yoonbroom

[yoonbroom]

It takes a village

pairing: yeosang x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.7k

summary: you haven’t had a day to yourself since your baby was born. This means that yeosang gets a daddy daughter daughter but that wasn’t really going to happen with seven uncles.

authors note: i watched the daycare episode with Bom and became obsessed with dad!yeosang.

masterlist // request: open

——————————————————————————

You were nervous, Yeosang could tell. It was in the way that you had dragged yourself out of bed a little slower, took just that little bit more time in the shower, changed your outfit twice more than usual; held on to your little girl just a little bit tighter. Micha didn’t seem to mind though - the five month old was quiet, contently sucking on her dummy while cradled in her mother’s arms. She was an image of peace while your face next to hers only showed abject fear.

“Are you sure?” You asked for what must have been the 100th time. “I could always call my mum and-“

Yeosang interrupted. “Jagiya,” his voice was soft, warm. Your words stopped and you chewed your bottom lip. He stepped closer and cupped your jaw, using his thumb to drag your lip away from the clutches of your front teeth. “You’re going to make yourself bleed.”

You blinked up at him and Yeosang couldn’t help leaning forward to kiss you. You accepted it - you always did - and when you sighed, the tension left your shoulders.

“Mi and I will be fine,” he reassured when they parted, “I can look after her.”

Your eyes went wide, and reassurances that it wasn’t his skills as a father that you were worried about. He kissed you again.

He knew that wasn’t the case. The point was that you couldn’t bear to leave your child alone with anyone. Micha had been a blessing, a complete upheave of their life in a way that neither of them had fully been prepared for. You had taken to parenthood well, embracing every facet of what it meant to be a mother because you couldn’t even think about doing something wrong. There had been downs - a lot of downs at the beginning - and Yeosang had to step in, firmer than he had ever been before, to force to you look after yourself as well.

That’s what today was about. Your mother and sister was taking you on a girl’s day - no ifs, and or buts. Yeosang was accepted for you. Forced relaxation was relaxation all the same.

“You’ll call me,” you asked, “if you need me?”

Like hell he would. “Of course,” he promised. “And you’ll enjoy the spa and not call me every five minutes, right?”

You cringed, caught out. Yeosang nudged your nose with his. “Jagi…”

You huffed and agreed.

Yeosang looked down at his daughter, who watched him with identical eyes. He couldn’t help the smile, and his finger brushed her soft cheek. “We’re going to have a good time together, you and I, yeah?”

Watching Yeosang be a dad, absolutely heart pounding and in love with your daughter, was something you loved to watch. Even with the anxiety pumping through you, it softened you, made you love him ten times more. It would be fine, you told yourself. They would be fine.

In all honesty, you knew you needed the break. You needed to step out of this house without a stroller or nappy bag. You needed adult time. You’d confessed to your mum how hard it was to let go and she had hummed in understanding. “That is your precious baby,” she had explained, “You carried her for 9 months and now she’s out in the world, and the world is terrifying.”

“It’s like losing a limb,” you expressed.

She clutched your hands. “I wish I could say it changes but it doesn’t really,” your mum admitted, “Even now, I only feel better when all my children are in my house. You just have to trust others to take care. Trust Yeosang. He’d never let anything happen to that baby.”

You repeated those words to yourself as Yeosang lifted Micha into his arms, cradling her close. Micha jerked her head to watch her father. She liked doing that. She watched her dad a lot.

Your phone buzzed in your bag and you knew that was your sister, letting you know they were outside. You swallowed around the bubble of nerves.

“Okay, I’m going,” you said, reluctantly. You moved close to press a kiss to your daughter’s forehead, lingering, closing your eyes and breathing in her scent. “I love you baby girl.”

When you opened your eyes and moved away, Yeosang kissed you again. “Have fun,” he ordered.

You let out a wet laugh, blinking your eyes and trying not to cry. “Okay, okay. I love you.”

Yeosang lifted Micha’s little hand and waved it. “Bye-bye mama,” he made his voice high pitched, “I love you too.”

Shutting the door was hard. Your legs felt like lead walking down the steps and in the car, your family dutifully did not mean the red rim of your eyes.

With you gone, Yeosang sighed and hoped you actually got the time to relax. Then he looked at his daughter, and smiled. “It’s a father-daughter day, what should be do first?”

-

Micha was, not so surprisingly, the most relaxed of babies. She preferred to be held, little fingers curling around the fabric of the shirt of whoever had her in their arms that day. When put down, she would make unhappy coos and wiggle until she was picked up again. Sometimes, when put on her play mat, she could be satisfied with the toys around her, especially the sensory ones.

Yeosang had put her down while he washed up from breakfast. As he cleaned, he spoke, reciting what he was doing and asking for her opinions on different breakfast foods. She didn’t answer, of course, but once she spit out her dummy, she hummed and smacked her lips together so he took that to mean she very much was looking forward to the time she could try pancakes.

When his hands were dry, Yeosang crouched down at his daughter’s side. She wiggled and turned her head to look at him, suddenly so much more engrossed in him than any of the toys around her. His mum said that Micha was like him as a baby, quiet but observant, always taking in something.

“At least, until you started talking,” his mum joked, “then you never stopped.”

Honestly, he couldn’t wait for that point. He wanted every experience with his baby girl.

He spread himself on the floor next to her, put a hand on her tummy and hummed sweet songs at her. Micha tried to turn her body, was getting more confident with turning her head, but hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it just yet. She hiccuped and kicked her legs out, as if indigent she wasn’t being held yet.

Yeosang laughed. “Okay, okay, I got you,” he promised, and sat up to lift her into his arms. Micha settled immediately, shoving her head into the curve of his shoulder. He ran his fingers through the soft strands of hair at the back of her neck. They were starting to curl and he was enamoured by them.

When the doorbell rang, Yeosang frowned and Micha jerked her head back as if to ask him ‘who’s that?”

He had gotten used to standing up one handed. “I don’t know,” he murmured, “Let’s go find out.”

Yeosang looked at the doorbell camera and shouldn’t have been surprised to see Wooyoung’s face pressed up again it. Behind him, he could see the corner of Hongjoong’s jaw and a line of jackets, which he recognised immediately. “Yeo,” Woo called, his voice crackling through the speaker, “Open up.”

Yeosang pressed the speaker to answer, “I didn’t invite you.”

Wooyoung looked insulted. “We lived together for years,” he insisted, “We don’t need an invitation.”

