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luveline · 2 days ago

Note

Missing hotchner reader❤️❤️

hotch and spencer have to work together to look after you when things get really hard. fem, 3.3k

cw cptsd episodes and descrips of abuse

Adoption isn’t as permanent as people might think —they can give you back anytime they want. So when the oldest Hotchner started hitting you, it wasn’t that different to a previous placement, nobody was watching over you, and you were so afraid of losing your new brother that you didn’t say a word.

You knew, reasonably, that if Aaron was to find out about how his father (your father) had been treating you, he’d report it to your caseworker or the police or somebody and you would be removed from the Hotchner household. And Aaron was the first person you’d ever met to care about you, really care, maybe even love, so you hid it all away and you told him that things were fine. You do it for years.

You move out, you go to college. Aaron moves you into a nice apartment a few streets away from his own, and for a while, life is good. You meet his coworker, Spencer, and you get along. Spencer takes you on dates to cinemas and patisseries and he buys you cuddly plushies with hearts sewn into their hands at Valentine’s. By all accounts, things should be good.

You can’t breathe, is the problem. Somebody has their hand raised to hit you again and you can’t do anything about it, you just have to take it, because you’re useless, because you deserve it, because you’re a drain on everything and everyone and you aren’t worth the trouble, you deserve the hit. You’re so sorry.

“I know,” someone murmurs quietly, a sensation on your shoulder. You wait for it to close around the back of your neck. “I know. It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, barely, a breath of sound.

“You don’t have to be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

But you did, you did, he was in a bad mood to begin with and you hit his glass of scotch right off the table, smashed glass and wasted drink and a bad mood made worse. He should’ve hit you by now. He’s waiting for you to sit up. He doesn’t like to hit the back of your head, but he will if you cower long enough.

“Honey,” the voice says, right by your ear, “I’m not going to hit you, do you hear me? I am never, ever going to hit you.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t care that you knocked the glass over. I don’t care at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Can you look at me? I promise,” —he emphasises until his voice burns— “I am not going to hit you.”

Aaron sounds upset enough to force your gaze. You look at him through your lashes, ready to shut your eyes if this is a trick, but he has his hands flat in front of you and he’s completely still.

“Sweetheart,” he says, so unlike himself, “I wouldn’t hit you over a glass. I wouldn’t hit you if you did it on purpose. I wouldn’t hit you if you smashed every piece of glassware in this apartment for fun.”

He’s hit you for less.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, waiting for a reaction you can’t give, “do you want me to go away?”

It’s a good question. Do you want him to leave? Immediately, everything inside of you says No. He’s gonna hit you just like the last time you smashed his drink, out of the blue, ‘cos didn’t mean to doesn’t matter. But you don’t want Aaron to go. He’s the only person who’s ever loved you properly.

“It’s okay, just hit me,” you say, staring at him, pleading with him not to even as you ask for it, “it’s my fault.”

“Not gonna hit you,” he says, reaching for you now, even when you flinch, he holds you by the arms and he stares at you hard.

“It’s okay,” you say.

“It’s not okay. It won’t fix anything.”

“I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.” Aaron rubs your arms in tandem, shaking his head, a trace of panic in his eyes you’d missed until now.

It’s Aaron. Aaron’s never hit you.

“You never deserve to have someone put their hands on you,” he says, practically murmurs, “I’m sorry I let that happen.”

“I lied to you.”

“I know. I know you did, honey.” He shakes his head gently. “It’s not your fault.”

“I hit the glass over,” you say, And he hit me so hard I couldn’t hear right for hours. You still remember the way it shocked you, because you’d started to expect it but you were still surprised he’d bother with such a hard hit, that he could get that angry about it.

“I thought it was just me,” he murmurs, sorry, clutching at you like he needs you to listen. “I never should’ve left you in that house, but I thought it was just me. It was only ever… me.”

You already know —you’ve had this conversation before. He’s apologised already.

He cups your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“No. I’m never angry with you.”

You come to yourself in fits. You’re kneeling on the floor not far from the table, the mess of glass, half still intact and cupping a few sips of scotch. Aaron’s kneeling right next to you, still in his suit, hasn’t been home long, you were waiting for him. You used your key because you didn’t want to be home alone. Today’s been a bad day. You’ve felt stringy and strange for hours and you knew seeing Aaron would set it right. That Aaron would make you feel better through force of will.

And then you’d knocked his drink off the table and both of you had startled, and he’d said, “Wait, don’t, you’ll hurt yourself,” but all your brain heard was You.

You. What could be said to mean more than that?

“You’re not gonna hit me,” you whisper.

“Never.”

“Can you help me up?” you ask, half apart from yourself. Your head is back, but your legs won’t cooperate.

“Where do you want to go? The kitchen?” he asks, leaning so you can wrap your arms behind his head. He lifts you up with some effort on his part, adjusting you, and leading you together to the kitchen to sit you at the island bar. “Sit tight. I’ll clean the glass, okay? It won’t take long.”

You don’t want him to go, but you don’t wanna say no.

Time away from him is good, in a way. It makes you remember who you actually are outside of the bad memory. It hammers home that this is Aaron’s apartment, your big brother, your number one supporter. There’s a picture of you and Jack right there on the fridge stuck by an alphabet magnet. Aaron’s never hit you before and it’s not going to change now, because he is nothing like his dad.

He’s never really seen you act like this, though, and you aren’t excited for what he has to say next. He has a penchant for seeing you at your worst and building you back up again. It shouldn’t be his problem, but it is.

He brushes the glass into a dustpan and unloads it into a bag, which he trashes. You watch him wet a paper towel and wipe it across the floor for the shavings.

When he’s drying his hands on a towel, you summon the courage to apologise. “Aaron, I’m… I’m sorry. Sorry.”

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t look much like the other Hotchner’s. He’s dark-haired like his mother, and he smiles with all kindness. You never saw anything so soft at home, not unless he was there to visit. It’s a wonder he ever bothered getting to know you, already living his life very much outside of the household, and shouldn’t he have moved on? If it were you, if there were another kid in the house right now, could you go back? Knowing how you were treated?

“I love you,” he says. “You know that?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think you could understand why I don’t want you to say sorry, or be sorry, because of that?”

You smile weakly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? Because if Jack were in here today, and he had hit that drink over, you couldn’t have hit him. Could you?”

“Of course not.”

He’s mildly guilty for the example, you can tell, but it cements the sentiment in your mind and he can see that. “When you love someone, you don’t hit them. We just can’t do it.”

“I just… just– you– I got all mixed up in my head.”

“I know.”

“Thought you were him,” you say tightly, quietly.

“I know. Is that the first time you’ve had something like that happen? Like you weren’t sure where you were?”

Your face crumples of its own accord, heat clogging your nose and throat and lining the backs of your eyes. “No… but it hasn’t been that many times…”

“The bad panic attack at work a few weeks ago, was that like this?”

“No, that was just that I couldn’t breathe right. I– I had one with Spencer.”

Aaron frowns, but he speaks kindly, “When was that?”

“A couple of days ago…” You stare at your hands.

“We don’t have to talk about it. But I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“He told me to tell you, but it– I thought he’d break up with me, after, but he hasn’t, so I’ve just been waiting.”

“Honey, I don’t think this is the sort of thing that could make Spencer break up with you. He cares too much.”

“You don’t understand, I– I begged him not to touch me, Aaron. I really scared him.”

With Spencer, it was late. You asked him to stay the night on a limb, and you’d forgotten he was there sleeping beside you, met him in a dark hallway, where he asked what you were doing out of bed. It’s late. You shouldn’t be up.

His hand had settled just behind your neck. He won’t touch you there anymore.

“If there’s something you want to tell me–”

“I want it to go away,” you say.

“It’s not going to be that easy.” He takes a big, deep breath. “You could’ve told me this was happening,” he promises.

“I didn’t want you to know that I– lied so much. Sometimes I can’t believe I let him do it.”

Your tone, quiet and calm and a juxtaposition to the ache in your chest, couldn’t hurt him worse. You're familiar with the pain on Aaron’s face, how it makes him do this sorry smile, how he tries hard not to give it away. “If anyone let him hurt you, it was me.”

“What?”

“I knew he was unkind to you. I knew he shouted. I didn’t try hard enough to get you away.”

“Aaron–”

“If you’re going to blame someone, it has to be me.”

It’s ridiculous. If you hadn’t had Aaron, you would’ve been completely miserable to the marrow of your bones. He’s the last person on earth you’d blame for the way you’re feeling now, so when a tear wells in your eyes, when it hits your cheek in a splash, you let him tut and wrap his arms behind you.

“It’s my fault,” you insist, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“No.”

“It’s my fault, I hit the glass–”

“No, no, it’s not your fault.”

“I’m really s–sorry.”

“It’s gonna be okay, honey. Just breathe. Just take a deep breath for me. I promise you I’m not mad about the glass.”

“Maybe you should be.”

He holds your forehead to his chin, clutching you to him, reassuring and a little too tight. “I’m not mad at you.”

You can’t make yourself believe him.

—

Spencer isn’t expecting to get waylaid by Hotch at Rossi’s dinner party. He can’t think of what he did wrong. You’re happy with him, clingy lately, which he loves, and as smart and sweet as ever, and work is great. Spencer’s a good agent and a better profiler.

Hotch looks so serious that he follows him in silence, squeezing his coke neck like a lifeline.

“I want Y/N to be assessed for PTSD, and I need to know that you’re going to support her,” he says simply.

Spencer searches the backyard for you. You’re laying down in the grass with Jack, Henry, and Penelope. It’s getting late, barely any sunshine left, but nobody’s wanted to ruin the fun and call it a night yet. You don’t fuss as Jack throws himself sideways across your chest.

“Did something happen?” Spencer asks.

“She had an… event. She told me about a similar incident with you the other night. That she panicked and got confused about who you were.”

Spencer nods. “Yeah, I– yeah. I caught her by surprise.”

“That’s the only time it’s happened?”

“Yeah. She’s told me a little about it.”

“About the episode?”

“Everything. And it’s obvious?” He enthuses it with apology, worried he’ll offend Hotch if he says something too blatant, but desperate to be honest. “Most of the time she’s this– she’s amazing, she’s like this light, and then sometimes it’s like she thinks I don’t like her? Like I don’t want to be near her, or like she thinks I’m gonna hurt her.”

Hotch lets his eyebrows rise a little. “Yeah.”

“She cried so much that I didn’t know what to do.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that part, she already told me you made her feel better,” Hotch says quietly. Neither of them mention what they know, how you’d begged Spencer to stay after the episode, how sorry you’d been, how desperate Spencer was to calm you down. “But if you can’t do it in the long run, you need to know now. I can’t start this with her and have you duck out halfway through. I know,” —Hotch gives him a fond smile, half-knocking the wind from him— “that you care about her, and I know it’s not my place to come to you on her behalf, but I’m going to do it anyhow, and you know why I am.”

“What do you mean?” he says, though he knows.

“I’m saying I think she’s going to get worse before she gets better. She’s not well right now.”

“I know she isn’t.”

“I trust you, Spencer. I care about you, too. But she’s going to be my priority, and if you can’t be there for her then it has to be done now... I’m worried she’s going to get really low.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says genuinely. Spencer’s not defensive, only urgent. “Hotch, I more than care about her.”

Hotch nods. “Okay. Good, because I need your help. You have to vet these doctors for me, I have a preliminary list. I’ll send it to you.”

“Wait, have you talked to her about this?”

“I said we’d talk to a doctor. I promised I’d talk to you about it. She’s… I don’t know, she’s scared.”

Spencer straightens up. You have nothing to be scared of with him, not his reaction, not his lack of support. He wishes Hotch had had more faith in him, but none of this is about him. Someone hurt you, and now you have to put yourself back together again.

The kids have disappeared. Penelope’s climbing onto her feet and offering you a hand, but you stay laying down in the grass.

“I really care about her,” Spencer says.

Hotch clasps his shoulder. “Are you going, or am I?”

“I’ll take this one, please.”

“Sure.”

Spencer trudges around the side of the yard, past the bench and the tables and the string lights on the patio to where you’re laying in the bluegrass, eyes nearly closed. “Is this seat taken?” he asks, nudging your hip with his shoe lightly.

“No, sir.”

Spencer sits down in the grass. He finds your wrist to hold.

“You okay?”

“Did Aaron talk to you about the doctor?”

“Yeah, he did. You want to go?”

“What do you think?”

Spencer rubs your pulse. “I think it’s good. If you were having headaches, we’d go to the doctor.”

“Headaches that make me not know who you are.”

“Especially that kind.”

You turn a bit and give him an amused smile. “Sorry I was too scared to say more about it.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Spencer brings a cautious hand to your cheek. He sees the flicker of hurt it brings —you don’t like that he’s careful how, but how can he not be, remembering the way he’d touched your neck and the wound it seemed to inflict in the dark— but he tries to caress it away. “I’m with you,” he says, “I care about you. I want to take care of you, as much or as little as you might need that from me.”

Your eyes fall closed. “It might be nice.”

“What would?”

“To be taken care of by you.”

“I’ll try my best.”

You cover his hand with your own. JJ laughs across the yard, and Jack and Henry shout battle cries. Hotch says, “Jack! Not so rough, buddy!” and makes you laugh.

“Did he intimidate you?” you ask.

“No more than usual. He said I have to decide if I can do this with you.”

You squirm and attempt to sit. If Spencer weren’t nervous about touching you, he’d force you back down. “He shouldn’t have.”

“No, he should. But I already decided.” Spencer finds your fingers, lacing them with his. “It wasn’t really a decision, actually. I want to do this with you, but only if that’s okay with you.”

You nod slowly. “I already said it’d be nice if you took care of me,” you whisper, letting your face dip downward.

He chances a kiss pressed to your temple.

You laugh under your breath. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

“Did you?” he asks, giving your back a rub like a wave.

“It’s different. I knew what was happening to me.”

“Angel, you didn’t have a choice,” he says, so quiet he’s surprised when you hear it. “I know you’re… What?” he asks, perturbed when you shake your head.

“You and Aaron…”

You never finish. Spencer can’t make you. He holds your shoulder until the tension under his hand unfurls, relaxing his touch when you decide to lay down in the grass again, quietly asking him to lay with you.

“Be ready for Jack to use you like a trampoline,” you warn, taking his hand.

He has a feeling Hotch will keep Jack away for a while.

Spencer traces the back of your hand with his thumb, over and over. He’s sorry he didn’t know you five years ago, sorry you were alone, sorry someone put their hands on you. He’s sorry you learned to anticipate physical abuse in the wake of mistakes. He’s sorry he can’t take it away from you, ‘cos from the second you took his hand at that park a street from his apartment he’s been a goner, all you had to do was jump up on the lip of the fountain and trust him not to let you fall. He remembers how that felt, the zinging sparks travelling from the palm of your hand into his, the romanticism of two arms stretched apart and your slow circle. And when you fell in, you didn’t blame him, you just laughed and scrambled back out, squealing excitedly about your wet shoes.

It’ll get better, he thinks. Even if it gets worse first. You’ll feel better soon.

He turns his cheek into the grass and beckons you forward for a kunik kiss, nose pressed to yours, wanting to kiss you like he would if you were at home together, and knowing this is enough too.

“You okay?” he asks.

“It’s getting cold.”

Spencer agrees, but neither of you attempt to move.

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reidrum · 2 days ago

Text

i can do a lot with fifteen minutes

note: short n sweet deluxe dropped halfway through writing this and basically she wrote fifteen minutes for this fic specifically. user reidrum is feeling festive so we are pink today, happy valentine's day friends <3

summary: in which you and spencer don't make it out the door on date night

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, p in v sex, fingering, oral (m receiving), mirror usage, switch!spencer (shocking for me too), reader wears a dress and lingerie, fluff, hot losers in love, this is pure filth actually

wc: 3.8k

The green satin dress held against you in front of the mirror is beautiful, flattering. The modest length with light ruching accentuates your figure like an ethereal being. Fairy like, angel like as Spencer loves to liken you to.

The red silk dress is dangerous. With a slit leaving little to imagination, the deep hue reflects off your skin like a siren waiting to trick the sorry sailor into submitting. It’s a weapon almost, and you’re not sure if you’re willing to wield it tonight on a small dinner date.

The question was whether you wanted to look dangerously alluring or divinely beautiful. Your head turns at the sound of footsteps and your breath hitches as you catch a glimpse of Spencer walking past the door dressed in dark slacks and a dark maroon button up, tie undone around his neck. Mismatched socks, of course.

You go with the red one.

You remove it from the hanger and gently slip it over your body, sliding the straps over your shoulders and reaching back to pull the zipper up. Realizing the zipper is too high for you to do it on your own, you call in reinforcements.

“Spencer!” you call out, “Can you come help me zip up please?”

“Sure baby, give me one second!” he calls back from down the hall.

You cross an arm over your chest to hold the dress in place while you grab the necklace Spencer had gifted you earlier that day, twisting awkwardly to put it on but eventually successful. You bend back down to look for the matching earrings, digging through your drawers and jewelry dishes. Your fingers rummage through the mess and you finally find them, grinning at your small win before gasping in surprise at the hands that encircle your waist.

“Shit, Spence. You scared me.” you chuckle, straightening up to press against his chest with your back.

His hands roam around your lower waist while pressing and gripping in the places he knows so intimately, a chaste kiss to your shoulder, “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. You want me to zip it up now?”

You gently part from his arms and walk over to the mirror again, “Let me just adjust it first and then you can.” He nods and follows you, standing a few steps behind you as he watches you fix the straps and lay of the dress. Spencer can never get used to this part, he might never for as long as you allow him the grace of being in your life. You meet his eyes again in the mirror and smile softly, “Okay, can you?”

He returns your smile with pure affection and steps to be only an inch behind you, his proximity giving leeway to invasion by your perfume. The sweet smell surrounds every fiber of him and threatens to render him useless, but he perseveres and clears his throat in hopes of him tethering himself back down. He raises his fingers to your shoulders and ghosts along the curve until he reaches the nape of your neck. Your shiver doesn’t go unnoticed when Spencer tenderly brushes your hair to the side giving him clear access to the zipper.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You meet his eyes again through the mirror, one of his hands on your waist while the other is brushing your hair to one side. Your heart is beating rapidly, sensing the intense intimacy and energy radiating from the moment. With a shaky exhale you reply, “Yeah just, felt a breeze.”

He hums in acknowledgment and the corners of his lips twitch up in a knowing manner from behind you, completely aware you’re not able to see it. He moves his hand from his waist to hover at the base of the zipper near your lower back, his breath hitching as he spots your lace panties peeking out of the opening. His finger grazes the fabric unintentionally as he grips the zipper and begins to slowly pull it up. The small jump you give makes his hand return to your waist, holding you harder so you don’t move around.

The sound of the zipper winding up fills the silence in the room, the accidental brushes of his fingers against your bare skin sending electric shocks throughout your body. By the time he reaches the top his shaky breaths are hitting warm on your nape, making no move to back away.

You smile, “Thank you.”

His hands don’t leave you, they return back to their rightful place encircled around you. “Is this a new dress?” he murmurs.

You wrap your own arms on top of his and lean back into him, a small smirk gracing your face as you sense the intention of your dress choice starting to settle. “Yeah, just got it on a whim. You like it?”

Spencer swallows, “I love it, I’ll buy you one of these in every color. It can be the only thing you ever wear.”

A giggle escapes you, and Spencer smiles widely. He looks at you again through the mirror and takes in your whole appearance. You’ve always had a natural beauty to you that Spencer admired and marveled at constantly, but when you got all dressed up? For him? There aren’t enough neurons in his brain that will ever make him understand how the Aphrodite reincarnate is in love with him. He thanks any and every god watching for blessing him in this way.

“You smell so good,” he groans, “You wash your hair? It’s so soft, I could nap in it. The necklace looks pretty on you, ‘m glad you like it. God, I love you so much.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head back into his neck and pressing a kiss to his lower jaw, “I love you too.” He returns a kiss to your cheek and lets his lips travel about your body like a map.

