, walking over to him and cupping his cheek in your hand, touched by his sentimentality. "But I hope you threw away my lettuce, I know it wilted and I know you hate it."

He scoffed, a playful look returning to his eyes. "I do not hate lettuce, it just has no flavor!"

"You put it in salads and put dressings on it!" you countered, emphasizing the normal use of lettuce in a way that made him chuckle.

"Well, if you make it, I’ll eat it," he conceded, his tone softening as he looked at you, appreciating the lightness of your banter.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a more seductive whisper, trailing a nail down his chest suggestively. "As long as I can eat you," you teased, watching his reaction closely.

Spencer groaned and laughed simultaneously, a sound that was music to your ears. "I forgot how insatiable you are," he admitted, his eyes alight with amusement and something more—anticipation.

"Oh baby, you have no idea what's coming your way," you continued, your tone playful yet promising as you caught his nipple with your nail, eliciting a sharp gasp from him. "You didn't think you could get that haircut, put on this muscle, and I wouldn’t want to jump your bones?" 

—

Walking into work hand in hand with Spencer, you both presented a united front that hadn’t been seen in a long time. The sight was indeed refreshing and brought a hopeful buzz to the team, who had been through so much uncertainty regarding the two of you.

Derek leaned back in his chair as you passed by. “Pretty boy, you forgive little miss?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, a hint of his usual teasing tone laced with genuine curiosity about the status of your relationship.

Spencer, without missing a beat and squeezing your hand slightly, replied with false seriousness, “No, just leading her on,” his eyes twinkling with mischief as he played along with Derek’s banter.

“Oh perfect,” Emily laughed from her desk nearby, relief evident in her voice. She caught your eye, giving you a small, hopeful smile, her own guilt and desire for forgiveness palpable. Her comment, though light-hearted, carried an undercurrent of hope that Spencer’s playful demeanor might be a good sign for their own reconciliation.

Spencer's smirk grew wider at Emily's response, and he gave a playful nod, “Yeah, she doesnt know though, can you keep a secret?”

"I think you know I can," Emily had said, her laugh echoing.

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

tag list <333 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44