In the camera, Yeosang watched, amused, as Woo was elbowed away and Seunghwa took his place. He smiled brightly into the camera. “We come bearing lunch,” he said, lifting his arm to show the takeaway bags.

Yeosang pondered for a second and looked down at Micha. Her eyes were on the video, watching the members closely. “What do you think, huh?” He asked, “Should we let them in?”

Micha tapped his chest a few times and blew a spit bubble. He took that as a yes.

-

Yeosang would never admit it but he’d been immensely grateful for his members since you had first told him, eyes wet and deepened with worry, that your period was late. He’d held it together for you, hugged you close, whispered all the comforting words he knew you needed to hear. He was honest when he told you they’d weather any storm together, that you’d be a fantastic mother, that he would understand if she wasn’t ready - but when you had fallen asleep, Yeosang had called Hongjoong in a panic, chest tight, breathless, and confessed that I fucked up, what am I going to do?

Yeosang had held you together but his members, they had held him.

As soon as Micha had been born, Yeosang was sure they fell in love faster than he did. The first baby ATEEZ. Seonghwa and Mingi cried, though they tried to hide it. San puffed up your pillows and rearranged the congratulations flowers that had been at your bed side, all the while refusing to take his eyes off the wiggling tiny body. Woo and Yunho fought over who got to hold Micha first, and then pouted when Jongho was given the days old baby to cradle. Hongjoong had been wide eyed, terrified he was going to hurt her, but was always quick to offer to feed her or change a nappy or sing her to sleep.

Yeah, Yeosang was lucky.

“Cha cha,” Woo sang his nickname as soon as he entered the apartment, kicking off his shoes in the entryway and reaching out his hands to pluck the baby away.

San put an arm around his shoulder to yank Wooyoung out of the way. “No way,” he refused, “if you have her first, no one else will get Cha’s cuddles.”

“She’s coming to her favourite uncle first,” Mingi interrupted, “Isn’t that right Cha?”

He poked her nose and her eyes crossed as she followed his fingers. Her nose scrunched up in the most adorable way when contact was made.

“Favourite uncle is definitely Jongho,” Yunho laughed, “He sings her to sleep.”

“I’ll sing to her,” Mingi argued.

Yeosang arched an eyebrow. “Did nobody come to see me?”

“Not really, no,” Jongho answered quickly. Yeosang flicked his forehead in revenge and then passed Micha to him before he could retaliate. The maknae held the baby girl close to him and immediately softened, muttering greetings and compliments.

“The food is for you,” Hongjoong offered.

“Thank you Hyung,” Yeosang sniffed, “At least someone remembers me.”

“If Micha could eat solid foods, she’d have your portion,” Seunghwa teased, before walking the path to the living room to sort out the takeaway containers. He nudged Yeosang’s shoulder affectionately as he passed.

Yeosang looked at his daughter. “See? Look how your uncles treat me,” he told her.

Micha pursed her lips and huffed. He took that to mean ‘I know appa, they’re so mean to you. I’ll love you best forever.’

-

You arrived home 4 hours and 20 minutes after you left. Yes, you had been counting, checking the time on your phone and counting them down. It was the hardest time of your life but you were so glad you had done. Your mum and your sister, both parents in their own right, had understood exactly. There was no pushing, no eye rolls or statements that ‘you’re being silly’. In fact, they just acted like it was any other day and it felt like you could breathe a little easier. You could feel what you were feeling and enjoy a good spa day.

You’d had a deep tissue massage, had a pedicure and a facial. You had a cocktail, had a fruit platter and shared updated photos of the grandchildren. By the time you were dropped off, you were calmer, and more than ready to have your baby back in your arms.

You skipped up the stairs to your apartment door, typed in the door code quickly and opened the door to a living room full of people. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Since Micha was born, your home was basically the unofficial dorm room. There were drinks on the coffee table, baby toys scattered everywhere; bodies stretched out and lying across your sofas.

Yeosang was on the floor and when he looked up at you, he beamed. “Jagiya, you’re back,” he pushed himself to his feet and approached to wrap his arms around you. He nudged your nose and kissed you soundly, ignoring the pretend gagging from the members around him, “How was your day?”

“Good,” you murmured and admitted, “needed.”

“Your mama and appa are so gross,” Wooyoung teased, Micha’s little hands in his as he moved them as if dancing. This was a position he enjoyed, legs bend so Micha could brace herself against him, and her fingers wrapped around his own. Usually, Micha would not be able to tear her eyes away from her uncle, but at the sound of your voice, she had turned to look up at you. Her legs stretched out and she blinked at you.

You needed to hold her, like now. You made grabby hands. “Give me my baby,” you demanded. Wooyoung teased you but lifted Micha under her arms until you could wrap her in yours. Your shoulders felt lighter, your heart sped up. You pressed kissed across her plump, rosy cheeks. “My baby girl,” you cooed, “Did you miss me? I missed you.”

Micha made a noise like a squeak, a noise of agreement, and gave you her version of kisses - open mouthed, spit ridden pressed of her lips against yours. You melted.

Yeosang helped you out of your coat because there was no way you were going to release your daughter now, and busied himself hanging it up.

Seunghwa shoved Yunho’s legs onto the floor and pushed himself against a complaining Hongjoong to make space for you to sit. You did so, carefully positioning Micha against your chest. Immediately, Yunho’s face was next to hers and muttering greetings.

“Yeosang said you went to the spa,” Hongjoong pushed himself forward, resting on his knees, so he wouldn’t be completely squashed by the older man, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did,” you sighed, “Yeo had been trying to convince me to go for a while and, he was right. I did need the adult time.”

Seonghwa tutted. “Don’t let him hear that, it’ll go straight to his head.”

“I don’t need to be told if I’m right, I know I am,” Yeosang was back in the room and, from behind you, ran a hand affectionately through your hair, brushing strands over your shoulder. “Are you hungry? There’s leftovers for you.”

“We brought chicken,” San supplied.

You squinted. “In spicy sauce?”

“Of course.”

“Then yes, thank you,” you agreed. Your eyes flickered to the digital clock on the banner of whatever tv show they had been watching, “I should probably feed Cha first.”

“I got it,” Mingi was up and skidding to the kitchen on sock clad feet.

Jongho stood up and followed after him. “You don’t know how to warm up the milk.”

“I can figure it out,” Mingi argued.

You called after them back, “Milk is in the freezer. Water bath please.”

Both voice called back, “Got it.”