His lips trail the open skin of your shoulders, “You look,” kiss, “so beautiful,” kiss, “This color,” kiss, kiss, “Didn’t think I’d like red this much.” Kiss. Hold. Release.

“You should see what I have underneath.” your voice holds a teasing lilt.

Spencer freezes behind you, his resolve breaking and crumbling by the second. “Sweetheart, don’t tease me. We won’t make it out the door if you do.”

A few moments pause, then you speak barely above a whisper, “And what if I want that?”

He locks eyes with you again through the mirror, the silent communication between you both confirming you’re on the same page. The mischief floods his eyes. “Then you’ll get it.”

It was an unconscious decision to place the mirror in front of the bed—the only place where it fit logistically. But Spencer likes to think it was a subconscious decision in that you hoped one day it would serve its purpose in the way you wanted.

Which secretly may have been the way he wanted, but it’s a mutualistic win either way.

He releases you from his arm and walks back to sit on the edge of the bed. Before you can mourn the loss of his warmth he speaks with a low rasp, “Come here.”

You stare at him doe eyed, stunned into paralysis somehow. His smirk only grows wider when he realizes he’s slowly rendering you defenseless. He holds a hand out for you, “Just come here, baby. Want to show you something.”

The autopilot finally kicks in and you take a few steps closer to stand in front of him. Once you’re within reach he slides his hands up the sides of your waist, gently nudging you, “Turn around.”

Satisfied when you listen, his hands pull your hips down to perch you in his lap facing the mirror. He secures your waist with an arm and rubs the other over the expanse of your bare thighs. Your eyes flutter shut with the warm contact flushing through your skin, head falling to rest atop his given your slight height advantage whilst sat on his lap. The position gives him perfect access to the crevice of your neck allowing him to lean up and attach to the sensitive skin there, delicately suckling before moving up to the crest of your ear.

“You know, studies have shown that watching yourself be pleasured through a mirror has proven to be a more intense experience than normal.”

He hooks his legs around your ankles and parts them open. You gasp at the sudden rush of cold air between your thighs, finding yourself unable to close them even if you tried. He gently grips your jaw and slowly turns your face to meet the mirror again.

“Look how pretty you are sitting on my lap, baby.” he coos, “All pliant and perfect. I could do whatever I want with you,” a soft whine leaves you, he chuckles, “Would you like that? Watch me let me have my way with you?”

“Spence,” you whisper, “I…”

His lips ghost your ear, “What is it, pretty girl? What do you need?”

You whimper as his fingers start to trace tantalizing circles up your legs into your upper thigh.

“Can’t do anything if you don’t tell me. Be a good girl and use your words.”

You curse softly, “Fuck, W—Want you…to touch me…please.”

Spencer wickedly grins, “Such good manners,” His hand delves between your thighs and lightly traces the outline of your panties, “Want you to watch yourself while I touch you, okay?”

You nod, he stops. You panic, “Y—Yes, okay.”

He finally applies pressure to your core and you let out a shuddered breath, his finger dragging up and down and circling at the top creating a beautifully addicting friction. You moan softly and tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder and he tuts, “Eyes up, sweetheart.”

You’re about to protest when his finger hooks onto the side of your panties and settles between your folds, dipping down to swipe at your entrance and spreading the wetness all over you. A languish moan breaks from your throat as your eyes are fixated on the mirror, watching his hand work in between your legs. Spencer hasn’t taken his eyes off you either, though does he ever, equally entranced at the way you react to his ministrations.

He prods at your hole as you attempt to buck your hips up, his arm clamping you down and closer to him, “It’s okay, shh I got you. Always got you, yeah?” His finger finally slides inside you and you let out a deep groan feeling the motion of him slipping in and out of you so easily, “So wet, baby. Doesn’t take too much to get you like this, huh?”

“Spence…” you whine, “More,,,please.”

“I know, patience, pretty girl.” slyly slipping in a second finger, “Doing so good f’me, look how beautiful you are.”

You force your eyes back to the mirror and a fresh wave of intoxication invades you as you clock the heavy rise and fall of your chest, the lewd sound of his fingers working you to your peak. He was right, you looked hot. It’s like you’ve unlocked a new level of sensuality that you didn’t even know existed and seeing yourself in this way only adds to the building tension.

He speeds up ever so slightly and feels you clench irregularly around his fingers, he lets his thumb drag up to your clit and rub lazy circles around it. The moans fall out of you with no control anymore as you feel your peak approaching fast. Spencer whispers praises, coaxing you closer to the edge, “Look at yourself when you come.”

The dam breaks and gratification floods throughout your body, you watch yourself as you see it take a hold of you so carnally. His fingers don’t stop inside you, slowly working you through your orgasm watching alongside you in the mirror with awe. Eventually he removes himself from your core not breaking eye contact with you as he raises his fingers to your mouth, you opening up without hesitation and swirling your tongue around them. His breath stutters, he’s so in love with you it hurts.

You’re still deep in the haze of coming down from your high, waiting for your senses to calibrate and remember where you even are when the sound of a zipper pulls you back down instead.

“Spence?” you ask breathlessly.

He hums, “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Said I should see what you have underneath, just taking up your offer baby. That okay?” The zipper hits the base of your dress just at the crest of your panties, the rush of air invading your back.

It’s like a click goes off in your head as soon as you’ve fully calmed down and you remember what your initial plan for the night was. A slow grin crawls onto your face.

“More than okay, in fact let me show you.” You stand up slowly making a point to jut your hips back to him as you make a show of sliding the dress down your body.

Now, Spencer is very much used to feeling breathless around you. It’s basically a default setting for him at this point. But as you turn around to face him with the smugly innocent smile on your face and slowly sink to your knees before him clad in the lace set he so bravely thought he could handle with conviction, his heart makes a mockery of him by stopping in protest of the nerve he had.

The clinking of his belt draws his focus back to the moment as he watches you undo it with the button and zipper, nudging him to lift his hips so you can pull them down. He listens blindly like he’s trapped under a spell. The siren effect, the zealous sailor who believes himself to be strong enough to brave the seas for so long only to succumb to the temptations of the siren song.

He never stood a chance.

Your hand comes up to palm him through his boxers, licking your lips with a smirk as you trace over the wet patch. The alternating pressure causes Spencer’s breath to huff deeper, impatiently. He has to suppress a whine when your fingers finally reach his waistband and painstakingly peel it back to take him out.

It’s your turn to tut at him, “You were so talkative just now, don’t stop on my account.” Your thumb and pointer form a ring around him and you slowly drag it up and down his length, tightening around him at different points.

“Baby, don’t tease me please.” he begs.

“What, like you did? I’d never be so cruel, my love.” you say innocently. You lean down and lick a stripe on him from base to tip, letting your tongue swirl around the head. Choked gasps and curses fall from his lips as you sink your mouth down on him, taking him as far back as you can. He tries to feel a little bad as his hand flies to your hair, your beautifully done hair, but he can’t bring himself to care when he hits the back of your throat and you gag a little before pulling back slightly. His hands gather your hair in a makeshift ponytail and watches with bated breath as you bob your head up and down on him. His eyes wander up behind you, remembering the mirror and the sight staring back at him is so pornographically obscene the loud whimper leaves him without warning.

Much to his soft protests you remove your mouth from and continue to lazily stroke him. He pouts down at you, “Wh–Why’d you stop?”

With another kiss to his tip you rise to your full height and push him back to lie flat on the bed, his legs bent at the edge with the backs of his calves flush with the bed. “Because I want you to come inside me, is that okay?” you say with such blunt honesty it goes straight to his groin.

He swallows hard, “God, yeah sweet girl that’s okay. Come here.”

You move your hands to your back to remove your bra before Spencer protests again, “Wait, keep it on.”

You raise your eyebrows before grinning widely, “Any other requests?”

“Kiss?”

Your eyes soften, climbing atop him to straddle him on each side of his hips. You cup his jaw gently and lean down pressing your lips gingerly to his, whispering a low “Love you” before pulling back all the way. Spencer gazes up at you like you hold the answers to everything in the universe, like you are the answer to everything in the universe. He would gladly spend the rest of his life searching for the unknown if it meant reaching you at the end of it all.

“Love you too.”

You hook a finger over your panties and drag it to the side and position yourself over him, teasing yourself with his tip before slowly starting to sink down on him. The joint whine from you both rings about the room as you bottom out above him, his hands flying to your hips to hold you in place. He breathes out heavily, trying to think about literally anything else besides how tight you feel wrapped around him, how hard he’s refraining from bucking his hips up into you, how the blissed out look on your face is enough to make him come on sight and he hasn’t even moved at all.

“Feel so full, Spence,” you raise your hips tentatively, “Need to move, please,”

Like he’d ever say no to you. “Okay baby, I got you,”

You start to move with fervor, Spencer’s hand glued to your waist guiding you as you set the pace. You place your hands on his chest to give yourself leverage as you bounce on his cock, lewd moans and curses mixing with the sounds of your bodies meeting and him moving in and out of you.

Spencer feels delirious, meeting your hips as they clamp down on him with his own thrusts. You attempt to quicken your pace, but your wobbly legs cause your hips to stutter irregularly. He senses your struggle and plants his feet on the bed and tugs you to lay on his chest.

“Hold on, okay?”

You hazily nod and let Spencer take over as he ruts up into you at a pace you can barely comprehend. His hands are pressed into your hips so hard you know it’s going to leave beautiful imprints. He groans when you clench around him tightly again, and it’s then you feel your second orgasm of the night approaching fast, “Spence… ‘m close.”

“It’s okay baby, I got you. You can let go.” he whispers.

The second wave of your climax hits you hard, effectively sending your mind in reeling circles before you land back down in his arms. He continues to chase his own high and spills into you a few seconds later, lazily thrusting you both as you ascend back down to this realm.

You lay limp over his body making no intention to move and Spencer going soft inside you. He smooths your hair back while pressing kisses to the crown of your head.

“You look like an angel,” he murmurs with a soft kiss to your nose, “You are an angel.”

A soft smile spreads on your face pressing into his neck with a laugh, “You always say that after.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You lift your head up a little to look into his hazel brown eyes and pepper kisses all over his face before landing soundly on his mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you, angel.”

“I don’t think we’re going to make our reservation anymore.” you sigh out and wrap your arms around his body, making yourself comfortable atop Spencer. He breathes out, “I already canceled it, don’t worry.”

“What? When did you do that?”

“When I realized you were wearing this dress I called them before I came in to help you.” he admits sheepishly.

You chuckle, “Lost before we even started, think that’s a new record for me.”

He flips you over with a yelp, “Think I need to redeem myself, don’t you think?”

“How do you suppose we do that?”

“I have a couple ideas.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x self insert #criminal minds fanfiction

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minswriting · 3 days ago

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ONLY NEED ME - Spencer Reid x Reader

About: You were scrolling on your phone, swiping left and right on tinder to find a date. Spencer finds you scrolling on your phone and asks what you’re doing. So you tell him you are looking for someone to hookup with. He decides to show you that you don’t need anyone but him.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, oral (f), pussy drunk Spencer, jealous spencer

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: happy valentine‘s day my little sluts. although this isn’t valentine’s day themed, let’s pretend that it is lol. i hope you guys enjoy!

It was a rare day when there were no cases and yet, you were still required to come into work, just in case something happened. Usually, these days consisted of paperwork, going over recently solved cases to ensure nothing was missed and that everything had followed protocol. But for a team that is so action-based, having to do paperwork was entirely boring for everyone except Spencer, who was engrossed at his desk, the one across from yours, reading every file intently.

Meanwhile, you were sitting at your desk, mindlessly scrolling on your phone. It had been a long time since you had sex. With your line of work, it’s hard to find time to do anything outside the realm of your job. So you were doing what any normal person would do nowadays: resort to dating apps. You were scrolling on Tinder, mindlessly swiping left and right on people you thought were and weren’t attractive. You stopped at a certain profile, trying to decide if someone was cute or not and if you’d actually be willing to have them in your pants.

JJ walked past your desk and glanced at your phone. “Oh? Who’s this?” She asked, standing next to your chair.

You glanced at JJ before looking back at your phone. “Some random guy,” You said, showing her your phone. “Do you think he’s cute?”

JJ shook her head no, a small grimace on your face. “You can do much better, sweetheart,” She said, her grimace becoming a smile. “Are you finally looking to meet someone?”

You laughed, shaking your head no. “I’m just looking to get dick,” you replied bluntly, giving JJ a cheeky grin.

JJ laughed, nodding her head. “I get it,” she said, sighing. “Will and I haven’t had our alone time in weeks,” She rolled her eyes.

You pout in sympathy before swiping away the guy on your phone. “Do you want to help me look for the perfect person?” You asked.

JJ nodded her head, grabbed a random chair, and pulled it up to your desk. “Hell yeah, give it to me,” She grinned as she looked over your shoulder at your phone.

Unbeknownst to you and JJ, Spencer, though his attention looked as though it were on the files, had a frown on his face. To anyone, it would look as though he were deep in thought. But actually, it was due to listening in on your conversation with JJ. Why did you have to resort to some stupid dating app? Shouldn’t you know better than to trust random strangers on the internet? That’s like kind of what your job is about. Spencer felt a gross feeling in his chest, something he hadn’t felt before. Perhaps he’s been attracted to you since you joined the team some time ago and the idea of you seeking someone else for pleasure made him jealous. Not that he’d actively admit that.

As you and JJ sat there, talking and giggling with one another about random people you see on your phone, Spener bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his attention on the files in front of him. His jaw was clenched, and his hair tousled all over the place. It wasn’t until it was finally time for everyone to go home that he could get some peace and quiet. As everyone, including you, exited the bullpen to go home, Spencer remained alone with his thoughts for a little while longer.

He thought about you going on a date with some random person. How you’d get yourself all dolled up and beautiful for some random loser who likely wouldn’t even know where the clitoris is. Spencer may not have the most experience in the world but he definitely knows where the clitoris is located. He groaned to himself, realizing that his jealousy was consuming him. He rubbed his eyes before sitting back in his chair. And then, Spencer came to a sudden realization, causing him to quickly stand up and grab his satchel before leaving the Bureau.

You were in your apartment, sitting on your couch as you looked through the television channels. You were dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, your hair mostly dry but still a bit damp from the shower you took when you had gotten home from work. You were originally going to see about possibly going on a date tonight but instead, you opted to stay home, too exhausted to really want to go out and meet anyone.

You didn’t particularly care to actually date anyone. Your desires are always laid elsewhere, with a very specific coworker you had. And unfortunately, you could not have this specific coworker as it would break so many Bureau rules. But you were allowed to have your thoughts, thank you very much. And if those thoughts included thinking of Spencer pounding into you and whispering praises into your ear then that was your own volition.

It was currently eight o’clock in the evening when there was a knock on your apartment door. You glanced at the clock before standing up from the couch and walking to the door. You looked out of the peephole, seeing Spencer standing there looking a bit disheveled. You opened the door, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion as you looked at the brown-haired man in front of you. “Spencer…?” You asked. “What are you-”

“You know, some people use dating apps to target potential victims for violence or sexual assault,” Spencer interrupted you. “Which is why you shouldn’t use dating apps.”

Your look of confusion remained on your face. “You know, that could’ve been a text,” you replied sarcastically.

Spencer bit his lip, looking at you. “Maybe,” he replied. He looked you up and down, taking in your appearance. You were always so beautiful at work, dressed in mostly professional, sometimes casual clothing with light makeup on your face. But right now, you were ethereal. Dressed in lounging clothes with your hair perfectly natural and no makeup on your face. At that moment, Spencer didn’t understand why you even bothered to get yourself dressed up each day when you were perfect just the way you were.

“Why are you here?” You asked softly, noticing the way Spencer was looking at you. You didn’t question it, however.

Spencer remained silent for a few seconds, trying to think of a proper response to give you. He hadn’t completely thought this through when he made the sudden decision to visit you. Finally, he spoke, “Do you want me to leave?”

You shook your head. “No!” You responded immediately. “I just- I’m surprised you’re here is all.” You bit your lip nervously. You hadn’t invited Spencer in yet and that had suddenly dawned on you. You moved to the side, allowing Spencer to step inside before closing the door behind him. You leaned against the door, looking at Spencer as he turned to look at you.

“You shouldn’t resort to dating apps,” He spoke. You furrowed your eyebrows at Spencer, confused as to why he would come here just to tell you that. Just as you were about to respond, Spencer cut you off by speaking once more. “Not when I could help you.”

“What?” Your voice came out more hoarse than you intended.

Spencer cleared his throat, the only sign that his confidence had slightly diminished. “If you need someone to pleasure you, you don’t need to use dating apps when I’m right here,” he said again, rewording his earlier statement.

“Are you saying you want to have sex with me, Spencer?” You whispered, biting your bottom lip.

Spencer moved closer to you until he was right in front of you. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he murmured, licking his lips. “Is that okay?”

“Y-yes,” you stuttered.

Spencer nodded his head. A silence overcame the two of you before he spoke again, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Okay,” you responded.

Spencer leaned in and gently kissed your lips. It was nervous and hesitant, as if unsure if you’d actually want to kiss him or not. But when you kissed him back, Spencer became more sure of himself as he kissed you deeply. He brought his hands to your cheeks, cupping them. The two of you moved in sync, kissing one another slowly. Eventually, Spencer pulled away slightly to look into your eyes as you stared back at him. The gaze the two of you had held a hunger that neither of you had admitted to yourselves in the entire time you’d been working together.

Spencer kissed you again, this time more roughly and hungrily. A soft noise escaped your lips from the roughness but it wasn’t unwelcome whatsoever. As the two of you kissed, you gently pushed him around the apartment to try and get to the bedroom. Spencer accidentally bumped into a side table, causing a vase to fall to the ground but luckily it didn’t break. “Whoops,” he said, pulling away from the kiss to look at it.

You put a hand on his chin. “Don’t worry about it,” you said as you pulled his face back to yours. The two of you continued moving throughout the apartment until you reached your bedroom. Spencer’s lips left yours and began kissing your jawline, making his way down to your neck. His touch was like feathers as he lightly kissed along your skin. His lips brushed against your pulse point, sending a shiver down your spine and causing you to clench your thighs. An action that wasn’t missed by Spencer.

“Needy?” He asked against your skin.

You nodded your head. “Very,” you whispered.

Spencer let out a hum as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt. He slowly pulled the material up, moving his head away from your neck so he could pull it off of you and tossing it to the side. You weren’t wearing a bra and Spencer couldn’t help but just look at you. “Can I touch you?” He breathed out, eyes locked on your tits.

“Yes, please,” You replied breathily.

He didn’t hesitate to use both of his hands to massage your tits, feeling the flesh in his hands. He thumbed your nipples, causing you to moan softly at the feeling. “You know, some women can orgasm just from having their nipples stimulated,” he murmured, eyes fixated on your breasts.

You let out a small laugh. “I don’t think I’m one of those people,” you exclaimed.

Spencer let out a hum as he leaned down and captured one of your nipples into his mouth. The action caused you to let out a whine as he tongued the nub, his hands still massaging your boobs. He moved to the other nipple, doing the exact same thing. Your cheeks were warm as felt the sparks of pleasure being sent down your spine. Eventually, Spencer pulled away, pressing gentle kisses along your chest before returning up your neck and to your lips.

He guided you to your mattress, sitting you down at the edge of the bed as he pulled away from you. You looked up at Spencer, watching Spencer as he got on his knees in front of you. “Do you want me to continue?” He asked softly.

You licked your lips, nodding your head. “Yes, please,” you murmured.

And that’s all Spencer needed to put his hands on the waistband of your sweatpants and pull them down, tossing the material to the side. You weren’t wearing underwear underneath, causing Spencer to let out a soft hum of approval. “I want to taste you,” he said, looking at you with his puppy brown eyes.