You rolled your lips into a smile. You looked down at Micha, who was still watching Yunho with great intensity. You lowered your head to press a kiss to her crown. “Aren’t you lucky baby? Your appa and your uncles take such good care of you.”

You didn’t have to look up to see them all preening under the praise.

And they did. They do. It was hard to let go, to accept that others could do this job and keep Micha as safe as you could, but in that moment, you felt the tension leave just a little from your shoulders. You should have known, you thought. It was never going to just be you, or Yeosang. It would be all of them.

Their family, blood and otherwise. Their village.

——————————————————————————

a/n: please let me know what you think!

[yoonbroom]

Breaking Point (1)

Summary: Wooyoung loved kids, but after having one of his own, especially this early in his career, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be... and unintentionally, he took it out on you... and your son did, too.

pairings: idol!dad!wooyoung x ceo!mom!reader, wooyoung x oc!son warnings: blatant descriptions of eating disorder, self-consciousness and insults to reader's weight, angst w/c: 2.4k a/n: I am not having a great time in life rn so MORE ANGST FOR YOUUUUU (I'll add a graphic later) net: @mirohs-aurora-society

When you first got pregnant, Wooyoung thought he would be ecstatic.

He'd wanted a girl, mostly becaues he'd basically had experience raising a boy already, and Arin and Ayun from one of his promotion activities from Bouncy era really sold him on having daughters.

But the more time that passed, he realized that even taking care of you during pregnancy... was kind of exhausting.

It wasn't that he felt like he shouldn't have to do these things. You were his wife after all, it was a privilege to take care of you as you carried his child. He knew, objectively, that was true. He loved you.

He just loved you and the baby simultaneously to the feeling of dread that filled his bones as he realized that his life as an idol would have to take second place.

And he didn't want that.

Obviously, having a child was his dream after becoming an idol, but not this soon.

And he knew he couldn't tell you that.

But he let that resentment fester inside of him.

When he held his Beomwoo, in his arms for the first time, he thought everything would be okay, especially when his first cry stopped the moment that he made skin to skin contact with him. He felt a fulfillment that he thought would keep that void of dread filled so that he wouldn't disappoint you.

But then the crying wouldn't stop.

It was normal, his mom told him, for babies to cry incessantly. It would get better with time. The first few months were always the hardest.

But then you went back to work.

Both of you discussed it before. He'd have to do most of the parenting for at least a little while until you got back into the swing of things at work.

...Did he mention that you were a CEO?

You weren't a chaebol or anything, but to be honest you were the one making more money between the two of you. Objectively, your job was more important than his for the sake of your marriage finances. Wooyoung had to be practical. He had to suck it up for at least a couple of months just so that you could find a rhythm at work that you could comfortably incorporate Jiwoo so that he could go back to being an idol full time like he always had.

It was a good plan, and you promised you were going to make sure that he'd be okay going forward. You were going to follow through.

But one day it all rose to the surface.

You walked in, ready to greet your husband after a long day of work. The smile on your face when you saw him was nothing but relief.

Little did he know that this was the last time you'd look at him like this for a very long time.

"Hi, Woo-"

"This has to stop, y/n."

You froze, your blood stilling in your body. "I'm sorry," You said instinctively, though you didn't know what you were apologizing for. "Wh-what needs to stop?" The question slipped reluctantly from your lips as if you were afraid that he would consider questioning him as an act of defiance.

"I can't keep taking care of Beomwoo," he said, running his hand down his face, "I know I'm good at it, and I reassured you that I wouldn't let you take on all of the work, but now I'm taking on all of the work."

You took a tentative step toward him, putting your hands on his face, "I- I know, but we agreed that once I got into a rhythm at work then I'd-"

"When is that going to be, y/n?" Wooyoung asked tightly, taking her hands off of his face, "I love Beomwoo, I do, but sitting at home idly like this is torture for me. I'm an idol, I have an active career. While you- you've gained weight-"

That was not what you were expecting to come out of his mouth. Truthfully, he didn't mean it like that it was more just word vomit while trying to convey that your job was stationary compared to his, but it didn't hit you that way.

"O-oh," you said, feeling small. You tried to pacify him but he shook his head.

"I can't do this anymore, y/n. I'm missing so many things and this is such a vital time in my career, don't you see that!?"

"I do! I do see that," you said, softly, calming him down, "Okay. I'll take him to work with me. You can go back to being a full-time idol. I didn't- I didn't mean to burden you."

But Wooyoung couldn't stop while he was ahead.

"I love you, y/n. You knew I didn't want to get married so young, but I did it for you, so that you could get away from your family and be this great CEO that you always wanted to be. We had a baby even though I wasn't ready for one, but I love kids, so you've been taking advantage of that, so that you could keep doing your job knowing fully well that I would never abandon Beomwoo the way you've been doing."

"H-hey, Wooyoung, that's not-" Your eyes were furrowed with confusion, a bit heartbroken at his words. "Don't you care about us, y/n? Or did you really just marry me for your career? It's like you don't even see me anymore," He spat despite it being nowhere near the truth.

"I couldn't work for months, Wooyoung," You said softly, "With my maternity leave, the interim CEO took on way more than they were prepared to, my company was just- there was a huge mess and-"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. I just want action, y/n. I just need action. I'm tired of this."

"Okay," you said softly, "I'll work it out. You just go back to KQ, alright? I'm sorry for troubling you. P-please don't yell at me, okay? I'll take care of it."

Wooyoung softened for just a moment before shaking himself out of it. You always did this. At the slightest feeling on tension you retreated into yourself and he wasn't allowed to get mad at you. But he was angry. Why couldn't he be allowed to feel angry?

You wouldn't have been so angry if you had just talked to me sooner. That was what you believed.

The next morning, Wooyoung was gone from bed before you woke up. Beomwoo was crying, and you instantly shot up to check on him.

To your surprise, he was dressed appropriately and had just dropped his pacifier.

Even though Wooyoung was angry with you, he was still taking care of you in his own way... you supposed.

You gave Beomwoo his pacifier and he instantly stopped, looking up at you curiously. You smiled at him, caressing his head until you looked at the time.

"Shit!" You were so late.

The night before had taken a toll on you. Your body responded by sleeping the stress away, and that made you wake up an hour later than you normally would have. Your phone, usually on silent during your sleep, was blowing up with soundless notifications.

You got ready quickly, packing the baby bag while you brushed your teeth.