“Please do.” You whispered, biting your lip as you spread your legs for Spencer, revealing your cunt to him.

He let out a groan, his eyes immediately moving to look at your glistening pussy. Without hesitation, Spencer dived in, licking a strip down your slit and then back up, causing you to moan. Spencer hummed against your cunt, his eyes fluttering closed as he tasted you. His tongue began lapping around in figure-eights, teasing your clit with each flick. If you had told yourself that your night would end up with Spencer on his knees, eating you out, you would’ve laughed. And yet, here you were.

Spencer made out with your cunt, his lips moving against your pussy like you were the sustenance he needed to live. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on the nub. You let out a loud moan, bringing your hand to Spencer’s hair and tugging on his curls. The action alone caused Spencer to whimper against your cunt as it encouraged him more.

You were whining and moaning, relishing in the pleasure Spencer was giving you. No one had gone down on you in so long and you had almost forgotten what it had felt like. But Spencer? He was built for this. His face was sculpted to eat pussy. If you could live with Spencer’s head between your thighs for the rest of your life, you think you’d die a happy woman.

“Oh my god,” you whimpered, throwing your head back. Spencer hummed against your pussy, his tongue dipping into your hole while his nose rubbed against your clit. He was breathing in your cunt, drunk on your juices. You could feel yourself getting closer, causing you to buck your hips. “I’m gonna cum,” you whined. With a slurp to your clit, you gasped and let out a choked moan, thighs clamping against Spencer’s face as you arched your back. “Spencer!” you moaned his name as you came.

And when you finished, Spencer pulled away from your pussy. His face was glistening with your juices as he looked at you with a smirk. “You’re so beautiful,” he said huskily as he gently rubbed your thighs. “Did I do good?”

“So good,” you breathed out, smiling at Spencer.

“Then you don’t need anyone else, right?” He asked, standing up.

“I only need you, baby.” You replied, looking up at Spencer with a dazed look. “Now fuck me.”

Spencer grinned, undressing himself before crawling onto you. “Gladly.”

And after that, you begin a new journey with Spencer where you explore each other’s bodies. Why do you need to use dating apps when all you need is Spencer?

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminals minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader

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gf2bellamy · 23 hours ago

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devoted — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer sees you talking to a guy and he's jealous. what he doesn't know is that you're talking about him. content warnings: established relationship , drunk reader, guy hitting on reader, a/n: i actually meant to post something else today but then i ended up finishing this one instead so here we are

Spencer Reid lost sight of you for five minutes. He could swear it was just five minutes. Derek had asked him a question—something about a case, something Spencer immediately regretted answering because it sent him spiraling into one of his infamous rambles.

By the time he finished explaining the details of geographic profiling and its applications in modern criminal investigations, Derek looked equal parts impressed and exhausted. But when Spencer turned back to where you had been sitting, you were gone.

His heart skipped a beat. The bar was packed. Even with his tall frame, Spencer couldn’t see over the crowd. He craned his neck, his eyes scanning the room, but there was no sign of you.

Panic bubbled up in his chest. You had been drinking—a lot. And while you were usually responsible, the way you’d been rushing through your drinks tonight had him worried. The last time he’d seen you, your glass had been half full, but knowing you, you’d probably finished it and gone for another.

Which meant you were likely at the bar.

There was one bartender you particularly liked—a woman named Jess, who you’d once told Spencer was always sweet to you and even gave you a discount on your drinks. Spencer made a beeline for the bar, weaving through the crowd. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more alarming than the last.

And then he saw you. Relief flooded through him, but it was short-lived. Because there you were, perched on a barstool, your cheeks flushed and your eyes bright with the kind of uninhibited joy that only came with being very, very drunk.

But you weren’t alone. You were talking to a guy.

The guy was muscly, his broad frame towering over you as he leaned casually against the bar. His eyes were fixed on you, his gaze intense and unwavering, but Spencer barely noticed him.

All he could focus on was you.

Your eyes were dazed, glazed over slightly from the alcohol, but there was something else in them—a soft, lovey-dovey look that made Spencer’s chest ache. It was the same look he loved seeing when you smiled at him, the one that made his heart skip a beat.

But now, that look wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at him. The stranger. The guy who was standing too close, smiling too confidently, and staring at you like you were the only person in the room.

For a second, Spencer’s heart stopped. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like the way your eyes sparkled as you laughed at something you’d said, or the way your hands moved animatedly as you talked, your gestures exaggerated by the alcohol.

And he most definitely didn’t like the way the guy was staring at you.

Spencer bit his lip, his hands clenching at his sides as he stood frozen in the middle of the crowded bar. People bumped into him, muttering apologies as they pushed past, but he barely registered them. His entire focus was on you.

You were the one doing all the talking, your words tumbling out in a cheerful, slightly slurred stream, while the guy just stood there.

Spencer suddenly snapped out of his daze, his feet moving almost on their own as he walked slowly toward you.

“Hey,” he said as he stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. He pushed down the jealousy bubbling inside him, forcing himself to focus on what mattered—you. His hands settled gently on your shoulders, and you looked up at him, your face lighting up immediately.

“Hi, Spencer,” you said, your words slightly slurred but your smile wide and genuine. It was the kind of smile that made his stomach flip, even now, even in this situation.

Spencer didn’t even glance at the guy you’d been talking to. His attention was entirely on you. He reached for the drink in your hand, carefully prying it from your fingers and setting it down on the bar counter.

“Let’s get you home,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern. His fingers brushed a strand of hair out of your face, the gesture tender.

You stared up at him, your eyes slightly unfocused but filled with affection. Then, as if remembering the other guy was still there, you turned your head toward him. “See? I told you how caring he is,” you said, your voice warm and slightly dreamy.

The guy glanced at Spencer, his expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. He seemed to realize the conversation was over. Without a word, he grabbed his drink and stood up before disappearing into the crowd.

“Well, that was rude,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred as you leaned your head against Spencer’s chest. Your voice was muffled against his shirt, but he heard you clearly enough.

He glanced in the direction the guy had gone, his brow furrowing slightly.

“What were you talking about?” Spencer asked, his voice soft but curious. He gently cupped your cheeks with his hands, tilting your head up so he could get a good look at you. Your eyes were half-closed, your face relaxed and content, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his heart doing that strange little flip it always did when you looked at him like that.

“You,” you mumbled, your lips curving into a small, sleepy smile. You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing completely as you savored the warmth of his hands on your face.

“Me?” Spencer repeated, his voice tinged with surprise. The puzzle pieces slowly started clicking together in his mind, but he wasn’t entirely sure what picture they were forming.

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, his touch gentle but insistent, as he tried to keep you awake.

“Yeah,” you said simply, not offering any more details. Your voice was soft, almost dreamy.

Your skin was warm under his fingertips, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his heart pounding in his chest. But before he could gather his thoughts, you continued.

“I love you a lot,” you said, your voice soft but clear, despite the alcohol slurring your words. “I had to tell him.” Your eyes slowly fluttered open, meeting his as his fingers continued to trace gentle circles on your cheek.

A smile formed on his face, small but genuine, as the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. That look in your eyes earlier—the lovey-dovey, dreamy expression he’d mistaken for something else—it hadn’t been for the stranger at all.

It had been for him.

“I love you too,” he said finally, his voice soft. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

When he pulled back, his smile had widened, his eyes shining with something tender. “How about we get you home?” he asked, his tone gentle.

“Your home?” you asked, your voice hopeful as you reached for his hand, your fingers intertwining with his.

“Sure, my home,” he said, his voice warm. He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, holding it tighter as he led you out of the bar. The cool night air hit you both as you stepped outside.

You pressed yourself closer to him as he guided you toward the car. “You’re so tall,” you said, your voice tinged with awe as you tilted your head back to look up at him.

Spencer just chuckled under his breath as he opened the passenger door for you.

“I told him that,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred as you reluctantly let go of his hand. You swayed slightly on your feet, but Spencer steadied you with a gentle hand on your arm.

“Good,” Spencer murmured, his voice soft as he helped you into the car. He leaned in, buckling your seatbelt with careful precision, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment. He closed the door carefully, making sure you were secure, before walking around the car and settling into the driver’s seat.

As he turned the key in the ignition, the engine hummed to life, and Spencer couldn’t help himself.

“What else did you tell him?” he asked, his tone casual.

He knew he was being petty, but he couldn’t help it. The thought of you talking about him to some stranger in a bar made his chest swell with pride.

“Well,” you said, drawing out the word as you thought for a second. The alcohol was definitely slowing you down, your thoughts coming out in a slow, dreamy stream. “I told him how smart you are. That you’re my genius boyfriend.” You mumbled the last word, your head leaning back against the seat as you stared out at the road ahead.

Spencer’s lips curved into a small smile, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. He didn’t say anything, but the warmth in his chest grew, spreading through him like sunlight.

“I also told him that you’re kind,” you continued, your voice soft but earnest. “Remember that one time—” You stopped abruptly, letting out a yawn that seemed to take over your entire body. Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and Spencer glanced at you, his expression softening.

“Oh, I forgot to say goodbye to Penelope,” you mumbled, your words trailing off as you seemed to forget the sentence you’d started.

“I’ll text her later that you’re with me,” Spencer said, his voice soft as he stopped at a red light. He glanced over at you, his expression softening as he took in the way you were leaning against the window, your eyes half-closed but still gazing out at the passing lights.

The car was quiet for a moment, the hum of the engine filling the space.

But Spencer couldn’t help himself. “So, what else did you say?” he asked.

You thought for a moment, your brow furrowing slightly as you tried to piece together the conversation. “I told him how handsome you are,” you said finally, your voice soft but clear. “I don’t think he liked that.” You paused, your nose scrunching as you tried to remember. “I don’t even know why I was talking to him in the first place,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred.

Spencer felt a pang of guilt, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He should’ve been paying closer attention. He knew how drunk you were, and he’d let you wander off anyway.

But before he could say anything, you suddenly perked up, your eyes widening slightly. “Wait,” you said, your voice a little louder now. “I do remember.” The light turned green, and Spencer focused back on the road, though his attention was still mostly on you. “He was hitting on me,” you started, your tone matter-of-fact. “I think.”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up, his guilt worsening. “Really?” he asked, his voice tight with concern. He dared to glance at you, his eyes flickering away from the road for just a second. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, your expression calm. “Yeah, he kind of backed off when I started talking about you,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t know why. I think everyone should hear about you.” Your voice was warm.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Oh, we’re here,” you said suddenly, your voice pulling him out of his thoughts. You were looking out the window now, your eyes wide as you took in the familiar sight of Spencer’s apartment building.

“Yes, we are,” Spencer said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he pulled into the parking spot and turned off the engine.

He had heard enough, and he was happy—happier than he’d been in a while. The way you’d talked about him, the way you’d defended him without even realizing it, had filled him with a warmth and love.

He stepped out of the car, the cool night air hitting him as he rounded the vehicle to your side. Opening the door, he leaned in, his curls falling into his face as he carefully unbuckled your seatbelt.

“I can do that myself, you know,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred but your tone playful. You swatted at his hands half-heartedly, though you didn’t actually stop him.

Spencer took a step back, holding out his hand to help you out of the car. “I know you can,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure you could in your current state, but he let you believe it anyway.

You took his hand, your fingers curling around his as you carefully slid out of the car. Your steps were unsteady, and you leaned heavily against him, your free hand gripping his arm for balance.

Spencer didn’t mind. In fact, he liked the way you clung to him, the way you trusted him to keep you upright.

Twenty minutes later, you were tucked into Spencer’s bed.

Spencer had been patient and gentle, helping you remove your makeup with careful hands before handing you one of his oversized shirts to sleep in. You’d protested weakly, insisting you could do it yourself, but he’d just smiled and helped you anyway.

Now, lying in his bed, you felt drowsy but content, the alcohol still humming in your veins. The room was quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of sheets as you shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable.

But something was missing.

“Spencer,” you called out, your voice soft but tinged with a hint of whininess. “I can’t sleep without you.” Your eyes were already closed, your body heavy with exhaustion, but the bed still felt too big, too empty without him beside you.

“I’m brushing my teeth,” Spencer called back from the bathroom, his voice muffled but warm. He’d already helped you with yours.

“Well, hurry,” you mumbled, your words barely audible. You weren’t even sure if he’d heard you, but a moment later, you heard the bathroom light click off, followed by the soft padding of his footsteps as he made his way to the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly as Spencer climbed in beside you. You didn’t even open your eyes—you just instinctively shifted closer, your head finding its place on his chest. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you in, and you let out a contented sigh, your body finally relaxing completely.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the rhythm of Spencer’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

Then, his voice broke the quiet, “I love you,” he said quietly, “ A lot. More than you know.”

You smiled faintly, your eyes still closed. “I love you too, Spencer,” you mumbled, your voice sleepy but sincere. Your hand found its way to his chest, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

Spencer pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for just a moment. “Good,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now get some sleep.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

As you drifted off to sleep, Spencer stayed awake for a little while longer, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your back. He couldn’t help but smile, his chest warm with a quiet contentment.

He knew you were his, just as much as he was yours.

#criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst

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stonedwith30yearolds · 12 hours ago

Text

oh these absolute cuties

Professional Hair Dresser (Ph.D)

18+ spencer x reader

summary: after Spencer's knee injury, he starts visiting a salon every week to get his hair washed

warnings: meet-cute, falling in love, hurt/comfort, shooting mentions, love confessions, meeting spencers friends, mentions of Haley's death, teasing, fluff, smut, hand jobs, this sex position,

word count: 6.4K

After he got shot, he realized just how much of his daily life depended on being able to stand up. He couldn’t have showers anymore, he had a hard time bending down into the kitchen sink to wash his hair, he contemplated just buzzing it all off so he wouldn’t have to deal with it, but then Hotch had the best idea.

He noticed Spencer’s hair was greasy and he was looking more and more frustrated with his crutches, he looked miserable and he knew it was because he couldn’t take care of himself currently. He also knew Spencer didn’t like asking for help or being a burden because of his childhood.

He sat on the edge of Spencer’s desk, hands together on his leg as he smiled at him gently, and Spencer knew something was up, Hotch never smiled.

“When Haley was pregnant, she hated showering because her bump didn’t have any support, so twice a week she went to the salon just to wash her hair,” his voice is hushed so the rest of the team doesn’t hear, “you’re not a burden if you’re paying them for their time.”

“Thank you,” he presses his lips together awkwardly and smiles, “for everything.”

He pats Spencer’s shoulder as he stands, “any time, buddy.”

He finishes his paperwork and heads home early, stopping at the hair salon just down the block. There’s a nice lady at the counter, no one is in the chairs and it looks like they’re about to close up. He hobbles in with his crutches under his arms and she looks up at him with a smile.

“Your hair is so beautiful!” She gasps, “please tell me you don’t want me to cut it?”

He laughs, leaning against the counter at the front, “I actually was wondering if you could just wash my hair?”

“Sure!” She smiles, “do you want me to trim the dead ends and blow-dry it too?”

“Sure,” he smiles.

“Okay,” she smiles right back, “come sit back in the chair, here let me help you take your jacket off.”

She steps into his space so he can grip the countertop for support as she moves his crutches to lean against the counter. She helps him shrug out of his blazer and she smiles at the purple shirt and cardigan combo.

“You are mighty stylish,” she compliments him with yet another smile and it’s infectious. He’s a giggly mess as he tries to say thank you.

“I’m Spencer by the way,” he manages to speak as he takes his crutches again and walks with her to the sink in the back.

“I’m Y/N,” she’s very enthusiastic as she sits him in the chair, she wraps a towel around the back of his neck before he lowers him into the sink. “Do you want any special shampoo? I have strawberry, pear, one to get rid of dead skin build-up so it makes your scalp tingle like when you drink cold water after you brush your teeth.”

It makes him laugh, “let’s try the tingly shampoo.”

“Hell yeah,” she cheers to herself as she reaches for the bottle.

It's at that moment that he realizes a pretty, cute, and beautiful woman is about to wash his hair. He didn’t think it through and now he’s nervous. She was going to have her fingers in his hair, doing the thing he loved the most which her boobs were right beside his head.

Shit.

She turns on the water and lightly runs her fingers through his tangled hair, “how did you hurt your leg?”

“Oh, um,” he wonders if he should lie or be honest for just a moment. “I got shot, I’m an FBI agent.”

“Huh,” she sounds really shocked. “I wasn't expecting that.”

It makes him smile again as he closes his eyes, she runs the warm water over his head and presses the faucet against his scalp, it feels amazing. He sighs as he relaxes against the chair, it feels like he’s at the spa.

“How long have you been on your crutches?” She tries to make small talk but he really just wants to appreciate the moment.

“2 months now, it’s been really hard trying to wash my hair.”

“I can imagine,” he can hear her smile, he doesn’t even have to look up at her.

She turns off the water and pours a decent amount of soap into her hands before rubbing it in. She lathers it in her hands and then spreads the subs over his scalp. When her nails start to scratch along and work into the roots, he feels like he’s on a cloud. All the pressure in his body is gone, he was relaxed for the first time in weeks, and his head was actually starting to tingle.

“Wow,” he whispers to himself.

She giggles, “tingly right?”

He just nods as she keeps massaging his head, humming along to the wonderful feeling. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? Having someone wash your hair.”

He hums again, moving along with the pressure of her hands in his hair. She manhandles his head as she makes sure to cover every inch of his scalp with bubbles.

“It’s just something about being pampered, not having to take care of yourself for 5 minutes is really nice,” she keeps talking as she works, “if I use colder water it’ll feel really nice if you want?”

“Sure,” he whispers, relaxed to the point that he can't push the words out.

She runs the water and makes sure the temperature is just right, running it through the ends of his hair, “is that too cold?”

“No,” he shakes his head softly, keeping his eyes closed as he waits for it.

She wasn’t kidding about it feeling like drinking cold water after brushing your teeth. The tingles turn up a notch and it’s like his scalp is numb. Like he’s returned from the dentist and his lips are tingling before the feeling comes back. It’s amazing, but he can’t really feel her fingers against his head anymore as the tingles turn hot.

He knows it’s the eucalyptus in the shampoo that’s doing this, the soothing medicinal feeling was lovely but he missed her nails.

When the water stop’s again, he’s expecting her to tell him to sit up, “was that nice?”

“Yeah,” he opens his eyes finally and squints into the light, “you weren’t kidding.”

“It’s what I use at home once a week,” she nods with a smile, proud of herself.

She reaches for another bottle and he says a silent prayer to thank whoever was looking out for him right now. She pumped some conditioner into her hand and lightly ran it through the ends of his hair, “how long have you been growing this?”

“Three years,” he opts out of saying the exact length, but then he thinks about how she might giggle at it. “my last haircut was 1108 days ago.”

“That’s 36 months,” she smirks at how fast she can turn that into months.

“And 12 days,” Spencer corrects.

“Well, reset the clock, mister, you’re getting a trim today,” she giggled again.

“Doctor,” he whispers. “I have a Ph.D.”

“I’m sure you do,” she smirks, and he doesn’t get the joke she’s laughing at in her head. But he knows she’s thinking of one by the way she bites her lip.

She turned on the water once more, rinsing the ends of his hair free of the conditioner before wringing his hair out. She helped him sit up and wrapped the towel around the ends of his hair. She made sure to get all the water out so it wouldn’t drip down his back during the walk to her salon chair.

“Can you use crutches and keep the towel on your shoulders at the same time?”

He laughs, leaning all the way forward and flipping his hair over, he wraps the towel around his hair the way he would at home and sits back up with a smile, “ta daa,” he smirks.

“Cute,” she compliments him again, “here, let me give you a hand.”

He helps him to his feet and using her as a crutch, she helps him hobble along to her chair. “You’re so tall I don’t even have to boost you up,” she teases as they make eye contact in the mirror.

She takes the towel off his head and wraps a piece of tissue around his neck before fastening the cape on top. She ruffles the fabric to ensure it covers his nice dress shirt before she reaches for a comb.

She stands behind him with her hands on his temples as she tilts his head and looks at him through the mirror. She’s smiling to herself as she takes it all in, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she found him attractive.

She silently runs the comb through his hair and flattens it out along his back to see just how long it is. “Do you want anything specific before I trim? I’m not going to take any of the length off, I’m just going to make sure that it’s even and healthy.”

“Would you maybe add a layer? It’s heavy at the bottom, I want it to fall nicer and if it’s not as heavy my curls will come back,” he explains, he’s actually been thinking about getting a cut for a while.

She tilts her head to the side and lets out a little puff of air as she swoons, “it’s curly?”

He nods, still making eye contact with her in the mirror.

“Hold on,” she whispers and walks into the back where she was just washing his hair.

She takes something off the rack and reads it before she returns, she uncaps it and puts a few drops in the palm of her hand. She sets the bottle on her counter and rubs it into her other hand before spreading it through his long locks, “I’m not going to blow dry it then, just let it air dry with this and you’ll love it.”

“Okay,” he nods again.

She grabs a pair of scissors and clips a few clips to her apron before stand-in behind him once more. She sections his hair and clips it up, combing out the bottom layer, she notices his hair is long enough that no matter how tall he is, she has to raise his chair.

She pumps her foot on the lever under his chair and it startles him as he starts to go up, it makes her laugh so hard she places a hand on his shoulder and leans in over him. It makes him laugh too, but really he just wants to bump their cheeks together while she’s that close to him.

She rests her chin on his shoulder softly for a moment, “you should come in once a week for a wash, that’s the best thing for your scalp, the longer you go between washes the more it gets used to the oils and won't need to be washed as often,” her voice is soft and she’s looking at him from the mirror as he turns to see her from his peripheral vision.

“I will.”

“Good.”

—

He comes by every week, and every week they have the same 'get to know' each other chats while they giggle and she finds different ways to make him smile. She gets cool shampoos in and he lets her do some interesting braids so that it’s out of his face at work and he’s falling in love with her.

They text when he’s out of town and won't be able to meet up for their appointments, she invites him in as soon as he gets home, even if that means washing his hair outside of business hours. She gives him a discount for keeping people safe every day and as a 'thank you,' he buys a bouquet of flowers in the subway every time he stops by.

By the time he gets his cane, he’s been to see her 13 times. She doesn’t know he’s off his crutches yet, he leaves that part out of his recent text, walking into the salon with flowers in one hand and his cane in the other, walking almost normally as he comes in.

There is an older lady getting curlers taken out of her hair at the back with Y/N, she doesn’t notice it’s him because there isn’t a struggle to get the door open with his crutches. When she looks over at him she jumps up and down a bit with a giddy, child-like smile on her face. “Look at you!”

“I know,” he puts his bad foot forward and leans on the cane, gesturing to himself.

She walks over to get her flowers and put them in the vase that was waiting to be decorated. She knew he was bringing them, and she loved it. She wraps her arms around him and gives him a quick hug as a thank you, and he holds her there longer than she expected.

“You can have a seat in the back and I’ll be with you in a moment,” she says as she pulls away.

“Alright,” he nods and follows her behind the counter, he passes her as she stops with her other client and makes his way to the sink she prefers.

One thing Spencer knows for sure, is that old ladies like to gossip, and this old lady just so happened to be a little hard of hearing. She thought she was being quiet, but Spencer heard every word.

“Is that your boyfriend?” She asks.

“Not yet,” her voice is soft and Spencer sees her smile and his heart drops into his stomach.

She wants to be his girlfriend.

“What’s his name?” The lady asks.

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Y/N shakes her head with a smile.

“Oh, Doctor?” She calls over to him. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not yet,” he repeats her words.

They make eye contact and smile, a blush growing on his face as he noticed her smile change from happiness to enchantment. She really liked him and knowing he liked her back made her look happier than he’s ever seen her.

She finishes the lady’s hair; she gives her a hug before she leaves and she wishes her a lovely day. “I’ll see you on Tuesday, and please remind barb that her’s is Thursday this week, I’d hate for her to show up tomorrow and have to come back.”

“You got it,” she cheered. “See you, Y/N.”

“Bye!” She waves as she leaves and the door closes with a chime.

She skips into the back, showing off what she can do with both legs working. “I love her, she’s been coming to see me for 4 years now.”

“Is it just you in here?” He asks, he’s never seen anyone else working, mainly because he came after hours.

“Nope, my mom and my nan used cut here too, my mom only works on weekends and nan only has 3 clients she sees still,” she explains with a smile, “if you ever have a weekend off I’m sure she’d love to run her fingers through your curls too.”

It makes him smile to think about meeting her mom, “my mom is in a sanatarium in Las Vegas.”

“Is she happy?” It’s the first time someone hasn’t apologized for it.

He’s surprised, “she is. She has a lot of friends and they keep her moods regular with her schedule never changing. It’s good for her.”

“That’s wonderful, my brother is in a sanatarium too,” she smiles. “He was in the army and came back with really bad PTSD and had a psychotic break.”

She just drops it like it’s nothing, probably because she doesn’t judge him and she knows Spencer will understand. “Hair time, lean back cutie.”

He smiles, resting his cane between his legs, she wraps a towel around his shoulders and leans him back for the 14th time. He’s going to miss this, sure he could take his cane in the shower and he and he got a shower stool from Derek a few weeks ago as an early birthday gift, (it was left in a house he bought) but he didn’t want to stop coming to see her.

“How are you doing?” She asks her first of many questions as she runs the water over his scalp.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, he relaxes into her touch and starts talking, this should be a form of therapy. “I’m okay, I’m really tired from our last case. My boss's wife died, remember? He stepped down and still isn’t back in charge so agent Morgan is in charge. And while it’s working, it’s incredibly stressful because they are constantly bashing heads about simple things.”

She hums along as she listens, “is Hotch doing better? Did his son like that casserole I made for them?”

“Oh yes,” he smiles, she didn’t tell him she was making him anything. He only told her because he had to miss their appointment, and she knew he was the one suggesting Spencer get his hair washed by someone.

So she sent him a casserole, she sent it to the bureau for him. Texting Spencer to say she promises it’s safe and that he shouldn’t freak out when he receives a random tinfoil-covered dish.

“Hey Hotch,” he whispers from his seat on the plane. “Um, my friend who washes my hair sent a casserole to the office for you and Jack?”

He informs him in the form of a question because even he doesn’t understand why she did it. And suddenly Emily and Derek's heads are popping over the back of their seats and staring at him.

“Your friend who washes your hair is sending the Hotchner’s an ‘I’m sorry a family member died’ dinner?” Emily teases him, “tell us the truth.”

“She washes my hair, I tell her about my day and when I can use my leg properly I’m going to take her on a date,” he explains.

That was 4 weeks ago now.

“Good, do you want the vanilla shampoo again or the tingly one?”

“Surprise me,” he shrugs, and she does.

It’s ascent he hasn’t smelled before as she lathers it in, he tilts his head back as he breathes it in, he can hear her snickering as he tries to guess it.

“Cardamom,” he whispers, “lavender and orange?”

“2 more,” she smiles as he gets it right, he almost always does. “There’s something beachy in it.”

“You’re close,” she teases him as she massages it in and he bites his lip so he doesn’t accidentally moan. It’s been 14 weeks and he’s been good so far.

“It’s not coconut, but it’s earthy…”

“Pineapple and bamboo,” she finally tells him.

“Ah,” he smiles with his eyes still closed as she turns the water back on. “You’re really good at that.”

“you should see me at work.”

“I wish I could,” she whispers, softly washing the shampoo off his scalp again, she’s petting his head, running her fingers through the locks and keeping him there as long as possible. She knows he’s almost better too.

“My co-worker's birthday is this weekend, would you like to come with me and meet my friends? Jack and Hotch will be there.”

“Sure!” She’s overly cheerful and he opens his eyes just in time to see her smile with her eyes squeezed shut as she celebrates silently. He closes his eyes again before she can see that he saw it.

“Fantastic.”

—

The only person he tells is Penelope. Because it was her party and also so that there would be enough food and drinks for an extra person. She was excited to meet this friend of his, and he was surprisingly excited for her to meet Y/N as well.

Her personality was perfect for his friends, she was going to bounce jokes back and forth and understand their conversations and be sympathetic to the things they went through. She was honestly pretty perfect, and he knew they were going to love her like family. Heck, they might even keep her around even if they don’t work out.

He meets her outside of her salon, he would offer to drive so she could drink at the party. But he still couldn’t use his leg that well yet, so instead, she leaves her car at work and they take a cab to Rossi’s house. She’s in a nice dress and a nice coat. The winters in Virginia weren’t all that bad, but it was night and she bundled right up.

He had his hand resting on the seat between them as he looked out the window and she rested her’s on top. She squeezed it lightly and he turned to look at her. Seeing her smiling as she looked out the window at all the mansions on Rossi’s street.

“Can all FBI agents afford places like this?” She whispers as her eyes widened.

“Rossi’s kind of a sellout…” Spencer admits, “he was on Oprah at one point.”

“You know who Oprah is?” She teases him soft enough for the cab driver not to notice them flirting.

“My mom used to watch her show,” he’s honest. No one knew that fact but her now.

“That’s cute,” she smiles. “My mom was more into Rachel Ray and Ellen during the days.”

He hums along as he listens but he’s really just staring at her, she always speaks with such wonder. Her eyes always glisten no matter what the topic, she’s absolutely stunning.

She catches him staring at the glimmer dims, “who did you tell them I am to you?”

“My friend who cuts my hair,” he whispers.

It makes her laugh, “and did they believe that?”

“Nope,” he smiles, “if they ask again tonight, what should we tell them?”

She knows what he’s trying to ask, “you can do it better than that Mr. Ph.D.”

“Would you like for me to introduce you as my girlfriend?”

She laughs again, “as long as I stay your girlfriend on the way home.”

“You can be my girlfriend as long as you want,” he replies before thinking the words through, “that implies that you’re going to have to propose to me or just tell me we’re married one day which doesn’t sound that romantic in the long run.”

She laughs again, “slow down there, can I have 2 years as your girlfriend before you decide to promote me? I haven’t even settled into my desk yet?” She teases him with a smile and his heart is so full it could burst.

Before they know it, they’ve arrived and the cab driver is waiting to be paid, “thank you, sir.”

“Anytime, congratulations,” he replies to Y/N, smiling as he heard everything.

“Thanks,” she smiles again before taking Spencer's free hand and walking him carefully up the icy driveway.

Inside, she takes off her coat and he’s stunned by her dress, it’s a long sleeve, turtleneck, knit black dress with a cut out for her cleavage, only it’s covered by lace. It’s a stunning dress and now he’s going to be forced to look at her in it around his friends.

She catches Jack running around first, her face lights up as she walks over to him and his dad, ditching Spencer in the hallway. He just watches it happen, she smiles wide as she extends her hand, “hi, you must be Aaron, I’m Y/N.”

“Thank you so much,” Hotch replies, “for both the casserole and taking care of Reid’s hair. It was getting out of hand.”

She laughs, brushing her hand over his arm before pulling back, “you’re welcome, I’m also a pretty decent babysitter if you need anything else, ever. Spencer’s family is my family.”

Hotch actually smiles, for the first time since Haley died, he smiles at Reid's girlfriend. The whole team watches and Y/N doesn’t see it as such a big deal, she turns around at the sudden silence to see all the eyes on her.

“Hi?” She waves around the room as she turns back to Spencer, “I’m Y/N, Spencer’s girlfriend who also cuts his hair. I know, I know, hold the applause,” she teases them all as she curtsies, proud of herself for stealing the good doctor's heart.

They all snap out of their trance and laugh, walking towards her to shake her hand and smother her in hugs, Spencer keeps watching from the doorway. He knew she’d fit right in.

When Jack comes to say hello to her, she completely steals him away to go play with him and Henry, leaving Spencer alone with his friends in the kitchen. They wait for her to be far enough away before patting him on the back and attempting to embarrass him.

“I didn’t think your leg was fixed?” Derek teases him first, bumping his shoulder with a smirk.

“She didn’t want to be introduced as my friend who cuts my hair,” he smiles as the blush rises over his cheeks, “she told me in the car that I had to ask her.”

“I like her already,” Penelope smiles, “also where is my gift?” She raises her brow playfully, Spencer’s presents were always the best.

He pulls 2 tickets out of his coat pocket, “Lady Gaga, Madison square garden, I’m unfortunately busy that day.”

He just really doesn’t want to go, but she’s been talking about this concert for weeks. “No way!!” She jumps a little before pulling him into a hug.

Y/N rounds the corner to see what all the commotion is about, “you’re the best friend a girl could ask for!”

“He is,” she agreed as she popped up behind him. “I got you a present too, hold on.” She runs off into the main room to get her purse and returns with a small box.

“Here you go, thank you for letting me come,” she smiles as she hands it to her, “I made it myself.”

She opens the brown box to find a candle in a nice glass container, “Spencer said that you’re sweet and bubbly, so I made a candle for you that smells like lemonade for you.”

The jar has a label, it’s yellow and says, “The Penelope” on the front, she takes the lid off to take a whiff and her eyes roll back in her head, “oh my gosh... this is amazing!”

“Awe, thanks,” she smiles again, bouncing a little every time she gets excited.

“Are you available on,” she looks down at the tickets, “July 6th?”

“I should be,” she smiles, “I wasn’t hoping you’d pick me, but I was hoping you’d pick me…” she whispers as she leans in and laughs.

This was everything he wanted.

—

She asks to go back to his apartment with him, not wanting to go home in a cab alone and too intoxicated to drive. He was going to suggest it, he was still building the courage when she did. They stop at his apartment, and he has to hold her and make sure she walks up the stairs carefully. She had way too much fun meeting Penelope and Emily tonight.

She was funny and very loving when she was drunk, it was like her personality was turned to level 10 when she had alcohol. When she wasn’t drinking, she was right beside him. He sat on a bar stool by the counter with his leg up, and she was just tall enough to rest her chin on his shoulder with her arms wrapped around his bicep.

She rested her head against him as she listened to his friends talk, and the whole time he just thought about how nice it would be to always have her around.

When she’s finally inside his apartment, she’s really calm and settled down. She sits on his couch and throws her head back, closing her eyes she lets out a deep breath.

“I’m an introvert,” she whispers. “I’m good with people but I have a time limit. And I worked today so I’m extra exhausted.”

“Okay,” he whispers, “what would you like for the night?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a nice big t-shirt and a spare toothbrush? Would you?” She looks at him again with very tired eyes and he nods.

“Yeah, come with me.”

She follows him into his bedroom, he gets her a plain grey t-shirt and she steals some boxers from his drawer before she heads to the bathroom, “there are a bunch of toothbrushes under the sink, it’s easier to just grab one and go for cases.”

“Alright,” she smiles. “I expect to find you comfortable and in your jammies when I come back.”

“Okay,” he holds back a laugh as she closes the door.

It’s difficult changing with a sore knee, there’s a lot more bending than he remembered as he tries to slip from his clothing and replace them with his pyjamas. He never really wore any unless someone was over, which was hardly ever. He just wore boxers most of the time, so he grabbed his grey academy training shorts and a white long sleeve shirt, and he sat on the edge of his bed as he waited for her.

She opens the door and skips out, jumping into his bed she pulls his covers up to her chin as she settles against the pillows, Spencer smiles and gets up to leave when she sits straight up. “Where are you going?”

“The couch?”

“No, you’re injured you get the bed,” she reminds him. “If you’re against having a sleepover, I will take the couch.”

Even in her slightly drunken haze, she’s making sure he’s taken care of, “I don’t mind having a sleepover.”

“Come on then,” she opens her arms and he snuggles right into her space, under the blanket.

“Maybe in the morning, when I’m not drunk I can see that Ph.D. of yours,” she teases, “I’m sure washing your hair hasn’t been the only struggle.”

“What does my knee have to do with my Ph.D.’s?”

“Wait plural?”

He nods, “engineering, mathematics and chemistry.”

“Holy,” she’s blown away, forgetting why they were talking about Ph.D.’s.

“You never answered my question,” he whispers.

“Pretty huge dick,” she whispers before laughing.

He tenses up, she runs her hands along his back, “I have a Ph.D. too…” she smirks, “cause I’m a professional hair dresser.”

It makes him laugh again, which is exactly what she was looking for, “I know you’re too much of a gentleman to let me touch you like this.”

“I thought you were exhausted?”

“Of people,” she smirks at him, “I’m tired of everyone who isn’t you.”

“Oh,”

She rolls her eyes, “oh?”

“What?”

“You do know you get a little hard every time I wash your hair right? Or are you so into the feeling of my fingers on your scalp that you’ve never noticed the little tent in your pants?”

His eyes widen as her words continue, he really had no idea. He was so relaxed and comfortable with her that sometimes he was just… hard… it was a hard thing to explain, literally.

“If you still want to tomorrow,” his voice is scratchy as his throat goes dry. “That would be nice.”

She smiles and settles in more, cuddling into him as she wraps an arm around his waist, “it’s like Christmas Eve.”

“We haven’t even kissed yet,” his words are small, she was basically hanging off him all night, she left a lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt and told him he was cute most of the night, but she wouldn’t kiss him for the first time in front of his friends.

She sits up and moves to hover over him, she brushes his hair from his face as she looks down at him, “how long have you wanted to kiss me?”

“14 weeks, 3 days and 7 hours,” he gives her the exact time.

She tilts her head with a sweet smile, “I think I love you, Spencer Reid.”

His whole body freezes again he can barely breathe as he just stares with wide eyes. She keeps petting his face as she waits for it to settle in, “I’m sorry if it’s too soon, but I’ve felt this way for 14 weeks 3 days and 6 hours.”

“Kiss me?” Is all he can say, looking desperate as hell as his hands travel up her back and he waits for her lips to connect with his.

She’s so delicate with him, her lips are velvety smooth and her hands stay pressed to his cheeks as she breathes him in. It's long and deep and by the time she’s pulling back his hands are in her hair to keep her there.

She smiles against his lips before deepening it, playing with his tongue, it’s hot and wet and her breath is fresh and he’s pretty sure he loves her too. He has no idea if the feeling in his chest is love or lust so he’ll wait to tell her, but he knows there is something new coursing through his veins as she touches him.

She pulls back and looks at the alarm clock on his night table, 12:04, “yes,” she smirks and turns back to him. “It’s technically tomorrow.”

“So you’re that kid at a sleepover?”

“Shut up, can I touch your dick or not?” She can’t help but laugh as she says it, completely serious and very convincing.

“Yes, you can,” he’s not scared, it’s definitely new and every time he discovers a new level of comfort and safety with her, he realizes that it’s love that he’s feeling.

“Lift your hips, please?” She asks, “I don’t want to hurt you when I pull your pants down.”

She knees beside him and pushes his blankets down as she takes his pants off with him, and then she takes her own shirt off and throws it to the floor alongside his shorts, she looks at him like it’s normal to be naked in front of each other, not phased in the slightest.

He, however, twitches at the sight of her body and he notices the boxers she stole from his drawer, “those are mine?”

“Observant, you are,” she teases, laying back down on her side, facing him as he turned to rest of his good leg.

She takes a pillow and rests it between them, helping him position himself where he’s comfortable first before anything else, “you’re comfortable?”

“Everywhere but my Ph.D,” he smirks, finally getting her joke and actually thinking he might use that one often now… It wasn’t a lie on either end.

She licks her hand before stroking him and his eyes close the same way they do when she washes his hair, and she loves to just watch his face. He’s so expressive and he doesn’t even know it, his eyes twitch and his forehead wrinkles as he licks his lips and scrunches his nose. He’s so fucking cute.

She feels amazing on him and right as he gains the strength to speak and thank her, she’s letting go of him and rolling onto her back. “What?”

“Wait a sec,” she laughs, pushing the boxers down her legs and off her body, “do you have any condoms in here?”