It wasn't until you looked in the mirror, half dressed with a toothbrush in your mouth that you remembered what Wooyoung said yesterday.

"You- you're gaining weight-"

You cringed, staring at yourself in the mirror. Pregnancy had not been kind to you. You hadn't really had time to exercise nor did you think you would have time considering that now you had Beomwoo to think about.

Once upon a time, you wouldn't have thought of that as an issue. Wooyoung told you that he thought your body was beautiful during your pregnancy, that there was nothing your body could look like that he wouldn't be attracted to.

But if he noticed that you'd gained weight... he must have found it an issue. Wooyoung wasn't attracted anymore. What other conclusion could your mind come to?

You took a deep breath as you pinched the loose skin around your stomach, tears pricking your eyes.

You wore a looser fitted business outfit today.

"You brought the baby with you!?" your assistant whispered loudly as you stalked in through your office doors.

"Wooyoung didn't- he needed a break, so I took care of it for him. It's fine." "But you didn't hire the babysitter, yet!" "I said it's fine! What's on the agenda for today?"

That's how you ended up in a board meeting with your wailing son in your arms as you tried to give a Powerpoint presentation.

The head of the board stood up, a brow raised as he looked at you who was trying your best not to break down in front of them.

"I think you're a bit overwhelmed today. Maybe we should have this meeting another time."

Beomwoo conveniently decided to stop crying the moment that all the board members were out of the room. You let out a breath, trying so hard not to cry.

Over the next week, you tried so hard to find the right babysitter, but Beomwoo had attachment anxiety, and he refused to be in anyone's arms but yours.

He did not take after his father, clearly, considering that Wooyoung was usually the friendliest person in the world.

But maybe he did, considering that Wooyoung could steep to the lowest forms of mean if he wanted to.

All the while, Wooyoung was practicing choreo until late hours of the night, trying to get back in step with his members.

"Bro, don't you have a newborn baby?" San asked incredulously as he walked into the practice room.

"Uh, he's 6 months old now, and my wife is handling it," Wooyoung said, not stopping his movements, though it was hard for him since he wasn't as in shape as he usually was from being stationary for so long.

"So suddenly?" San asked doubtfully.

Wooyoung looked at him, annoyed. "What? Are you going to lecture me? Butt out, San." "Okay, okay," San said, raising his arms in surrender, "I was just saying."

San exited the room. He had only been checking in on Wooyoung before planning to leave for the day.

But he decided to make a detour.

San gave you an innocent smile when he appeared at your door with a bag of food.

That smile faded when he saw the state you were in.

"Woah, you look- sick- y/n, are you okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned as you backed up so that he could enter.

"Hello to you, too, San," you chuckled, closing the door behind him, "I'm sorry, Beomwoo is down for a nap, now."

"That's okay, it's not like he can eat this food," he said with a warm smile, going into your kitchen to put it down on the counter, "Wooyoung's been busy so I figured you could use a pick me up. I bet you miss him."

"Ah, yeah," you said softly, "I do miss him, but this is his dream, so... can't hold him back."

San furrowed his brows, "Hold him back?"

You waved your hand dismissively, "Anyway, what brings you here other than that? You can't tell me you just came here to feed me."

"I did," San said proudly, "And to see how you were doing. But clearly, you're not well, though."

"No, I'm fine, but thank you," you chuckled, "for thinking about me."

"Of course," San said, "Now come eat with me."

"A-ah, I gained some weight, though, San, so I've been trying to cut down," You said sheepishly. He furrowed his brows, the information not deterring him from the action of opening all of the containers.

"So? You had a baby like a couple months ago and you're a working mother? Have a little grace for yourself," he said nonchalantly, "You can cheat for today if you're so adamant on dieting."

"I really-" "You really can," San interrupted you, putting a paper plate down in front of you, "For me?"

San pouted at you, pretending to be cute and you shook your head. He was normally a really manly guy, especially around women, but since you and Wooyoung had become "one" in marriage, he lost his shame in acting cute in front of you.

"Fine," you sighed, sitting at the table. You looked up at him with a sincere expression on your face, "Thank you, San. I do appreciate the gesture."

"Of course," He said with a warm smile.

You didn't take much, just enough that San nodded in satisfaction. He put the rest of the leftovers in the fridge for you and Wooyoung instead of taking it home himself. He wondered if the two of you were eating well considering that both of you were so busy.

You felt warm when San left that night. It was the first act of kindness you'd felt in a while. You loved your job, but that environment was so cold. And Wooyoung....

You sighed, rubbing your temples tiredly after you closed the door behind San.

You could feel your gut twisting already. You hated feeling full.

You made the conscious decision to purge.

Crouched over the toilet, you cried, feeling disgusted with yourself to succumbing to this, but you couldn't risk gaining weight. You were already undesirable to Wooyoung. You couldn't risk losing him.

You didn't know how such illogical thoughts began to plague you. But they swirled around until it became dire for you.

Purging hadn't been something you considered until now. Cutting down your portions came naturally so you never felt full enough to feel like you needed to throw it all up. It scared you, the fact that you felt like you needed your stomach to feel empty.

But you pretended that it was all fine.

When Wooyoung came home exhausted that night, he found the leftovers in the fridge, assuming that you'd ordered out, completely unaware that San had been here. He ate, washed up, and went back to your shared room where you were once again faced away from him.

He didn't think anything was wrong. He was busy, you were busy. Obviously there hadn't been much time to be romantic. Things would go back to normal soon.

He took a look at Beomwoo in his crib who was sleeping soundly, a smile on his face as he looked at his beloved son before finally tucking himself into bed.

He felt cold, but it would be fine. Things would be fine. Right?

----------------- Taglist: @ad0rechuu @spooo00oky @jaerisdiction @soso59love-blog @potatos-on-clouds @intartaruginha @hwasa28 @stacey-stonem @skersey33 @altxrr-ego @sunnyhokyu @sunnysidesins

[yoonbroom]

bias

pairing: vernon x gn!reader

prompt: a really stupid thing that took place today (here are the final results)

word count: 1.4k~

warnings: mostly just fluff but a liiil talk abt having to keep a relationship pretty private n there being stress surrounding that. intentional lowercase + no proofreading.

daisy’s notes: i am an idiot. i almost gendered this just bc its based off of me being an idiot, but there was no real reason to soooo….. we can all be dumb together <3

“baby… what are you doing?”