“Top drawer,” he points and she immediately is reaching for them. “I know a position that won't hurt you if you’re okay with me manhandling you?”

“Oh yeah,” he laughs, flustered and horny beyond his wildest dreams. “Manhandle away.”

She rolls the condom over him and then lays on her back, her ass comes right to his groin, perpendicular to him, with her knees over his hips. Her legs aren’t resting on him, there’s no pressure on his legs at all as she spreads her’s slightly and reaches for him again.

She presses him to her entrance and pushes onto him until she’s flush against him. His eyes stay glued on her this time, eyeing her breasts as she starts to rock her hips. He reaches a hand between her legs to rub her clit, he can watch himself fuck her from this angle and it’s the most spectacular sight.

She controls the pace of it all, based on her rhythm he rubs her clit to match and she is the one with her eyes closed this time. She lays against the bed, arms spread as she grips the sheets and grinds down on his dick again and again.

Her little moans and gasps are so nice, he doesn’t feel that embarrassed about his little grunts and whines as she rolls her hips and adds a slow drag of pleasure, making him twitch as she slams down on him a little harder, and surprisingly his leg feels fine.

She reaches to play with her boobs and Spencer tosses his head back with a moan, “you’re so hot, you have no idea how long I’ve thought about your tits, you rest them so close to my face every time you wash my hair and I always just want to bury my face in them.”

She smiles, bounding on him faster as his movements speed up, she moans slightly before making eye contact with him again, “we’ll fuck on a chair later so you can.”

That’s what does it, the idea of fucking her again, “I love you,” he admits, “god, Y/N, I really love you.”

“Show me,” her words are seductive as she snaps her hips against his and reaches the edge of her orgasm, her legs start to shake and try to close as she traps his wrist between her legs and fucks down onto him one last time.

He stills inside her at the feeling of her orgasm, her walls clench around him as she cums and so does he. It’s the best orgasm he’s had in months, and it was with his girlfriend.

When she can breathe again she opens her legs to free his hand and pulls off, she makes sure to move her legs so that she doesn’t hurt him and then she’s lying beside him as she continues to catch her breath.

“You love me?” She smiles, “did you feel it before tonight?”

He nods with the little power he has left, “14 weeks, 3 days, 6 hours and 24 minutes ago.”

taglist: @g0lden-cth @doctorspenceryeet @samuel-de-champagne-problems @reiding-recs @shemarmooresfedora @spencers-dria @reidsfish @manuosorioh @mochionly @jswessie187 @k-k0129 @calm-and-doctor @blanchardsbk @thatsonezesty13 @awrfhi @mercy-burning

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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sincerelybubbles · 3 days ago

Text

The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader

You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentence—small moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but it’s the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.

12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.

CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.

Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you don’t realize you’ve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. He’s not someone you’re supposed to know, not really—he works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while you’re still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.

He’s only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that he’s just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybe—just maybe—he lets himself be found.

You don’t think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet places—hallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:

It’s Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.

“It’s only a few cases,” he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. There’s a rare kind of confidence in the way he smiles—small, knowing. “But Rossi and I agree—you’ve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.”

“You’re sharp,” Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. “Play this right, kid, and you’ll be glad you did.”

Rossi’s words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.

Your first case comes fast—too fast. One moment, you’re standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, you’re on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. It’s a triple homicide, the kind of case you’ve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then you’re standing in a house that doesn’t feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.

You swallow hard.

“Deep breath,” Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You don’t want him to notice—don’t want anyone to notice—but Spencer’s eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.

“This is different than the academy,” you admit, voice just above a whisper.

“It should be.” Spencer doesn’t sound condescending, doesn’t sound like he’s telling you anything you don’t already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. “But you’re still here.”

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\

“Okay,” you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order you’ll present them. “JJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,” you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. “Each presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.”

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

You’re following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.

Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but it’s what they want students to do.

“In Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.”

Emily crosses her arms, frowning. “That’s theatrical.”

“It is,” you agree, clicking to the next slide—a zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victim’s gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. “The unsub is mimicking a local legend—one about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.”

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

You nod. “The first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Hotch observes.

“Yes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.”

Morgan exhales, shaking his head. “A guy like this? He’s loving the attention. He’s not gonna stop on his own.”

“No,” you agree. “And if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he won’t just pick random victims. He’s looking for something—someone—to fit his narrative.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. “That level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. He’s not just killing—he’s curating.”

“He’s hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

“In Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.” You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene images—too much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. “In all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.”

A grim silence settles over the room.

Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s not just taking them out—he’s making them suffer.”

Morgan exhales sharply. “Which means this is personal.”

“Possibly,” you say. “There was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.”

“A service worker, maybe?” Emily muses. “Someone posing as law enforcement?”

“That’s a strong possibility,” you admit. “And if the pattern holds, we’re looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.”

JJ’s expression hardens. “We can’t let that happen.”

The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

“Denver, Colorado,” you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. “Four people have vanished over the last five months—one woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.”

Spencer tilts his head. “No pattern in victim selection?”

“None that we can see,” you agree. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.”

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

You shake your head. “In each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.”

��That’s not a coincidence,” Hotch says.

“No,” you agree. “Which means we’re looking at an unsub—or possibly multiple—who is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.”

Morgan exhales. “Damn. If he’s this careful, we might not even know how many victims we’re missing.”

You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

“Phoenix, Arizona,” you begin. “Five women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.”

Emily shifts in her seat. “That’s a long time for that many women to go without names.”

“Exactly,” you say, flipping through the slides—malnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. “We suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.”

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

“Maybe. But what stands out are these.” You zoom in on the marks along the victims’ backs—precise, deliberate incisions. “The wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

JJ’s face tightens. “He’s experimenting.”

“That’s the concern.” You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. “The unsub could still have others in captivity.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Hotch clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.” The part where you choose.

You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you don’t let it show.

“Take a moment,” Hotch says, voice even. “Decide which one we handle first.”

The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitor—each one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives you’ll never be able to save if you don’t act now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know it’s important – they have to test you. You’re here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotch’s last report, you’re proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.

You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals they’re noting and remembering. “The Tulsa case,” you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. “That’s where we go first.”

Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.

Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. “Walk us through your reasoning.”

You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. “The unsub’s pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in danger—possibly right now”

JJ’s jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And this isn’t just about killing them,” she adds. “The way he makes the fathers watch—it’s personal.”

“Exactly.” You glance at Spencer, who’s already nodding in agreement. “The level of control, the methodical nature—it suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.”

Morgan folds his arms. “Which means he’s not picking his victims at random.”

“No,” you agree. “If we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.” You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. “Right now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.”

Emily tilts her head, considering. “A grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?”

“Possibly,” you say. “But we won’t know for sure until we dig deeper. And we don’t have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.”

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.” He turns to the team. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victims’ professional histories—see if there’s overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim services—we need to talk to the families.”

Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.

Then, Spencer speaks, “You made the right call.” You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.

You swallow. “I hope so.” Because it doesn’t feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.

Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you haven’t said aloud. The decision is made.

You catch the guy — you’re with the best team in the world, of course, you do — and subsequently pass the ‘test’ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. It’s not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.

What’s unusual is how long you stay on the team.

It’s long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.

You don’t mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mug—quick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You can’t help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.

You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens.

You don’t have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really don’t, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly.

The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.

You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching. If you weren’t, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through them one too many times.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if he’s reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasn’t yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum once—twice—against the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.

It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like he’s weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too small, too insignificant, and yet you can’t help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.

You realize that you’re still staring but you’re struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. It’s beyond physical attraction — something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.

You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but it’s too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadn’t given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You don’t, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you haven’t typed anything in at least five minutes.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.

After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.

“Did you know,” he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, “that the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?”

You blink, glancing at him, and he’s still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like he’s only half-aware that he’s doing it.

“A trillion?” you echo. You hope you hadn’t inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore.

His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Most studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests it’s significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which means—”

“That we’re capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.”

His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. “Exactly.”

There is something about the way he looks at you in that moment—something unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surface—that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesn’t continue with the tangent.

But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. “You know, you have a tell,” he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.

You turn to him, brow lifting. “A tell?”

“Whenever you’re thinking about something but don’t want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like you’re holding something between them.” His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, you’re doing it now.

You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. “I always do.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now. He’s looking at you like he’s already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. It’s his job, of course he does.

The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You don’t know what to do with it.

So you do what you always do. You look away.

It’s nothing more than what he’s trained to do. You’ve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when she’s happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when he’s tired.

You all notice things, it’s natural. There’s nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isn’t watching you for any reason other than it’s a habit he’s developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work.

The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.

You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.

Spencer’s breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expression—something unreadable, something you don’t think you have the courage to name.

“What is it?” He asks instead of taking the leap.

“What is what?”

He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. “What’re you thinking and not saying?”

You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think you’re beyond attractive, I can’t believe you’ve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that I’m sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and I’m simply putrid?

“I’m allergic to oranges,” you blurt out instead.

Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadn’t noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often — bites the tip of his tongue when he’s fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay.

“What?”

“I’m allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so he’s started giving them to me, too, and, well,” you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle.

Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that you’ve been waiting on a clear office to throw away.

“You’re kidding!” Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. “I thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.”

“Oh, ew.”

Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, “It’s lovely, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say anything? You could get sick.”

You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. “It’s only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you.

You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didn’t just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didn’t mean to reveal. You tell yourself that it’s fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that don’t linger.

But later, when you’re in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

“You lied, earlier,” Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator.

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

“Do you want to see a doctors note?” You’re tired, struggling to remember what he’s talking about. You two are the last in the office usually — you’re just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work.

“No, I believe you’re allergic, it’s just not what you were thinking about.” He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s not the most flattering — the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick.

Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it.

You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing there’s not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. There’s a reason why he’s only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt.

“You freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldn’t think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.”

Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when he’s tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you.

“I mentioned it because I could smell you, but it’s not bad, I promise.”

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Sure. Just say I reak and I’ll change my shampoo or something, promise!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Spencer pleads, laughing. “What will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!”

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

It’s supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.

You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.

You don’t let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you haven’t seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like he’s about to ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.

You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn’t settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.

Spencer shifts behind you. “The odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs won’t risk a direct confrontation in a location they can’t control.”

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease that’s gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isn’t blind to the feeling in the air—the one that says something is coming.

And then, something does.

The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You don’t think. You move.

Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaos—glass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. He’s speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.

“Move!” you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You don’t know how many shooters there are. You don’t know where they are. But you know you have to get out.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.

“Basement,” Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. You’re mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. “We need to get underground.”

You don’t argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but it’s shelter. For now.

You’re still gripping Spencer’s arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.

He doesn’t move away.

The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.

Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you don’t have time to name.

“They’ll breach soon,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencer’s cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that he’s here, that he’s real, that this isn’t just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.

The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.

Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.

“You’re hit,” he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

Spencer doesn’t laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesn’t belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isn’t over, not yet, but Spencer isn’t moving away from you.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. “Worried about me, Reid?”

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.

Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. “We need to move.”

The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. “What do we do?”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. “There’s a cellar door. Side of the house.”

Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. “We go now.”

He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isn’t planning to leave survivors.

The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.

Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.

“She’s hit!” Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. “Get her in the car!” he orders.

Spencer doesn’t wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, she’s sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?

Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. He’s breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. “You still with me?”

You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. “Still here.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.

Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. “Let’s get you home.”

The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.

Spencer hasn’t left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not opening your eyes.

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Reid.”

He presses his lips together. “I’m just… observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why you’re still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.”

You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. “You always talk this much when you’re worried?”

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.”

He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue. “I just think you should be resting.”

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. “Right. Okay.”

You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside you—the soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.

You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.

“Spence—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You need it.”

You don’t argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another page—not reading, just waiting.

The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It’s one of those rare in-between days—no pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.

You’re at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports you’ve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps drifting—particularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. He’s not even pretending to do his paperwork.

You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent he’s found himself in. You fight a giggle.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?”

Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like he’s just realized he’s been caught.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. “Did you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that don’t contribute much meaningful information.”

You blink at him. “So, what, you’re saying we all talk too much?”

His lips twitch. “Not exactly. Just that… statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.”

You smirk. “And yet, you’re one of the most talkative people I know.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering there. “That’s different. I provide new information.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “Debatable.” The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.

Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. “Flirting through statistics again?” she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.

Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.

“Face it, Reid,” you say, taking a sip. “You talk a lot. Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You weren’t on the assignment you’re tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk.

“Now who’s zoning out?” Spencer asks. When you look up, he’s smiling at you.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “No. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.”

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. “Most daily conversations consist of formulaic exchanges—small talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We don’t follow typical social scripts.”

You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. “So what you’re saying is… we’re special? Different? Not like other coworkers?”

Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. “You already said that.”

“I’m repeating myself,” he says, deadpan. “Which, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “See? Redundant.”

Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like he’s barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but it’s obvious he’s no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if he’s waiting for whatever you’ll say next.

After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, “If most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything you’d actually like to know about me?”

Spencer’s fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. “Yes.”

You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. “Oh. Okay.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. “That’s what you want to know?”

He shrugs. “I like colors. They’re associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.”

You consider it. “Hm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, like he’s cataloging that information for later. “That makes sense.”

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

“Yellow,” he says easily. “Statistically, it’s associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.”

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, “Do you like to cook?”

“I can cook,” you say hesitantly. “Do I enjoy it? Debatable.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, a reluctant chef.”

“More like a survivalist cook,” you amend. “You?”

“I actually do like cooking. It’s methodical. Precise.”

You snort. “Of course, you’d say that.”

His lips twitch again. “What about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?”

You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. “I do read. But nothing… analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.”

Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. “Escapism.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“I’m currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.”

“Ah. So you research at work and at home.”

Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. “No, I think it’s still escapism. It’s something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels don’t do enough to ‘pull me out of reality.’”

Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeper—favorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.

“Are you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?” Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.”

You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. “We’re conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “It’s a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.”

Morgan snorts. “Right. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?”

You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. “Define ‘process.’”

Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re really letting him rub off on you, huh?”

Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You don’t want to just be letting it happen—you want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.

Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.

When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."

You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."

"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."

Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.

Morgan groans. "Oh God, don’t tell me you brought a book to dinner."

"It’s not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "It’s just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."

You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"

Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"

You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.

"You know," he starts, "there’s actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."

You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me I’m doing it wrong?"

His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just… suboptimal."

You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."

Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe it’s attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what he’s doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morgan’s voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"

Emily snorts from where she’s leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I’d pay to watch that."

You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."

Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. What’s next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you—this unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.

You’ve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You can’t help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.

Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."

The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you don’t move away, and neither does he.

The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but it’s not the food that lingers—it’s the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.

You and this team have been through so much together — the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day.

Beyond the toughness though, you’ve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. It’s more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, you’ve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life you’ve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, you’re hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team.

Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he listens—really listens—his attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.

At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since we’ve got everyone here tonight, I’d like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."

A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a song—present, felt, but not yet fully realized.

You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.

Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesn’t look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.

It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The café is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral ground—safe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.

Spencer is fidgeting.

His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like he’s working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.

You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. “You look like you’re debating something incredibly complicated.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “I am.”

“Must be serious, then.”

“It is.” He shifts, finally—finally—meets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. “Would you—” he stops, swallows, starts again. “Would you want to go to dinner with me?”

The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.

You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, “In what way? A date?”

You are hesitant, voice barely audible. You’re scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you can’t have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks — months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness.

Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. “If that’s okay, yes.”

The words hit you in the center of your chest. You’re certain you’ve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldn’t possibly be confirming your wildest dreams.

“I would really like that.”

His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of ways—the way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.

You don’t miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.

The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.

Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself it’s not nerves—it’s just a normal dinner, just Spencer—but your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversible—

Then, the knock at your door.

You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like it’ll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.

Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.

“They’re beautiful.”

His gaze flickers to yours, searching. “They, uh… they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.”

Your chest feels warm, full. “I’d like that.”

He nods once, clearing his throat. “Well, the blue cornflowers—they mean ‘hope in love,’ and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, that’s for fidelity, and um—” he stops, shifting awkwardly—“I wanted it to mean something. To you.”

Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.

“It does.”

The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talks—of course he talks—his voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.

“You’re romanticizing it,” you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.

He huffs a soft laugh. “It’s just history.”

“History can be romantic.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. “I suppose it can.”

You watch him as he drives—the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. There’s something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something significant.

When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You bite back a laugh. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softer—low candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.

Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. “This is… nice.”

You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.

“You know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, and—” he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I can, uh, get carried away.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I like when you get carried away.”

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.

And then it happens.

The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isn’t a slow realization, isn’t something that builds over time—it hits all at once, undeniable.

The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.

You realize, suddenly, that you’re staring. That you’re leaning in.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. “What?”

You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like he’s trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, it’s with the same easy rhythm as before.

And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.

You aren’t asleep. Haven’t even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he’s been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but there’s something else, too—something hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when he’s trying to pick the right words before speaking. “I—” He hesitates, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like he’s afraid of being caught.

You step aside, let him in.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.

You should say something. Should ask him why he’s here, why he looks like he’s spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words don’t come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.

You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows he’s cataloging it the way he does everything.

Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, there’s something unguarded in his gaze. “I think about you all the time.”

You watch as he sways slightly, like he’s resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.

And then he stops resisting.

He moves carefully, like he’s giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you don’t. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like he’s debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but it’s enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his hands—hovering, waiting—to finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.

His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.

He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like he’s bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breath—uneven, shallow, shaking—ghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flex—barely, just a little—but the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.

He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.

You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. “Me either.”

Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze drops—to your lips, flickers back to your eyes—searching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.

You make the choice for him.

You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and that’s all it takes.

The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.

His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you fit against him if he doesn’t take his time.

He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to this—his breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.

And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.

When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.

Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. “It’s not.”

Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.

And then, he kisses you again.

234 notes · View notes

atlabeth · 3 days ago

Text

something about her

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: you’re reminded why you’re really here while spencer does some unwanted self reflection.

a/n: things have been a little too fun and fluffy around these parts so i had to fix it. it’s easy to forget you’re still dealing w a stalker when you’re busy living in denial <3 enjoy the mess! this whole thing is in spencer's pov bc this all got soooo far away from me

title from the song by stephen sanchez

wc: 5.3k

warning(s): things start to ramp up! stalking, anxiety, lowkey panic attacks, angst, hurt/comfort, r almost has a panic attack, alcohol/mentions of alcoholism, the usual. but more bonding!!

Spencer can’t sleep.

He’s tried every trick in the book. Counting sheep, counting to one hundred, counting to one hundred backwards, going through the alphabet, going through the alphabet backwards, methods with actual scientific research backing them—none of it works. He’s stared at the ceiling for most of the night.

He feels like a hypocrite most of all, preaching the importance of adequate sleep when he’ll be lucky to get five hours. But it looks like you barely sleep as is. He probably should keep preaching to you.

There’s a myriad of reasons to explain it. His hyperactive brain has been responsible for many restless nights. He’s still in unfamiliar territory, and he hasn’t gotten used to sleeping on this bed yet. Lest he forget, he’s your first and only line of protection here from your stalker. That’s enough to keep anyone awake, even FBI.

But then there’s also… you in general.

Spencer can’t say he tries not to think about you, because this past week it’s felt like the only thing he’s thought about.

It’s practically impossible, even before you were shoved into this house together. You have a way of tunneling your way into a person’s mind and refusing to leave—especially his.

Again, it’s easy enough to pass off. You’re the only ones here, and the time you’re not spending alone you’re spending with each other. Your only choice beyond isolation is to talk to Spencer, and it seems you’re slowly moving past preferring it over him.

But he doesn’t think he can just pass this off.

He can’t get your smile out of his head. Your moments of levity are so few and far between that it makes them shine bright as the sun. Spencer has learned he loves how you look when you’re happy. He just wishes it wasn’t such a rarity.

Gideon’s lecture rings in his ears. He really had two jobs—keep you safe, and don’t fall for you. Hopefully he only fails the one.

It’s not like he has to worry about it, though. You might not hate him as much anymore, but you still don’t really like him. As much as it bums him out, it’s for the best. It means that in a week or two, when the team has caught the unsub and all this is over, you can both go your separate ways and you’ll never have to see Spencer again.

That bums him out even more, though.

He lets out a long sigh. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. JJ, Elle, now you—Morgan would say he really knew how to pick ‘em. Girls who didn’t like him back.

Just then his phone rings, jolting him out what could have been a convincing play for sleep if not for his thoughts, and he groans a little. Spencer fumbles around for it without lifting his head from the pillow, only turning slightly so he can flick it open and place it against his ear.

“Gideon, why are you calling this early?” he mumbles.

“I hope you’re treating her well.”

The gravelly voice through the speaker is a shock, and Spencer doesn’t really process it. His brain still hasn’t turned on.

“Gideon?” he asks again.

“I know you ran away. Trying to protect her like you have any right.”

His blood goes cold as the words finally register.

This is their unsub. This— this is your stalker.

“What do you want?” he asks, unable to keep the sharp edge out of his words.

“You’ve hurt her the same way he has,” the voice continues. “He’s ruined our lives and you don’t care.”

Spencer’s mind is simultaneously blank and running wild. He knows he should try to profile him or talk to him to get something out of him but— but all he feels is anger.

“What do you want?” he repeats, louder this time.

“Think about your priorities, Agent Reid. I’ll be watching.”

The disconnected tone blares in his ear before he can say anything else, and Spencer stares down at his phone in confused annoyance.

What kind of bullshit game is this guy trying to play with you?

First he stalks you for a month—possibly months— then sends pictures of you to your door, then forces you into hiding and now he’s just mocking you like this?

If Gideon is the goal, this bastard is doing a great job of dragging you along.

Spencer’s heart jumps into his throat all of a sudden. You.

He grabs his gun off his bedside table then lunges to the door with all the athleticism of a newborn baby giraffe, nearly tripping in his haste to get out into the hallway. He slams your door open once he gets to your room, and the relief that floods through his body when you shoot up from your previously sleeping position is almost dangerous.

“Spencer?” you grumble, still completely out of it as you rub your eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You’re alive. You’re okay. You’re still here.

He opens his mouth to respond, still kind of out of breath, when his phone rings again. Spencer takes it out and is already pressing it to his ear.

“What the hell do you want from her?” he barks. The absolute nerve of your stalker to call back—

“Reid, it’s me.”

It’s Gideon’s voice that comes out of the speaker this time, and Spencer feels the wave of red hot rage boiling in his stomach crash against a wall of confusion.

“I—” He swallows deeply, his eyes flicking over to your befuddled expression momentarily before he feels himself flush bright red and look away. “I’m so sorry, sir. I thought you were someone else.”

“You got a call?”

His blood runs cold. “You mean you got one too?”

Gideon curses and he hears him move around. Pacing in his bedroom, if Spencer knew anything about him. “Tell me my daughter is safe.”

“She— she is,” he stammers. “I’m with her right now.”

“Spencer, what the fuck is going on?” You’re sitting up now, much more aware than you were fifteen seconds ago. “Why do you have your gun— why are you talking to my dad?”

“Do a perimeter check,” Gideon demands. “If he’s there—”

“I know.” Spencer looks back at you and sighs. “You should talk to her.”

“I know,” Gideon echoes. “Let her stay on the line with me while you figure things out.”

He nods and takes the phone from his ear. “Gideon wants to talk with you.”

You’re standing up now, a dumbfounded expression on your face. “Hold on, you still haven’t answered me! What is going on?”

“I got a call from our guy,” he says. Your eyes widen and he can see your chest still. His heart clenches at the sight. “Gideon did too.”

“What?” you breathe. “Wh— what did he want?”

“To scare you.” Spencer holds up his gun. “Can you hide in the closet while I do a perimeter check?”

You scoff. Your demeanor is still shaken, but the fire is more prominent. He’s started to admire that about you. “Spencer, I am not hiding in the closet.”

“Then lock yourself in the bathroom again!” he exclaims. He doesn’t mean for the outburst, but he can’t help it. “Just— I can’t focus if I’m worried about you, and right now the only thing I can think of is how worried I am about you, so I need to know you’re safe while I do this.”

You stare at him, and Spencer stares right back, if a little frantic. He feels his chest rise and fall from the force, a stark contrast to your still body—similar to the panic he knows is in his eyes to the steely cool of yours.

“I’m not letting you potentially face an insane stalker by yourself,” you finally say.

Spencer huffs. “I am an FBI agent. I’ve faced worse things than insane stalkers.”

“We’ve been together this whole time,” you insist. “We— we can do this together too.”

He looks at you again—he can tell you’re not going to move on this. Spencer eventually sighs and holds the phone back up to his ear.

“I’m assuming you heard that?”

“Let her go with you,” Gideon says. “It’s riskier for her to be on her own than outside with you. But stay on the line, and stay alert. Nothing can happen to her—do you understand?”

“I won’t let anything happen to her,” he says. “I meant what I said.”

“...Good.”

Spencer holds the phone out to you again, and your lip curls.

“I’m not—”

“Come on,” he interrupts, gesturing with his head into the hallway.

Your annoyance melts into acknowledgement when you realize he’s not blowing you off again, and you nod as you take the phone. Spencer wraps both hands around his gun as he starts moving, you matching his pace as you follow him.

“Yeah, Dad,” he hears you say behind him. “I’m here.”

This is what he meant by you needing to stay behind. He’s worried about you more than anything, yes, but he also can’t help but listen. Spencer has very keen ears, to everyone’s simultaneous disdain and appreciation on the team—it makes him a very good asset in the field, but also a very good asset when it comes time for office gossip.

“No, nothing’s happened yet. Yes— yes, I’m okay, I promise. Spencer’s done an annoyingly good job of keeping me safe.”

Once Spencer reaches the door, he peers through the peephole to make sure their unsub isn’t embarrassingly obvious. It’s clear, and he turns to face you and raises a hand, then places his finger on his lips.

“Uh— I have to go dark for a sec,” you say. “We’re checking the perimeter. Don’t worry, I’ll scream if anyone tries to kill me. Be back soon.”

You pull the phone away from your ear and nod at Spencer, and he holds his breath before he opens the door.

The frigid air hits both of you at once, and he hears then sees your sharp exhale of breath. It’s been a while since either of you have been outside, but it’s good to know he hasn’t been missing superb weather.

“Stay close and stay quiet,” Spencer whispers. “I’m your only line of defense out here.”

He expects you to shoot back with some remark, but you merely nod in response. Spencer hopes he hides the shock he feels before he turns away and starts walking.

Dawn isn’t for a few more hours—the only real light source is the moon high in the night sky. It doesn't exactly help his nerves to be doing all this in the dark, but part of him is almost thankful to be doing this. Spencer doesn’t know how to deal with you or any of the emotions you stir inside of him or the sleepless nights you cause because he can’t stop thinking of you—but he knows how to do his job, and he knows how to do it damn well.

He just wishes it didn’t have to come with the unfortunate side effect of you being in immense danger.

But Spencer does his best to push those thoughts to the back of his mind—right now, he has to have one focus.

And he does. The two of you stick close to the side of the house, his eyes darting all over as he tries to dig out any details, any possible sign that the unsub was here. The ground is still a thin layer of mud from the storm last night, so it should be easy to find footprints. Spencer’s Converse aren’t doing a great job at keeping him upright—slipping in front of you is too embarrassing for him to even think about.

All of a sudden, he stops, his arm shooting out in front of you. You don’t realize it for a second and you run into him, your hand wrapping around his arm on instinct to steady yourself. If he wasn’t so shocked at what he was looking at, he would have been bright red over it.

“What the h—”

“Footprints,” he whispers. “Th— they’re almost gone, but—”

“He was here?” you interrupt. Fear spikes in your voice and your grip tightens on his arm.

“Last night, maybe.” Spencer swallows the doubt in his throat. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, how he feels—he’s not going to make you feel worse. “The rain probably washed most of them away.”

“Spencer—”

“I am surprised these are still here, though,” he continues. “The rainfall was really heavy. I wouldn’t expect them to stay in mud like this—”

“Spencer, look where we are!” you exclaim, gesturing hard with your other hand. He realizes that you’ve let go of his arm by now, but he pushes it out of his head and looks.

“The window to your room,” he says. The blinds are closed and the lock is in place—he’s made sure every night—but there are small enough gaps between the shutters.

“He was watching us last night!” Your breathing is starting to come heavier and faster now. “We talked about all that shit and he was just here watching and we didn’t even fucking know!”

You’re on the edge of hyperventilating. Spencer has got to get you down or else you’re going to have a full blown panic attack out here.

“Hey, hey— look at me.” He says your name and that, if anything else, gets you to listen and meet his eyes. They’re filled with an unbridled fear he hasn’t seen in you until now. “Don’t think about him. Don’t think about any of this. He’s not here.”

“He was watching us—”

“And we’ll figure out what to do next. But you have to stay calm. You can’t let him win.”

You’re still harried, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your eyes dart all around. Spencer says your name softly, tucks his gun into its holster, then takes your hands in his, hoping that it gives you something to focus that isn’t the rest of this.

“Just look at me,” he says softly.

You suck in another shaky breath, but you’re not as frantic as before. You at least look him in the eye, and you don’t wrench your hands out of his grasp. Progress, if nothing else.

“Breathe with me.”

You nod—still panicked, but better. Spencer breathes in deep and you do the same, following as he counts up and down with his fingers. It takes a few rounds, but eventually, he’s gotten you off the edge.

Spencer says your name again, just as soft as before. You’re still breathing slowly in and out.

“How do you feel?”

“Better,” you murmur. “I—”

You’re interrupted by the phone you both forgot was in your hand, Gideon’s voice muddled as it comes from the receiver. You rip your hands out of Spencer’s as you come back into yourself, shaking your head and blinking a few times while you take a few steps away from him.

“I’m here, Dad,” you say. “We— we’re okay. No, nothing happened.”

Spencer blinks too. He looks down at his hands, then glances at you, then shakes his head. He walks back over to the footprint and crouches down, trying to keep his mind clear. He commits every detail he can to memory, doing his best to ignore the conversation with your dad in the background.

Well, he tunes in a little. He can’t help it—he wants to make sure you’re okay.

“We found a footprint outside my room,” you’re saying. “Spencer thinks it’s your guy. I have no idea. Yes, we are. You don’t have to be so pushy.” You sigh and he feels your gaze on him. “Spencer, we have to finish this up. Dad wants us back inside.”

He clears his throat as he nods a few times. “Let me get a picture of this first.”

You hand him the phone and Spencer snaps some photos from a few different angles, hoping forensics will be able to get anything out of it. He hears Gideon’s voice again and he holds it to his ear once more.

“Gideon?”

“Reid, get her back inside,” he says. “We can’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“We haven’t finished securing the perimeter,” he says.

“Then finish it and get back inside!” he exclaims. “You have proof that he was there—”

“We don’t know it’s him,” Spencer interrupts.

“We know there was somebody there!” Gideon shoots back. “I’m not risking her, and from what I’ve heard, you don’t want to either.”

Spencer feels his cheeks warm as he looks back at you, and he pulls his gun back out of its holster. “Come on. We have to finish this up.”

“That’s what I said,” you mutter, but you follow him without further protest.

The rest of the check goes by quickly without any other distractions or surprises, and soon enough you’re back inside. While Spencer chats with Gideon, updating him in a calmer manner on everything with the phone call and the footprint, you’re ruffling through the cabinets.

Eventually, he sees you pull out a bottle of clear liquid from the corner of his eye. He frowns and realizes that it’s vodka.

“It’s 4:29 in the morning,” Spencer says, cutting off Gideon almost absentmindedly as you pop the bottle open.

“And we found out that this place isn’t nearly as safe as anyone thought,” you respond sharply. “I think that warrants some drinking.”

“That means that you should have a clear mind,” he says. “Alcohol impairs your brain’s communication pathways, as well as your judgment and coordination.”

“I’ve gotten drunk before, genius,” you mutter as you search for a glass. You end up choosing a the mug you used for coffee the other morning then start pouring. “Enough to know it’s what I need right now.”

“It can also cause mood swings,” Spencer says. “I think that’s the last thing you need right now.”

You roll your eyes, not even bothering to look back at him as you finish pouring a concerning amount of liquor into the mug.

“What is going on over there?” Gideon asks. Spencer remembers he’s holding the phone and he puts it back to his ear.

“I think your daughter is an alcoholic,” he comments.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” you say sharply. “I just can’t focus on all this right now.”

“It’s best if she gets some sleep,” Gideon says. “All of this is likely terrifying to her, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.”

Spencer’s mind flashes back to your near panic attack—your wide eyes full of fear and harried breathing that only made you hyperventilate more when you realized you couldn’t control it. It’s too easy to think of you as some untouchable being from the way you interact with him, bothered by nothing and no one.

The mask cracks on rare occasion. It makes you seem frighteningly real.

“You’re right,” Spencer nods. You sip your drink without flinching. He doesn’t think he can even call it a drink if it’s just straight liquor. “We could all use some sleep.”

“Just make sure she’s safe,” he says. “Make sure the whole place is secure. We’re not—”

“Taking risks,” he finishes. “Believe me, I know.”

Gideon is silent for a second, and Spencer takes the time to look at you. The bags under your eyes are even more prominent, and there’s a haunted glint in your eyes as you stare at the wall. You shiver ever so slightly, the outside chill still lingering on your skin. You’ve got pajama pants on but just a plain tee. You didn’t have time to put a sweatshirt on before he pulled you outside in the mania of it all.

You really are beautiful—but you’re so damn tired.

Spencer realizes that all he wants to do is give you some respite.

“I’ll call you back later, then,” Gideon says. “To check in.”

“Okay.” Spencer’s throat bobs as he averts his eyes from you. “Get some rest too, Gideon.”

The other end hangs up without a response. Spencer stares down at the phone for a few seconds then sighs before he tucks it back into his pocket.

“What’d he want?” you ask.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking vodka out of a coffee mug at four in the morning.”

You frown. “You don’t get to judge me.”

“It’s not good for you.”

“None of this is good for me,” you enunciate. “What did my dad want?”

“I’m serious,” Spencer continues. “Drinking on an empty stomach can lead to low blood sugar— drinking at this hour is going to completely disrupt your circadian rhythm.”

“You know what else has disrupted my circadian rhythm?” you ask mockingly. “Being here. Having a stalker. Finding out that said stalker was also here, watching us. I think that’s a little worse for me than the alcohol.”

Spencer stares at you, and as you’re prone to do, you stare back. Eventually, he shakes his head and looks away, deciding to quit while he’s ahead.

“He wants you to get some sleep,” he says. “Wants us both to.”

You scoff and shake your head, downing much more vodka than you should in one go. Again, you don’t flinch—for a schoolteacher, you handle your liquor very well. “Like I’d get to sleep after this.”

“It’s important,” Spencer insists. “You’ve gotten— what? Three hours of sleep?”

“Well, all this excitement has woken me up,” you say.

“Well, I’m tired,” Spencer says. “So I guess I’ll see you in a few hours.”

He starts to walk to his room, figuring that you need time to cool off, when—

“Wait.”

Your voice is oddly strangled, and Spencer stops in his tracks.

“I—” you stop and sigh, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Our rooms are close to each other,” he says. “I’ll be able to hear if you yell.”

You rub your eyes as you let out another haggard sigh. “I can’t stand to be in that room, Spencer. Not knowing that— that he was right there.”

Spencer can’t look away from you. Your eyes glint with tears you’re trying to hold back, but you’re laid bare in a way he knows you hate.

You’re being pushed to your limits against your will, and it kills him that he can’t do anything to help you. Honestly, sometimes he feels useless being stuck here while the rest of the team is out there actively working to help you. All he can do is stand around here and annoy you.

Except you want him there. For the first time since all of this has started, you want him there.

It’s the only thing he can do for you right now. How can he refuse?

“Okay,” he says softly, and he nods. “Okay. We can share my room tonight.”

The tension in your shoulders fades ever so slightly, and you—thankfully—set the mug down. “Keep your gun close.”

“I’m not sure you want me shooting when I’m sleep deprived,” Spencer says.

Your lips twitch just so, and Spencer’s heart skips a beat. He can’t help it.

He should have known he was in too deep the moment he stepped into this house with you.

“Very cozy,” you say.

“It’s the same as your room,” Spencer responds.

You shrug. “It’s messy. Makes it feel like home.”

He feels his face flush. “I haven’t really been focused on keeping things clean.”

“Relax.” You sit down on the bed. “I’m not judging you.”

“Good.” Spencer glances at you as he moves his bag off of your side of the bed. “Because that would be very rude after the generosity I’ve shown you.”

You laugh and Spencer finds himself smiling at the sound of it. He’s glad he’s turned away, and he’s glad he manages to push it away by the time he’s turned back around.

You’re wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants now, and it’s strange to see you look so… soft. Every part of you is so sharp, some of it jagged—sometimes you harden around him, sometimes you mellow. He’s a bit tired of the back and forth.

Maybe that’s what makes him speak up.

“I’m tired of us always being at odds.”

Your eyebrows rise and you look at him. “Really?”

Spencer nods, his will bolstered. “Really. We have a nice talk one night, and I feel like we’ve had a breakthrough, and then you go back to hating me the next morning. I’m— I’m sick of it.”

He expects you to shoot back with some mocking comment like you always do, making fun of him for wanting more than what little you give him. But instead, you lay back against the pillows and shrug.

“Okay.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod. “I’m too tired to want to fight right now.”

“You’re the one that always tries to fight me.”

“Aren’t you fighting me right now?”

Spencer shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You chuckle. “Still fighting.”

He stares at you. As usual, you stare back, but this time you can’t fully bite back your smile. For some reason, that gets Spencer to break. He smiles too, and he settles down on the bed next to you. There’s a pillow buffer between you, but it’s still a lot closer than he’s used to.

Well, he did hold your hands earlier, but that’s because he was bringing you down from a panic attack. That doesn’t mean anything.

“What a day,” he mutters.

“And it hasn’t even started yet,” you muse. “I don’t know how you do this kind of shit every day.”

“I’m not really the target of any of this,” he says. “I usually stay behind the scenes. I’m good with geographical profiles, not chasing down unsubs.”

You look over at him. “You haven’t really talked about anything you do for the BAU.”

Spencer shrugs. “I thought it would be a sore subject.”

You pause. “You’re… probably right.”

“I figured.” He chuckles, then glances over at you. “But you already know enough about me. You said you would talk about your job. Teaching, and your kids, and all that.”

Your eyebrows rise. “You actually care?”

Spencer gives you a look. “I thought we were past that part in our friendship.”

“We’re not friends.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, but you go on anyway. “I’m a highschool teacher in Fairfax. You know Mount Vernon High?”

Spencer nods. “I know the name of every high school in Virginia.”

“Of course you do,” you huff. “But that’s besides the point. I did my student teacher hours there, and they offered me a full time position. I took it, so I guess I’ve been there since senior year.” You purse your lips. “It’s a little depressing when you look at it like that.”

“Then don’t look at it like that,” he say. “You said you loved your job.”

“I do!” You smile again, a bit lighter this time. “My teachers were a huge part of my life, especially in high school.” The lightness fades some, but he notices how you try to hide it. “If I could help even one kid the same way my teachers helped me, then I would have done something with my life.”

“That’s very noble of you,” Spencer says. “I don’t think I ever would have guessed you were a teacher.”

“Oh, please,” you say. “You’re a profiler. You’d figure it out.”

“You wouldn’t know I work with the FBI at first glance.”

“Well, I’m not a profiler. Besides,” you tip a shoulder, “I have the ulterior motive of wanting to introduce kids to the wonders of physics.”

Spencer’s eyes light up. “You’re a physics teacher?”