Keep reading

[yoonbroom]

— Heels • K. HONGJOONG

"Joongie," You whine, holding his should as you message your aching calves. "It hurts," you pout.

Hongjoong just shrugs. "Told you not to wear those high heels, love," he points.

You roll your eyes at your lover. "Its my hubby's album release party! Cut me some slack." Hongjoong just smiles, amused by your tantrums. "Cut you some slack? Honey, respectfully, what did you part take in? Last I checked, you are not in Ateez?"

You smack his head. Hard. "I am your muse, am I not, Captain?"

Hongjoong smirks. "That you are."

After walking a few steps, Hongjoong stops, turning to you. "Take off your heels."

You blink, confused. "What? You expect me to walk barefoot?"

The man shakes his head, kneeling down to open your heels for you. "Just listen to me, love."

You were about to protest when Hongjoong got up, lifting you up in his strong arms. "You don't trust me, do you?" He smirks, enjoying the flustered look on your face.

Hitting his arm, you thrash around in his arms. "Put me down, joongie!" You cry, hiding your face into his clothed chest. "People – dispatch will see us," you try to reason.

But the producer just shrugs, continuing on his walk. "Let them, then."

After a while, you give up fighting him knowing full weel you won't be able to win. So instead, you recount all the fun things you did at the party. Like how San got drunk after only two shots, or how Mingi danced with Yunho.

The man replied in hums and nods, smiling at you as you spoke. His arms might hurt but thats something he could care less about; right now, all that mattered was you and maybe, you're all that's ever mattered to him to make him smile like an idiot.

When the two of you came under a lone streetlight, you boldly jumped off his arms, landing swiftly on the grovel of the road. "Y/n! You'll hurt yourself!"

You giggled, pulling him under the faint light. "Let lose sometimes, old man," you tease.

Hongjoong shakes his head. "Yeah?''

You nod. Smiling eagerly, you put his hand on your waist, your own falling to its rightful place on his shoulder. "Let's dance?"

You swore you saw hearts in Honjoong's eyes. This is what the man loved about you the most. So adventurous, so spontaneous. Something he lacked but that's why they say opposites attract, right?

"Here," he said as he pulled you closer. "Stand on my foot. You're barefoot, remember?"

You hide your face into the crook of his neck, refusing to let the witness you turning into a tomato. "Such a flirt," you manage to mumble under your breath.

"What?" He's smug, you could tell without looking.

The two of you fall into a songless waltz, your hearts setting the rhythm. And without any music playing, this feels perfect. The faint light acting as your free spotlight, illuminating as you two maneuver effortlessly.

"If only time stops," you hear him sigh. "I'd freeze and relive it again and again."

You smile, your heart growing all fuzzy and warm.

"I'd do the same, Hongjoong."

do not copy, steal or translate my work on any other sites. All rights belongs to yup-thats-me© on tumblr

⋆.𐙚˚reqs are openᝰ.ᐟ

[yoonbroom]

Flower Dance (Prologue)

Summary: Yeosang didn't think he'd ever get successfully matched by his mom as an idol, but when he gets reintroduced to you, his childhood friend, he can't imagine his life with anyone else.

pairings: idol!yeosang x dancer!reader | arranged marriage(?) AU

c/w: Absolute tooth rotting fluff!!! FLUFFFFFFF, not proofread, non-ballerina attempts to describe a saute in layman terms

a/n: Don't worry! Not all of the members of the idol dad ateez universe have horrific angst! Also the blonde woman in the header isn't what reader looks like, I just needed a good wedding photo.

w/c: 5k

Net: @mirohs-aurora-society

Yeosang didn't really look at girls. It wasn't that he didn't like them or feel attracted to them, he was nothing but a man after all, but he just never really thought about them. He didn't really dream of a future with a potential woman, he just existed day to day.

But that had his mother worried. He was an idol, yes, and beautiful at that, so his dating pool was infinite, but at the age of 26, how could he not have gotten a girlfriend?

She trusted him to makes his own decisions... but she couldn't help but try.

"Do you remember l/n y/n, from our neighborhood?" She asked him over lunch with the family at a nice restaurant.

"Oh, of course I do!" Yeosang replied like it was obvious. The two of you were good childhood friends until you moved to Seoul when you were in highschool. Even though you were close, the separation was just natural. He ended up going down his path as an idol anyway, so there were no hard feelings.

"Well... her family is looking for a husband for her right now," his mother continued tentatively, gauging his reaction.

"Oh, thats...nice?" He said as more of a question, reading the room as he was confused why his mother was telling him this.

From next to him, his sister scoffed, smacking him on thr back of the neck. "She wants to suggest you, idiot."

"Oh! Me??" Yeosang asked.

"Yeah!" His mom suggested easily, "You're single and you two were friends, so I thought it might be nice for you two."

"I mean, she is my friend," Yeosang said with a shrug, "I wouldn't mind meeting her again since it's been a long time, but I don't know about getting married."

"Well, yeah, that's all it is. You're just meeting her at her house with all of us and you can decide to continue talking or not," his mom said nonchalantly, "So can I offer you?"

"Wait, wait this is weird, it sounds like you're selling me," Yeosang said warmly.

His sister smacked his head again, "She's your friend anyway, just go meet her!"

And that was how Yeosang met you again.

Your mom greeted him at the door. "Oh my gosh, is this really our Yeosang! Aigooo, you got so big! You cute face doesn't match this strong man body anymore!" You're mother gushed, pinching his cheeks. Yeosang laughed bashfully as he came into the house with his parents and sister following behind him.

And then he saw you.

You were standing, ready to greet him.

To be honest, you remembered Yeosang as your ditzy best friend from high school. When your mom told you that his family was interested in meeting you as a match for their son, you thought it would be funny to meet him again after so long in this context.

You didn't feel as thought it would be awkward or uncomfortable at all. That's how good of friends you'd been to each other. It was to the point that Yeosang had genuinely considered you a person he could lean on, literally and figuratively.

It was a shame that you two ended up parting ways, though you both moved to Seoul to pursue your dreams, him of being an Idol and you of being a ballerina, but you both promised to continue supporting each other from the sidelines.

What you didn't expect was for you to be absolutely floored the moment you saw him again.

He had grown so much.

Yeosang had expected to be able to say something to you when he arrived. Like you, he had expected to just pick up where you'd left off and this would all just be a funny memory to talk about later in your lives if you were to ever come back together and have a drink when you were old.

He didn't expect to find you so beautiful.

You'd always been pretty, sure, but now?

You were sure that he'd had to have met a Greek god and made a deal with them to make him look as ethereal as he did.

Your mothers were giggling at your expressions, unbeknownst to both of you.

"Hi, stranger," you said, uncharacteristically shy with him, "Long time no see."

Yeosang snapped out of his stupor to give you a smile, opening his arms for a once commonplace hug. "Hi, y/n."

Yeosang felt his awkwardness wash away as he hugged you briefly, pulling away to beam, "Wow, seriously it's been a long time! I didn't know you could change so much!"

"I should say the same to you!" you exclaimed, "Where did all these muscles come from? And jeez, you're so pale now! What's that about! I've never heard of anyone getting lighter!"

"Ahh, it's just idol stuff, as long as it's not plastic surgery I just let them do whatever they want to me," Yeosang said, shaking his head.

"Did they give you steroids, too?" You asked, eyeing his biceps suspiciously. "Ahh, no that's just my hobby."

"Taking steroids?" "Working out!" Yeosang insisted, aghast. You were always good at messing with him.

"Why don't you go outside and catch up. We'll stay in here," Mrs. Kang said with a smile. You and Yeosang looked at each other for confirmation, finding it immediately as you moved in step, Yeosang bowing as he gestured for you to go first, and you heading towards the door as if you already knew he'd do that.

Outside, you sat on your old swing set as Yeosang leaned against the bars holding them up. You swung loosely as you let a comfortable quietness wash over both of you.

"How was ballet school?" Yeosang suddenly asked. You smiled brightly. "You remembered!"

"Of course I did, don't insult me, y/n! That's your dream!"

"Ah, yes, well, it was my dream," you said, nodding, "Not so much anymore, though."

"Really?! So you're not into ballet anymore?" he asked, and you shook your head, "Aye, I didn't say that I wasn't into ballet. But going to ballet school got old quick."

"Were they strict?" Yeosang asked. "Too strict!" you scoffed, "I stuck through it because I wanted to learn ballet, but I got hurt a lot!"

"So... I'm guessing you're not going into professional ballet then?" he asked. You nodded with a firm press of your lips together, "Yes... I love ballet, but... the surrounding culture can really harm your soul, I think. At least at the school I went to. They have a lot of prestige, so many famous ballerinas are from there, but... I don't know. Maybe ballet didn't end up being right for me."

Yeosang frowned, "I think that's nonsense. You've always been really graceful."

"Hmm, but I don't think I said I wasn't graceful, though?"

Yeosang looked down with an embarrassed closed-lip smile on his face. "Oh, did you not?"

"I still like ballet. I like dance. I ended up doing contemporary dance in college instead of ballet..., but ballet is still in me, you know?"

"I can see that," he said, nodding, "I'm happy that you still dance."

"Yeah," You smiled, "What about you, Yeosang? How is idol life treating you?"

"Honestly... pretty well," he admitted, "I don't make my own schedule and I have a manager, so it's been a lot easier for me to stay on task... and since I'm already doing what I love for work, it doesn't really matter that I don't have a lot of free time."

"And what do you do in your free time?" "Work out," Yeosang said simply, "I don't have a lot of free time, but working out is fun on top of it being good for my career, so..."

"I love that for you," you replied, "I wish my schedule was packed enough for me to not think about what I'm doing next."

"Well... if you're thinking about it so much, then what are you doing next?" Yeosang inquired with a cute tilt of his head. You sided eyed him, swinging a little bit.,

"Um... I guess I want to open my own dance academy," you said with a soft smile, looking down, "I don't think I'm the best at teaching, but... I want to explore different practices of teaching instead of... the strict ways we have now. It almost killed my love for ballet, so-"

"That's so amazing," Yeosang said in awe, "Is it going to be a ballet academy or will you have different dance styles?"

You stared at him for a moment. He didn't say 'if'. He was so sure that you were capable of doing it, and his confidence in you make your heart want to explode. You blushed, "I'll probably start with ballet, but I'm definitely going to hire other dance teachers who share my vision once I have enough money to expand."

"Have you gotten started yet?" Yeosang asked. "I will soon," You said nodding, "I'm saving up for a studio space for sale right now."

Yeosang's smile had gotten significantly more dazzling since you'd last seen him. The innocence in how happy he was for you, void of ulterior motives was so heartwarming to you that you couldn't help but stand up.

"So, what about you? What styles have you learned while being an idol?" You walked up to him with a cuter smile.

"Ah, hip-hop, contemporary, but Wooyoung's definitely better at that than me... I don't know if I think about the style too much, I usually just follow the moves..."

"I heard that you're a natural," you said, tilting your head, "Do you think you could do ballet?"

Yeosang's eyes widened, "I don't know... My movements are usually kind of sharp and heavy... ballet is really..."

"Do you want to try?" you asked. He raised a brow, something you were used to seeing on stage, but never really in real life.

"Ummm, okay, teach me a move," He said.

You hummed and circled him for a moment before raising your leg high behind you. You forgot to hold something for balance so when Yeosang saw you wobbled, instinctively, your hands found each other, his firm grip keeping you steady.

"I can't do that," Yeosang said assuredly, as you chuckled, standing back up properly.

"Okayy, then this?" You asked, hopping. Your feet whipped quickly below you until you were back on the ground. "Wow!" Yeosang said with wide eyes.

You smiled, "What about that one?"

Yeosang took a step back and attempted to copy what you did. It wasn't the same, but it was pretty good. He landed hard, and not as gracefully as you did. You held your arms out to steady him incase he needed it, but he was fine, though you almost wished he stumbled a little so that you could catch him.

You laughed at his attempt brightly and he smiled at you.

"That's hard. Your feet move so fast," He said in awe.

"Well, I can teach you. You can be my first student at the academy," You said, poking him in the chest.

"Are you trying to sell me?" he asked, "Wooyoung tells me I'm very gullible."

"Well, even if you fall for me, then I think it'll be a good investment," you said.

The air was silent as you both processed your wording.

You coughed and Yeosang smiled, "I would like that."

You beamed, "Well, as a reward for trying, would you like me to push you on the swing?"

Yeosang looked at you weirdly, though he was just joking. "No, I'm a big man, now-"

You pushed him back so that he fell, sitting on the swing. He grabbed the chains for support and looked at you in disbelief.

"I don't think you are going to be strong enough to push me, though?" Yeosang said thoughtfully. You tried, you really did. He wasn't that heavy, but he was just so dense with muscle that he was almost like an immovable object.