“I teach a load of science classes, but I carry the banner for AP physics.” You huff a laugh. “You’re probably the only one that doesn’t sound lame to.”

“I love physics!” he exclaims. “I’ve got a PhD in engineering, remember?”

You smile— no, you actually grin at him, and he can’t believe he finally broke through the barrier with science.

“Trust me, I’d love to talk physics with you, boy genius, but—” you’re interrupted with a yawn, and Spencer resists the urge to do the same— “but I think I’m actually about to fall asleep.”

Spencer shakes his head with a small laugh. He realizes that he’s relaxed while you’ve been talking, limbs looser and fully laying back against the pillows.

“This was actually part of my master plan to get you to rest,” he says. “Talking science always works with the team.”

He sees you smile out of his peripherals as you lay fully down, can feel every shift of your body against the mattress while you try to find a good position.

“It wasn’t you,” you say. “It was the vodka.”

“Of course,” he agrees.

Silence falls over the room as the two of you settle in. You take off your sweatshirt, a slight shiver running through you once you’re back in your tank top. Spencer removes his glasses, and he blinks a few times to adjust to the blurriness.

The bed is big enough for you to both have your own space,, and you’re both careful to keep your backs to each other. The silence is comfortable despite the previous animosity. Maybe all it really did take was for him to start talking science.

Eventually, though—

“Thank you, Spencer.” Your voice is little more than a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. “I— I know you don’t like me. So it means a lot that you still do all this for me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, taking your words in. The mingled sounds of your breathing are really the only things filling the room, and he can feel your weight against the mattress. It’s all oddly intimate.

“You’re wrong.” He’s almost surprised at the sound of his own voice. “I do like you.”

Your shock shows through the silence. Spencer takes his chance.

“You’re going through something no one should ever have to experience, and you’re doing it with someone you think stole your life from you.” Spencer shifts ever so slightly. His hands feel inexplicably clammy. “It was unfair of me to take Gideon’s side so often.”

“Still.” Your words are muffled as you speak half into the mattress. “We have more important things to worry about. It was unfair of me to spend so much time giving you shit. You— you didn’t even know I existed until a month ago.”

“But now I do.” He pauses. “And I’m glad I do. So you can start looking forward instead of always looking back.”

Again, silence. It lasts so long Spencer wonders if you’ve fallen asleep. Your breathing is thankfully steady (a side of him is always focused on your breathing just to make sure) and you don’t shift much, so he wouldn’t be surprised. You were exhausted—

“Spencer?”

His eyes open. He didn’t even realize they had closed. You sound half-asleep, your voice nothing more than a whisper. He wishes more than anything he knew what was going through your mind right now.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

His heart stutters so blatantly he’s sure you can hear it. Spencer honestly doesn’t know what to say—his mouth is so dry he doesn’t know if he can say anything.

Spencer thought you hated him. You thought Spencer hated you.

It’s ironic.

“Me too,” he eventually manages.

But there’s no response. You must’ve already fallen asleep again, just conscious enough to say a few words. The rude awakening mixed with the fear and alcohol couldn’t have done you much good.

Spencer swallows the doubt in his throat and closes his eyes again, trying not to focus on you. It’s practically impossible.

He’s glad, at least, that you’re able to sleep. You deserve to rest more than anyone.

Eventually, the sound of your breathing lulls Spencer to sleep.

You were the one thing he didn’t have on his list.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #gideon!reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds angst #x reader #sadie writes

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nachrosas · 3 days ago

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143 | s.reid x reader

summary: in which all that was needed was a post-it note with three numbers on it: 143. pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader content warnings: fluff, just pure fluff word count: 382 a/n: happy valentine's day, everyone!

The bullpen was practically empty when you arrived. Only Spencer and Hotch were there — the latter was confined to his office, a scene you were used to seeing. What you weren't used to seeing was a yellow post-it note stuck to the corner of your monitor, slightly askew, as if someone had just put it there. You automatically recognized Spencer's hurried handwriting on the small piece of paper.

143.

You frowned, holding the paper gently. It was just three numbers. Did it mean some kind of code? Some crazy equation? A puzzle he hoped you could solve? Working with Spencer meant, most days, being faced with unexpected challenges. But this one seemed to be different.

A curious sigh. That's all you did before detaching the post-it and crossing the bullpen, heading towards Spencer's desk; who was too busy, or seemed to be, reading a worn-out paperback.

“Spence?” you called out, waving the paper in the air. He looked up from the page of the book curiously. “What does 143 mean?”

The answer came in the form of a small smile — one of those totally shy smiles, almost imperceptible, but completely loaded with meaning.

You stare at the post-it again for a few more seconds until your gaze meets his again. He's there, sitting in front of you, but with his hands in his cardigan pockets. His expression is calm, but his eyes are filled with a gleam that only appeared when he was on the verge of doing something important.

Your heart races.

“So…” you begin, pointing the paper in his direction. “Are you saying what I think you are saying, Dr. Reid?”

The question hung in the air between you for a few seconds, and you almost regretted saying it out loud. But then he takes a deep breath and smiles — small, shy, but genuine.

“What if I am?”

At that moment the BAU seemed to slow down. The office, the voices coming from outside, the sound of footsteps… none of it was important at that moment.

“I guess…” you swallowed, unable to contain the smile that threatened to escape. “I should know that 143 also applies to you.”

His eyes sparkle, and you're absolutely certain that this code has never made so much sense.

Because 143 means I love you.

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

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esote-rika · 3 days ago

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on the stroke of midnight | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: angst Summary: A pregnancy scare with your boyfriend leads to a serious conversation about the future Content: one mention of a foot fetish, pregnancy scare, talk of pregnancy and kids, established relationship, mentions of schizophrenia and mental illness, Cinderella and time as an extended metaphor and motif??? (Idk I was writing this while simultaneously writing my thesis on fairy tales oops), open ended ending Word count: 2.2k A/N: I don't want kids and this fictional man does, so I'm making it everyone's problem. This is my first time writing pure angst, so uh, please let me know if I should continue with this genre or just go back to smut and fluff lol. Also shoutout to @notlongtolove and @darkmatilda who let me yap abt this ily girlies.

Ever since you started dating, Spencer Reid has been trying to figure out why you love Cinderella so much. He’s read through different academic papers, come up with his own silly interpretations that either make you gasp, or cry from laughing, and often leaves you marveling at his wonderful brain and all the ways it twists and turns. He likes games, you’d established that from the beginning when he ended your first date with a friendly game of chess. He had let you win twice before you’d caught on, and called him out on it.

It was on the second date when you brought up your love for fairytales, expecting an amused laugh at best, and an oh so you're one of those Disney adults at worst. However, you got neither. Instead, Spencer Reid had launched into an explanation of the cultural significance of these stories, asked you about your favorite, and then proceeded to tell you about the different versions of it across history and continents. Somewhere between the Americas, he'd cut himself off, blushing furiously, before asking you why you loved Cinderella so much.

By then you had already decided he's perfect.

You didn’t tell him the reason that night; you thought it was too pathetic to share on a second date.

“I’ll tell you if you stick around.” you had said cheekily, hoping that maybe the temptation of a secret will allow you to keep him longer.

He had laughed, “So you’re baiting me into another date?”

“Is it working?”

“I would’ve asked you out again regardless.”

That had been the night you got your first taste of his lips, and you’ve found yourself hoping time would stretch on forever. If moments could be bottled up, you would have done so at that moment, kept it in your pocket for the rest of eternity.

Five months of bliss have passed since. Your theory of his perfection just kept being proven correct throughout the entire time, the way he’s trying so hard to communicate with you and make up for plans that get shelved due to the demanding nature of his job. He’d come up with different explanations for why you love Cinderella, until it became a game of its own; him searching through the contours of the fairy tale and you denying everything he comes up with.

At one point, he’d asked if it was simply because you had a feet fetish and you had to start wearing socks everywhere because the sight of your own feet would make you giggle.

You don’t mind it, the games, the way he insists on learning this about you. Spencer Reid's mind desires to understand how everything works, to turn over and mull and analyze, and the first step to that is by keeping track of the variables. You have always found this endearing. He knows how fast you can read — it depends on the genre according to him, but it’s somewhere around 350-400 words per minute. He knows your favorite stories and music, has found connecting themes between them, and now he’s trying to see where your love for Cinderella fits in all of it. Hell, he even keeps track of your cycle for you, resulting in perfectly timed moments shared in bed where you’re ravished, and he’s chanting your name, and the two of you are gasping for a god that neither of you really believe in.

When you miss your period, he notices before you even do, quietly offering two boxes of pregnancy tests. He kept track of how long it took before the results finally appeared — one test took three minutes and eight seconds, the other one three minutes and twenty one seconds. It had felt simultaneously like three seconds and three decades.

That was nearly six days ago. Nearly a whole week has passed, and what you had assumed to be an insignificant fissure seems to have widened into a crack. It’s a rare night off for him, a moment of domesticity that should be relished, but instead, you wonder if the cracks have somehow turned into something else. A fracture. You move around the kitchen together like magnets with similar poles, close but never quite touching. It feels like a chasm between you.

Dinner in the oven. Only the slow tick of the oven timer disrupts the silence, though it doesn’t really disrupt as much as it joins. Background noise, a lull that seems to melt with the silence to highlight the stifling atmosphere. He’s tossing a salad, facing away from you. You both know it is ready to be served.

His name is whispered into the tense air, your voice croaking at the last syllable, “We need to talk about this.” You watch as he tenses, back uncharacteristically straight, and your heart sinks to your stomach.

“I guess we do.” He never guesses. Spencer Reid uses words that are accurate, god knows he has the vocabulary for it. So this, to guess, the hint of skepticism makes your skin crawl. “What is this, again?”

You scoff. He can be so deliberately obtuse sometimes, “I don’t know, Spence, you tell me. You’ve been acting weird since I took that pregnancy test.”

He doesn’t look at you, but he does answer, “I just— I don’t understand why you were so relieved about the results.”

You’ve had an inkling this whole issue is about that moment. Both of you hunched on his couch while you waited with bated breath. He’d timed it, one stick taking three minutes and eight seconds, the other three minutes and twenty one; both had contained negative results.

You still remember it, the utter relief that washed over your body, the way you threw yourself into his arms at the confirmation that he hadn’t accidentally gotten you pregnant. You’d said thank god so quickly, face buried at the crook of his shoulder, so relieved that you hadn’t really noticed his reaction.

“Spencer,” it comes out a sigh, patient and quiet, “We’ve been dating for five months. Of course I was relieved. Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but it’s a little too soon to add a baby to the mix.” Love. That abstract concept you’ve almost given up on, before he’d come into your life. You love him, you’re sure of it. It’s burrowed deep into your bones now, which is why you’re trying to get past this. Communication is the key to making a relationship work. You remind yourself you don’t need a fairy godmother to keep this going. You have agency of your own.

His head shifts, turning over his shoulder slowly, and those beautiful amber eyes meet your own. “Is that all?”

It feels like an accusation, even though you know he’s just trying to understand. You gulp, trying not to get defensive, “I suppose not. If I’m being honest, I was relieved because I don’t really want children.”

There it is. A cardinal sin, a sickness of modern women. You wait for his words to turn bitter, the familiar accusations of selfishness, the condescension.

Instead, he looks at you with wounded eyes, “You don’t want children with me?”

“What? That’s not what I said.”

He pauses, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps. The oven continues to hum softly in the background, its built-in timer clicking at equal intervals. In a different context, it might have given you a sense of peace, but right now it feels mocking. Your time is almost up.

“Spencer, that’s not what I said, honey.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” he turns back to the salad.

You watch him helplessly, searching for any way to bring him back to you.

“You kept asking about my mom,” he murmurs, “It’s not that I didn’t want you to meet her, it’s that, it’s—well, she’s in a home. A– a mental facility. She’s schizophrenic.”

This is not how you expected this conversation to go. “Spencer.”

“I guess, you know, that’s genetically passed down, and it’s no secret that my teammates suspect I’m on the spectrum, so my genetic makeup isn’t exactly the most desirable in terms of a partner with whom you would want to—to procreate.”

God, you wish he had been like most people and accused you of being a selfish bitch instead.

“No,” you gasp, crossing the space between you. His hand is cold when you wrap your fingers around it. Unfortunately, you don’t think you have any warmth to give. Your own hands are clammy, but you try anyway, tugging it away from the tongs he’s using to mindlessly swirl at the contents of the salad. “It’s not like that at all.”

“It’s not?”

“No. And I’m sorry about your mom, I–I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to tell me about her.” the words feel futile, worthless. You’re entirely unprepared for something like this. He hasn’t told you much about Diana Reid, and you’d given him space, and now… now you understand why.

A beat as he considers. His body angles towards you now, his stance hunching forward into that familiar slouch you’ve come to love. You can’t tell if he’s relaxed or defeated, and that uncertainty burns in the back of your throat. “So you just don’t—”

“I don’t want kids, plain and simple. It’s got nothing to do with your genes, or your suspected autism, I just…” You falter, hands tightening over his own. You wish you could be more eloquent, but there’s so much uncertainty, so many truths being dropped in the span of minutes. You wait for more questions, for the inevitable but aren’t you worried about your legacy? Wouldn’t you get lonely? Motherhood is fulfilling for women. Sentiments you always get when you share this particular choice.

You prepare your arsenal of responses, defenses you’ve practiced and perfected throughout the years, ready for any attempts to make you change your mind.

Somehow, he manages to choose the most devastating response instead. Muttering so quietly you almost don’t catch it, Spencer says, “But I do.”

You wonder how you got this long without ever talking about this? How had you gone five months with him, allowed yourself to let your walls down and fall in love, memorized the scars and calluses all over his body without ever discussing the topic of children? It seems silly, most people talk about that stuff from the get go, don’t they? To see if they would be compatible in the long run?

But you’ve never had that before, the luxury of future plans. You’ve come to accept that the floor will inevitably collapse beneath your feet, that your time with someone will run out. When you’re used to having an expiry date, you don’t bother to make plans. The only way to survive is to live in the moment. Cinderella and her midnight curfew.

“Oh.” It’s a filler word, but the silence is beginning to get to you. You stare at your entwined hands. His thumb is running back and forth across your knuckles, the action familiar and soothing, and allow yourself a moment to believe, to hope, that there’s time left for this. That time would never run out.

His next words break your heart even more, “I know it’s silly, especially with how much risk is involved. With my job, my—”

“It’s not silly at all, Spence.” you gulp, trying to push past the lump in your throat as you remember how he acts around his godson Henry in those rare times he’s had to babysit, “You’d make a great dad.”

“You’d make a great mom too.”

“Spencer.”

“I’ve seen you with your own nephews. You’re great with kids.”

“Don’t—”

“I’m not trying to change your mind,” he finally pulls you in, lips finding the top of your head, “I respect your choice, I do. I’m sorry that I seem like I’m pressuring you.”

“You’re not,” it’s even harder to catch your breath when your face is pressed against him, but you don’t make a move. Losing air seems like a fair compromise if it means you get to feel his touch. The way this conversation went has you reeling, confused. You’d been prepared to defend yourself, to explain your choices and make him understand, potentially to argue. His respect and acceptance is an entirely different battlefield, but no less vicious.

With all the courage you can muster, you speak the words into existence even though you dread the answer. “Is this a deal breaker? Having children?”

He’s quiet. You wonder if this is even still a battlefield. You wonder if this is surrender, quiet and unassuming, a white flag raised before the fighting even began. If it is, then it stings, his soft acceptance. You almost find yourself wishing he’d try to convince you instead if it means he’ll fight for you more.

Your mind wanders back to Cinderella, the little game you’ve been playing, the way you’ve been holding out on the answer because it amuses you to hear the variety of interpretations and musings he’ll come up with. You promised yourself you’d tell him when the time is right, but now you’re afraid he’ll never get the answer. It feels useless, the cat and mouse you’ve developed, not when you’re faced with a real, human issue. A difference in life goals. Something communication potentially couldn’t fix.

His heart is drumming relentlessly against your cheek. It brings you some sick sense of comfort, knowing that he’s just as terrified as you are.

“Spencer?” Is this the end? Please don’t let this be the end, please don’t be another good thing I lose.

The timer on the oven dings, piercing in the tense silence. Your midnight curfew has come. Dinner is ready.

Happy Valentines <3 thank you for reading, here's the rest of my masterlist

Also tagging @olderwomenenthusiast ty for the interest it is here

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x afab reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fan fic #spencer reid x reader angst #criminal minds #criminal minds angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid

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notlongtolove · 1 day ago

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to be an accountant of the heart

because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. to look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

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

genre: angst-ish, fight and makeup

content: established relationship fight and makeup woof woof rookie bau reader feels insecure about how much she loves spencer, worries she's too clingy, spencer reid best bf ever

word count: 5k

note: this was haunting me in my drafts for the longest time... please be nice my heart can't take it (psa guys don't ever tell ur partners that they love you more than you love them bc 5 years down the road they'll cope by writing deranged spencer reid fics like this)

a line: You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

and then it is hundreds of hours later, and you are still hunched over your flowcharts and abacus, trying to decide if you have gotten enough. This is the loneliest job in the world: to be an accountant of the heart. - tony hoagland

The English language draws a neat line between many and much. It divides the countable from the uncountable.

The word many is meant for things you can count. How many cups of coffee have you had? How many days will you be gone for?

The word much belongs to what cannot be counted, what cannot be numbered. How much longer do we have in bed? How much did you miss me? How much do you love me?

How much?

It’s an innately impossible question. Love, after all, is supposed to be infinite, unbound, unquantifiable. Any attempt to measure it—to reduce something so sacred to a number, a unit—is to taint it. And why would you want to do that? Why would anyone? There shouldn't be any need to measure something so inherently immeasurable.

Deep down, you know there's no actual way to count love. You suppose this instinct to measure has always been there, to wonder if the love you received can be tallied like time. It’s buried deep, old as the child you once were.

Still, the question begs itself. How much? How much more? How much less? If comparison is the thief of joy it’s only because it leaves you with the revelations nobody asked for, the truths nobody ever wants to see.

Put love on a scale, wait and see—Will it balance or won’t it?

“Glaring at the clock isn’t going to make time pass any faster,” Elle teases from two desks away, her eyes locked on the report she’s skimming.

You don’t bother hiding your sigh as you glance up from where your chin rests heavily in your palm, elbow propped against the desk. The pencil in your other hand twirls idly, betraying your impatience. “He said they landed an hour ago,” you grumble. Only the faintest trace of a pout slips through.

“Working hard or hardly working, ladies?”

Your head perks up at that. Trust Derek Morgan to know how to make an entrance, arriving right on cue, grin wide and swagger intact.

JJ, seated beside you and noticeably more amused by your restlessness than concerned, spins her chair around as she asks, “How was the convention boys?”

“It was great—more than great actually,” Spencer says, appearing from behind Morgan. He’s lugging a bag that seems twice as heavy as when you’d helped him pack it five days ago. “All the speakers were incredible. I got to talk with Lonnie Athens himself. He gave me a signed copy of his latest book.” His grin widens tenfold. “It’s not even out in stores yet.”

You’re halfway out of your seat, ready to pounce on Spencer the moment he sets his bag down. But instead, he offers a halfhug and a light squeeze to your shoulder. It’s understated, but it’s Spencer. Public displays of affection aren’t his thing, and you know better than to expect more. Still, five days without him makes you ache for just a little more.

“It was alright,” Morgan interjects with a casual shrug as he takes a seat at the edge of your table, narrowly missing your nth mug of coffee. “Great sandwiches though.”

“Yeah, you sure seemed interested in the sandwiches,” Spencer says dryly, the kind of tone that suggests sandwiches were not the main attraction.

Morgan smirks, unbothered. “New York, man,” he says with a grin. “New York.”

You turn your attention back to Spencer. “How’d you sleep?” you ask, your question aimed entirely at him.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Spencer replies, “Despite the snoring.”