"Okay, okay," Yeosang laughed, standing up as you went to push him again, causing you to fall over. He was the one to catch you this time, pulling you around, to push you in the swing.

You liked the way he looked down at you. He liked the way you looked up at him.

"I will push you," Yeosang said, coming around behind you. "You're too strong, now. You're going to push me too- HIGH!"

You shrieked as Yeosang pushed you, sending you basically soaring into the sky.

He only really had to push you once to get the reaction he wanted. You laughed fully, like you were both just kids again, and Yeosang found himself adoring you.

"They're so getting married," Yeosang's sister whispered to his mom with a smirk as they watched you discreetly from the window, and his mother nodded smugly.

The next time he met you was back in Seoul.

"You're getting ready to go out??? Where do you go other than the gym?" Wooyoung asked incredulously.

"My childhood friend lives in Seoul. We lost touch before we both moved to Seoul in high school, but we got in touch again."

"Oh, boring," Wooyoung huffed, "Where are you going to eat?"

"I wanted to take her to your favorite restaurant, but-" "HER?!" "Yeah, my childhood friend is a girl-"

"I'M COMING WITH YOU!"

Wooyoung was at Yeosang's door within minutes, a mischievous grin on his face.

"I didn't say you could come," Yeosang deadpanned.

"I didn't ask," Wooyoung said nonchalantly. "Do I look nice? Do you think she'll like it?" Wooyoung asked, posing as Yeosang locked the door and passed by him as if he was a fly. "No."

"Oh, come on, don't be like that," Wooyoung huffed.

Yeosang shook his head, "It's fine, you can come. She's just my friend, anyway."

Wooyoung raised a brow at him, "I wasn't thinking anything else... were you thinking something else?"

Wooyoung suddenly gasped, "Did you think I was going to swoop in and make her fall for me!? You dog!"

"Now, I don't want you to come anymore," Yeosang said nonchalantly.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Relax!" Wooyoung exclaimed, "Geez, you're so serious- serious about her. These things just write themselves, Yeosang-ah, it's not me."

"Please, don't be weird around her," Yeosang begged.

Wooyoung surprisingly wasn't weird around her at all.

No, he was sly and cool, and he was making you laugh. A lot.

You looked beautiful when you laughed. Yeosang took the time to admire you instead of being bitter that Wooyoung was the one making you look that way.

"You've been awfully quiet," You suddenly said with a frown and another tilt of your head. Yeosang was noticing that that was a habit of yours. And it was so damn cute. "I thought this was supposed to be me and you hanging out more."

Yeosang couldn't help but take a swig of Wooyoung's drink. He wasn't a huge drinker, but he felt like he needed it. Wooyoung watched with a smirk.

"Blame, the court jester making you laugh right now," Yeosang joked light-heartedly.

"Plus, I guess I'm a little tired," he admitted. Wooyoung frowned, typing furiously on his phone for a second.

You frowned, "I'm sorry... We could have met up another day, I don't want to take you from your rest-"

"Oh, never," Yeosang exclaimed, "I- I like being here with you, I feel more rested with-"

"OH, would you look at that, Hongjoong-hyung is calling me, I shold really get this. I'll get going. Hey! Here's my card, meal's on me, okay, I'll see you guys later, bye!" WOoyoung suddenly stood up to leave, putting his card down on the table and heading out the door without so much as another word.

You and Yeosang stared after him bewildered. Yeosang turned back to you, "That was weird."

"Very weird," You agreed, "But he's nice. I like him."

"Oh, yeah?" Yeosang asked, "Everyone does. He's my best friend, so... I'm glad you do."

He didn't look like he meant it. You tilted your head, "Then why are you shaking your leg."

Yeosang didn't realize his nervous habit until you pointed it out, stopping immediately as his face went red with embarrassment.

"He wasn't supposed to come, was he?" you asked, and Yeosang shook his head. "But he invited himself and you couldn't say no because you love him." Yeosang nodded again.

"But you really wanted it to be just us and you knew he'd take over the conversation because he's just a really friendly guy. Right?"

"Yep," Yeosang chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I love Wooyoung, but... I don't know... I wanted you to be the one person who was just mine, and not his too."

"You were jealous," you said softly, "You didn't want your friend to accidently swoop me away."

Yeosang frowned at how easily you read him. "I- Um... Is that bad?"

"No," you said softly, "Because I think I'd rather die than introduce you to any of my ballet school classmates for the very same reason."

Thebwaynyour relationship progressed was natural.

"You know, I followed your career after you became an idol," you admitted.

"Really??" He asked, surprised. "Mhmm, all the way from KQ Fellaz. I am a Day 0 Atiny."

"Have you watched all of our content, too? Like reality shows and stuff?"

"Of course, I have," You said with a pout, "I'm your fan!"

"Oh, then am I your bias?" he asked cheekily.

"You are my ultimate bias," you said, motioning exaggeratedly with your hands, "I'm a Yeodoongie above anything else."

Yeosang was quiet, smiling to himself. He liked what you were saying, but... he was notoriously bad at understanding flirting.

"What is flirting?" he had once asked Seonghwa on live. It wasn't that he didn't know, but... he was just too awkward to execute it or pick up on it.

You like to tell Yeosang that he was flirtier than you before you'd officially gotten together.

Most notably when you were on a crowded street in Gangnam and you almost got lost in the crowd behind him. You'd huffed and started walking ahead of him so that he could follow you, but he huffed right back.

"Why are you walking so far away? Just grab my coat or something."

"Oh...," You said blushing awkwardly. You stood in front of him still, turning back to face him. "I know you're not a huge fan of touching, so I didn't want-"

"Aish-" Yeosang shook his head, grabbing your hand abruptly and looking your fingers as he pulled you to stand next to him. "You're not my members. I like this with you, got it?"

You smiled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. He gaped. "Got it," you said sweetly.

Yeosang realized how much he loved you when he was told how much more comfortable he acted around you. The both of you had never explicitly stated that you were together, but it was something unspoken. You just knew.

Yeosang also knew in his heart..., but not in his head.

When KQ family was going on a vacation together to wind down after a brutal tour and comeback, they were all allowed plus-ones.

And Yeosang was all over you.

Not in overt ways, but he'd lean on you the way San would lean on... anyone. He wouldn't kiss you like San, you hadn't even kissed properly at that point, your relationship was so... pure.

It solely consisted of how much you two enjoyed each others' presence. That was enough.