Morgan’s response is immediate—a light thwack to the back of Spencer’s head. “How’d he sleep? More like, how’d I sleep. Lover girl over here had him on the phone half the night.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. But then your gaze drifts to Spencer, searching for confirmation. “Was I?”

Spencer hesitates, his lips pressing into a faintly sheepish line. “I did wake up late for one of the panels,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh, you think you had it bad? I’ve never seen someone go through so much coffee in a week,” JJ says, nodding in your direction, “She wiped out the entire stock.”

“Almost bashed her over the head with a cup of coffee myself when I had to settle for the instant stuff,” Elle chimes in. A collective shudder goes through the group. “No offence, Reid,” she adds.

“None taken,” Spencer replies smoothly, just in time to earn another smack on his arm, this time from you.

You’ve endured more than your fair share of teasing—it comes with the territory when you’re part of a team like this. You, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, three years his junior. Him, more comfortable rambling about the number of kernels on an average cob of corn than talking to any girl, let alone one with a smile like yours that could make his knees buckle. What had been an odd match to some, made perfect sense to others—Though Spencer would argue that Garcia just liked seeing him with any girl who could make him laugh the way you could, especially within three days of meeting him. It’s a feat nobody else has yet to achieve in the year you’ve been on the team.

“Missed you,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

Spencer flushes as his lips part, maybe to respond, but Elle cuts in before he gets the chance. “Save it for later, lover girl. Some of us want to hear about those sandwiches.”

“Oh, they really were better than last year’s,” Spencer begins, now distracted, completely oblivious to Elle’s sarcasm, “Probably because the annual reports showed an increased budget for the global initiatives.”

JJ raises an eyebrow in amused disbelief. “You read the FBI’s annual budget breakdown?”

Spencer looks genuinely surprised by the question. “You don’t?”

Chuckles echo throughout the group and though you smile faintly, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You just can’t help it as the tally marks start to stack up in your mind. One for the way his attention is just a little too distant, his excitement seemingly aimed at everyone but you. Another for every time you wait for his gaze and it doesn’t come. He’s too absorbed in recounting a discussion about deterministic causality he’d had with a keynote speaker.

Compared to Spencer, who was often so reserved, it was easy to feel like your emotions were too big, too eager. Dragging him, wide-eyed and stammering, up the stairs to Hotch’s office six months ago had been nothing short of a test of strength and sheer determination. You’d been the one to silence him with a gentle kiss to his knuckles, promising him that everything would be okay. You were a live wire compared to him, everyone knew that. Lover girl, they teased, though never cruelly. In the field and out of it—Clingy to a fault, always wearing your heart on your sleeve.

Lover girl through and through, you wait patiently for Spencer to look your way.

He doesn’t.

“Yours or mine?” Spencer asks as you stand side by side on the curb, bags in tow.

“Think I’ll go to mine,” you reply curtly. You don’t trust yourself to say anything else right now.

“That’s fine. I’ve got an extra day’s worth of clothes with me.”

“You can go home,” you say, cutting him off. It comes off sharper than you intended. Then, softer, as if trying to backtrack, you add, “If you want.”

He looks at you, baffled. “Why would I do that?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, he genuinely doesn’t understand. Weekends apart have never really been your thing.

“Because—” You cut yourself off mid-sentence. What could you even say? Because you seem so perfectly fine after 120 hours apart. Because the tally marks said so. Because the scale said so. Instead, you huff an exhale and settle for, “No reason. You look tired. Thought you’d want to go home or something.”

“Again sweetheart. Why would I do that?” he repeats, incredulous.

You fight off a resigned sigh, though you’re sure he catches it, and pull out your phone. “I’m calling a cab,” you mumble, thumbing at the screen. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” he says, still calm but clearly confused.

“Fine.”

The ride home is quiet, save for the driver’s rambling complaints about freeway traffic at this hour. Normally, you’d be the one to humour any conversations with strangers, chiming in with polite nods and oh, reallys while Spencer watched, bemused by your ability to make small talk with anyone. But today, you’re just not in the mood, leaving poor Spencer to fend for himself.

Which to his credit, he does—By turning the conversation into a tangent about how traffic patterns correlate with certain hours and commuter behaviour, and delving into a detailed explanation of the queueing theory. He does this till eventually, even the driver goes silent, though whether it’s out of confusion or exhaustion, you’re not quite sure.

You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you in the silence, flicking toward you every now and then. The concern in his attention does nothing to soothe you. If anything, it only fans the flames of your irritation. When the car finally rolls to a stop outside your building, you hand the driver a $20 bill, wave off the change, and stride toward your door without another word. You’re out before Spencer can even pull his door open.

Inside, you drop your things on the couch resignedly and kick off your shoes without so much as a care. They land in a scattered heap that you don’t bother to fix. Spencer lingers behind you, ever patient.

“What do you want for dinner?” His voice is soft, tentative, as he bends down to pick up your discarded shoes, lining them neatly by the door. “We could order something. Chinese, maybe?”

Spencer knows you well—knows how your mood sours when you’re running on fumes. Particularly on days like this, when your only sustenance has been a cup of crappy coffee and a few stale crackers he’d coaxed you into eating earlier just before you left, bribing you with a quick kiss on the cheek—After checking that nobody else was in the break room, of course.

Sullen as you are, you can recognise the offer for what it is. It’s sweet. A thoughtful acknowledgement of how well he knows you, how much he cares. He’s offering you a lifeline, a quiet invitation to let the storm pass without forcing you to name it, something you’re evidently trying not to do.

But tonight, it feels almost patronising. It’s a spotlight on the hurt you can’t quite temper, like he’s trying to fix something you’re not yet ready to admit needs fixing.

“I can run down to the—”

“I’m not hungry.”

You walk straight into your bedroom without another word, leaving him standing there in the doorway. You hear him exhale quietly, not quite a sigh but close. Probably one of resignation. Another tally mark falls on the scale.

“Sweetheart,” he starts. You know he’s testing the waters, trying to find an opening. But you don’t look at him, don’t give him anything to work with. “Can we talk?” he asks, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a seat at the edge of your bed.

“Talk about what?” You’ve always been good at feigning ignorance, but the way you pull your hand away from his is anything but subtle. Spencer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes briefly. He’s clearly exhausted. This is exhausting. You’re clearly exhausting. You can’t help but wonder why you always do this.

“Was it Elle? Morgan?” he ventures cautiously. “The teasing?”

“They always tease me,” you say with a shrug, your voice dismissive. “I don’t care.”

It’s a half-truth, and you both know it.

Spencer nods slowly as he tries to piece this together. He knows you’re not usually one to let things fester. You’re never angry for long, and even when you are, you laugh it off, always quick to join in on the joke. He knows better than to profile you—it's an unspoken rule within the team and, more importantly, within your relationship. But Spencer’s anything if not desperate to understand.

He watches you slip into the bathroom with a sigh, shoulders dipping. The light flickers on, but you don’t meet your own gaze in the mirror. You’re not angry. That would be easier. There’s something quieter in your eyes. Defeat, maybe.

“I missed you,” he offers, stepping into the doorway. His tone is softer now, pleading.

“Did you?” It’s almost sarcastic, but not quite. Irritable but undercut by something raw, as though you don’t really believe he did.

Spencer swallows. “You don’t think I missed you?”

“A little hard to tell between the fawning over Lonnie Athens,” you say, wiping mascara from under your lashes. “Or was it the in-depth analysis of sandwich platters?”

It’s a snap, all sharp edges and fire, and for a second, he forgets the minefield he’s meant to be tiptoeing through. Has to bite back a smile. You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

“Is that what this is about?” The words slip out before he can stop them, and the second they do, he knows. Rookie mistake. Your spine straightens, your jaw sets, and he wants to take it back, rewind, try again.

“This,” you echo, turning to face him. “What exactly do you mean by this?”

Spencer reminds himself that fire is never snuffed out with ice. You douse a flame gently, carefully. So, he steps forward, quieter now, fingers grazing yours before he takes your hand in his, guiding you toward the bed. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t rush, just leads you toward the bed with the same patience he knows you need when you’re fragile and burning.

Regardless, you try to resist, to hold yourself upright. You’re fighting the urge to sink into it—His touch, the bed, all of it.

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmurs, taking a seat beside you. “I know you’re not angry. You’re sad. And I’d really like to know why. Tell me, please?”

Deep inside, you know you’re just clinging on to the last embers of your frustration. But it’s hard—impossible, really, when you’re a fire with no kindle left to burn, and Spencer is all soft whispers and gentle hands, featherlight and soothing.

You hesitate, twisting the fabric of the duvet between your fingers. “I just—I—You were being mean.”

Spencer lets out a slow, quiet breath. Relief, almost. Not because he agrees—He knows himself well enough to be sure that ‘mean’ isn’t the right word. But he knows you well enough to understand what it means when you say it.

Mean is what you say when you’ve been hurt and don’t know how else to put it.

So he follows your lead. Doesn’t fight it.

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles stroking your hand with his thumb. His touch is warm as it is gentle.

Because it’s not about whether he was mean or not. Spencer knows that. Knows you. Knows that kindness has never been a given for you, knows that you wouldn’t recognise patience if it came knocking. And he knows you well enough to know that you think in some twisted way, that you’ve brought this hurt upon yourself, that you deserve it.

What matters is that you were hurt. And that’s the one thing he never, ever wants to do.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Can you tell me how I did?”

“You just kept going on and on about the stupid conference. You didn’t even hug me or—And then you—”

You don’t continue. You can’t. You feel ridiculous. Stupid, even. Mopey and small over something that shouldn’t matter this much. Over the realisation that he doesn’t need you. And why should he? It’s not Spencer’s fault. Not at all.

His indifference is what it is and what it was. Indifference. It sits like a weight on your bones—Cold, sharp-edged, piercing. He can go 5 days without you. You can’t. The tally marks accumulate, unbidden.

“And then I…?” Spencer prompts gently, prying your fingers from the duvet and replacing the tension with his thumb, tracing slow, soothing circles into your palm instead.

“You ignored me, and I just—” Your voice wavers, frustration bubbling over. "I just felt so—so ignored!"

Wonderful vocabulary. Of course, your words would fail you now.

“And the teasing—I know, I know, I can be impossible sometimes, but I just—I just really missed you! And I get it okay? I’m clingy and you’re not and god forbid anybody else is but it’s because I love you!” You inhale sharply, your hands slipping from his to curl into fists in your lap. “And you didn’t react at all, you didn’t even care! You made me feel like—I thought that you—”

You cut yourself off before the flurry of tears take over and drown you out.

Spencer waits a beat, choosing his next words carefully.

“You thought… that I don’t love you?” His voice isn’t laced with sarcasm, nor does it carry incredulity. It’s a genuine question, as though he’s retracing the moments between you, trying to understand how you could possibly come to such a conclusion.

“No, it’s not that—” you’re quick to say, desperate to correct him. You know Spencer loves you. Of course, you know that. How could you not? It’s Spencer. He loves you like it’s his life mission to show you just how much he loves you. “I know you love—I know that. I just—”

You bury your face in your hands, fingers pressing into the hollows beneath your eyes—A feeble attempt at hiding.

Because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. To look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

To want to shout: Love me. Please love me, and please feel it with every fibre of your being as I do with mine. The kind of love that makes you want to scream from rooftops, to etch it into the sky, to burn the world down just to prove its enormity.

Because then the question comes: Which would be worse?

To shout into the vast, open air and hear nothing in response? No echo of the same intensity. Or to stand amidst the smouldering ashes only to look into their eyes and find they don’t recognise you anymore? To see confusion or pity where love used to live.

You blink your watery eyes open, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you settle on the knobs of your knees, tracing their shape with your gaze.

Anything but Spencer. Not right now.

You take a sharp breath, steadying yourself before continuing.

“Sometimes, I feel like you don’t need me as much as I need you and that scares me. And I know it’s stupid, even I feel stupid thinking about it. I don’t even want to be codependent or whatever but I—I just can’t help but think that sometimes—”

Your breath shudders out of you, long and uneven, “I love you more than you love me.”

To say Spencer feels his heart break would be an understatement. It’s not a clean break, not a single, shattering moment—it’s a slow, relentless unraveling. It’s a gut punch, pain and duress packed tight, failure laced in every syllable. His heart shatters, splintering into pieces so sharp they lodge in his throat, in his lungs, in every part of him that has ever loved you.

Silently, he’s always known the teasing would hit a breaking point. You’ve worn that insecurity for as long as he’s known you—too young, too green, too desperate to prove yourself. He just didn’t think it would carve its way between you the two of you like this. He’s watched you lean into it, let the jokes land, let them chip away at you. Newbie. Rookie. Lover girl. As if laughing along might soften the edges of it all.

You flop onto your back on the bed, boneless, the confession stealing the last of your fight. There’s a splotch of blue paint on the ceiling from last month, when you both tried to repaint the room and got distracted halfway through. It doesn’t make you smile, not even a little.

“That’s not true.” The mattress dips under Spencer’s weight as he settles beside you, thumb tracing your hairline. His arm moves, coaxing you to toward him, gentle in the way only he knows how to be with you.

“You’re not impossible, sweetheart, you never are. And I know they tease,” he murmurs, fingers of his other hand grazing over your knuckles, “but I also know for a fact that you don’t fall apart without me when I’m gone. That would be co-dependency. And I know that’s not you. You passed your requalifications with flying colors while I was away,” he says. “Garcia sent me the records. You know you even beat Morgan’s old score?”

You sniffle, startled. That had been your surprise. You’d wanted to tell him yourself.

“She told you?”

He shakes his head. “I asked. I always ask for updates on you when I can’t be there.”

A small “Oh,” is all you can get out.

With every other guy you dated, you’d attempted to play it cool, dialling down your enthusiasm, biting back your texts, and pretending to care less than you did. But every relationship seemed to end the same way: you were “a lot” and they weren’t equipped to handle it. It never quite stuck though, and thank god for that.

Because then you met Spencer.

Sweet, steady Spencer, who didn’t just tolerate your spark but cherished it. Spencer, who had let you cling to his hand during every takeoff and landing on the jet the first week on the job. He never flinched, never teased—Even when everyone else casted him sympathetic looks, the kind that silently acknowledged how your grip was probably cutting off his circulation. Spencer who has kept every scrawled doodle and note you’ve ever given for him, even the ones scribbled haphazardly on napkins or receipts. He knows carbon prints fade within months so he stores them in a shoebox tucked away in his cupboard—Just so they can last that much longer.

Spencer didn’t just accept the parts of you others found overwhelming. He singlehandedly brought them back to life. Every bit of your spark that had been dimmed or snuffed out by someone else had found new light in his presence.

Spencer’s fingers tighten around yours, a quiet kind of reassurance that draws you back to the present.

“Being clingy is not the same as being codependent. I know you know that. There’s a clear psychological difference in brain chemistry.” His lips twitch, the smallest hint of a smile slipping through. “You’re clingy, yes. But I love that about you. I love coming home with you. I love coming home to you. I love how hard you love me, how proudly you love me. I know I haven’t been the best at reciprocating that around the team, and I’m sorry. I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t love you, or miss you.”

He shifts closer, eyes searching yours, open and earnest. “Because I did miss you. So much. I nearly blew a month’s paycheck in the gift shop. Spent half of it stocking up on those jelly crackers you told me about.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe himself. “Morgan said I was whipped when I paid thirty bucks for a pair of souvenir socks.”

With a raise of your eyebrow you ask tearily, “and exactly how many pairs did you buy?”

“Got you three pairs.” A sheepish little laugh escapes him as he ducks his head.

And just like that, you’re smiling too. Albeit a small one, but that’s progress nonetheless. “And I don’t think you quite understand how much I love you when you say you love me more.” He leans in, his voice dropping, teasing. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m very competitive.”

“Oh, so I’ve heard Doctor Reid,” you quip, eyes rolling. Spencer’s lips curve, just slightly. You don’t even notice the way you press closer to him, but Spencer does. He takes the opportunity to go on.

“In a way, you’re right. I don’t need you,” Spencer says. Whiplash doesn’t even begin to describe the way your head snaps toward him. Flame and lighting, no doubt.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, his expression already twisting in regret. “I shouldn’t have phrased it like that.”

“I don’t see what other way you could possibly phrase something like that,” you snap pettily, already pushing yourself up to stand.

“Hey, hey.” His hand reaches out, not quite grabbing yours but close enough to make you pause. “Lie back down, honey. Please.”

Against your better judgment, you relent, sinking back into the bed. “What I meant to say was, I don’t need you,” he repeats, slower this time, deliberate.

You scoff, a bitter laugh slipping through your lips as you swipe harshly at your damp lashes. “I get it, Spencer. Clearly you don’t.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Biologically speaking, I wouldn’t cease to exist without you. My heart would continue to beat, my lungs would continue to expand and contract, my brain would maintain its synaptic functions. I would survive.” He pauses then, eyes searching yours, “And can I tell you something?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t pull away either. He takes that as permission to go on. “You don’t need me either.”

Your lips part, the beginnings of a protest forming, but he cuts you off gently.

“I know you said you do, but your autonomic nervous system would still regulate your breathing, your neurons would still fire, your body would persist.” He swallows, voice dipping lower. “But that’s not the point, is it? Love isn’t about biological necessity. It’s not about survival. It’s about choice.”

The word "choice" feels almost ironic when it comes from Spencer Reid. You knew that the moment you met him. It was never really a choice, not for you. It was him, or nothing. Desperately, you'd like to think it was the same for him, too.

Your answer comes in the form of his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. He’s patient, always, even when you aren’t. Kind in a way that sinks deep—Like you deserve it. You’re all sharp edges, brittle and worn, and he’s five days off a lumpy hotel mattress, yet the only thing he cares about is brushing away the tears from your skin.

“Sweetheart, I don’t love you because I need you. I don’t think that would be love at all. That’s survival. I love you because I choose you to,” he continues. “Because you are the strongest person I know. Because you are kind, even when the world hasn’t been kind to you. Because you give so much of yourself without hesitation, without ever expecting anything in return.”

Spencer smiles, shaking his head. “Because you’re the only person I know who will spend thirty minutes on a call recounting every little thing everyone did in the office that you think I’d like to hear about—before you even think to tell me about your own day.”

“It was funny! Since when has Hotch ever tripped on the stairs?”

It’s unfair really, how easily his laugh breathes life back into you. Your heart stumbles over itself as his hand brushes tenderly along your jaw.

“I’ve spent every day in awe of you since the moment I met you. And I fall in love with you more and more with each one. Even on the days I’m not with you. Even on the days I’m miles away. Even then.” Spencer presses his lips against the back of your hand as he adds, “Especially then.”

“Really?”

You can’t help it, the quiet little thing in you that wants to hear it again.

Your tears have dried, but their traces still shimmer faintly on your skin. Spencer presses a kiss to your forehead, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He’d say it again. A hundred times. He’d make that speech a thousand times over, if you needed him to. If it meant you’d never doubt it again.

“Really, my love.”

And just like that, a million tally marks fall at your feet.

A million for the way he presses another kiss to your lips, unrushed. A million more for the way his nose bumps against yours, lingering, breathing you in. Another million for the spark that creeps back into your eyes.

It’s infinite, unbound, unquantifiable—The way he loves you, the sheer depth of it. You feel foolish for ever having questioned it. You thank your lucky stars—all of them—for Spencer Reid. For the way he’s looking at you like you strung the constellations together yourself. For the way he chooses you, again and again, even when you don’t choose him, when you shut down, when you go quiet.

Because love to Spencer isn’t desperation, isn’t need—it’s choice. The deliberate, unwavering act of reaching out, of staying, and of saying over and over: I choose you.

Not because he has to, but because he wants to. To be the one to put you back together again when you’re all embers and ash, to cradle you back onto earth when stare past him into the ceiling, to remind you that there’s still warmth in you left to hold.

To breathe the spark back into your eyes—It’s a choice he made the very moment he met you. It’s a spark Spencer swears he’d spend his whole life keeping alight.

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