You, on the other hand, surprisingly kept the physical affection to a minimum (even less than Yeosang) because you didn't want to make his members uncomfortable. It was okay since Yeosang initiated enough for the both of you, though he didnt even realize it.

His guard was just down with you around.

"You're seeing this, right?" Wooyoung asked Yunho giddily.

"Huh? Yeah, I see it all the time," Yunho admitted, "She comes to the apartment once in a while. She's a great cook."

"WHAT!? And you never told me?!" Wooyoung seethed. Yunho shrugged. "Yeosang told me not to! Said you'd invite yourself over and he'd be fending you off longer than he'd be spending time with her."

"Geez, okay, fair enough, I guess," Wooyoung huffed, "But what does her being a good cook have to do with them being all touchy?"

"Yeosang looks exactly like this when she's cooking," Yunho shrugged, "Hanging off of her while she's not even paying attention to him, or she's just absentmindedly patting him. It's really cute, and not disgusting like Mingi and his girl."

Wooyoung and Yunho looked over to Mingi who was squeezing his girlfriend and rocking her around like two newlyweds on their honeymoon. They cringed and looked away when Mingi leaned down to kiss her neck.

"Happy for them, though," Wooyoung said, chuckling, "Jiyeon is lucky."

"Yeah," Yunho said with a warm smile at the thought of his friend, then frowning as he remembered his own situation. He shook his head turning his attention back to Yeosang.

"You think they're gonna get married?" Wooyoung asked.

"It's Yeosang's first girlfriend," Yunho argued, "Do you think they're going to get married?"

"Yeah," Wooyoung chuckled breathily, "I think they're going to get married within the year."

"No fucking way," Yunho said incredulously.

"You've seen them! I think letting her go would either break him or he's just not going to let her go."

"And what, do you think he'd give up his idol life for her? He's still so young!" Yunho said, shaking his head.

Watching you and Yeosang stand there so comfortably, his eyes closed as he leaned on you while you gently patted his arm, slowly swaying as if the two of you didn't even know you were doing it. Wooyoung felt that he would.

Hongjoong asked about it later.

"So, Yeosang," he hummed, looking at the door to make sure you weren't going to suddenly come in. You were back in your room, sleeping.

"Are you going to marry her?"

Everyone expected Yeosang to splutter and deny. They expected him to not have expected the question.

But Yeosang wasn't dumb. "I want to."

He said it so nonchalantly, that everyone didn't seem to process his admission.

Yeosang smiled bashfully into his drink as he took another sip.

"I mean... that's why we met again in the first place, right? To see if we'd be a good match."

"Yeah, and have you met anyone else for that reason?" Mingi asked pointedly, downing a whole shot and putting it down.

"No, because I'm not really interested in marrying anyone else," Yeosang said casually, "But we haven't talked about it."

"Ahh, so this is where it is. They started dating casually," Mingi said with a nod.

"Oh, we're not dating, though?"

The room went silent.

"Aren't you guys sharing a bed?" "We've been sharing a bed since we were kids-"

"But you guys are older now!" "I guess I didn't think about that-" "So what are you going to do when you go in there?!" "I don't know!"

Yeosang was bright red in the face with all the questions his members were throwing at him. He didn't really think too much when it came to being with just you because he was always so comfortable. Everything was easy with you, so why did everyone have to talk so much and make things feel harder?

"Aish, these guys talk too much," Seonghwa suddenly said, "Don't worry too much about it, Yeosang. You don't have to follow everyone else's rules. If you love her and she loves you, that's all that matters."

When Yeosang returned to the room that night, you were sleeping in pretty modest sleepwear, as he expected. From how buzzed he was and how much everyone had been talking about you like you were his lover sleeping in his bed, he half-expected you to be in a lingerie night-set and mentally prepared himself to tell you to put on real clothes because he wanted to tell you he loved you before he had sex with you, but thankfully he didn't have to worry about it.

You stirred when he closed the door behind him and opened your eyes with a loving smile when you saw him there. "Welcome back," you mumbled.

Yeosang looked at you wordlessly for a moment before sighing, getting into bed and tentatively laying a head on your stomach. He wrapped his arms around your waist and let out a sigh.

"They were confusing me," he said, "About us."

"What about us?" you asked, running your fingers through his hair.

he pushed himself up to look at you and you sat up to face him properly.

"We're getting married, right?" he asked.

You paused, furrowed your brows and smiled brightly.

"I thought so," You agreed. "But we're not dating?" he asked.

"We never talked about it," You hummed, "But our little marriage interview was the reason we met again in the first place, wasn't it? I think I'd end up a little disappointed if we didn't get married, now."

"That's what I was thinking," Yeosang huffed, "Because I love you and I don't think there was ever a time when I didn't, but we never talked about it but I didn't think that was weird because I'm not like this with anyone else and I know you're not like this with anyone else, so what else could that mean?"

"Exactly," You hummed, "But for someone who says he doesn't think a lot, you seemed to have thought a whole lot about that."

"I think I think more when I'm drunk," he murmured, falling back on top of you, making you laugh.

"Well, let's do more talking and less thinking in the morning," you chuckled.

In the morning Yeosang was woken up to the feeling of something soft on his face. He groaned a little and opened his eyes to see your face hovering above his with the most tender look of love on your face that he'd ever seen.

You placed another kiss on the apple of his cheek and he blushed. The look on his face was so serious you couldn't help but tell him, now.

"I love you," You whispered.

Yeosang could feel the overwhelming love threatening to burst out of his eyes as he suddenly raised his arms to wrap around your shoulders, flipping the both of you over so that he was on top of you.

"We should get married sooner rather than later," he murmured, "Let's go get rings."

You searched his eyes for anything other than the love that you were seeing, but when you found none, you couldn't help but lean in.

You pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, "I love you so much."

Yeosang wasn't one for deep words of love, even in moments like these. He wasn't one for overt affection in any way.

He already admitted to loving you yesterday. And you definitely felt his love when he uncharacteristically leaned in to kiss you this time, devouring you with the words he couldn't say but felt so deeply anyway.

Ateez members were suspicious when you and Yeosang didn't turn up for any group activities that day. Even more suspicious when the both of you had left early from the trip to go home.

Wooyoung texted him incessantly. "Where are you? I wanted to hang out? What happened?"

But when they came back to the dorms, they were surprised to see something in the mail.

Wedding invitations.

Wooyoung screamed when he saw it. He nearly strangled Yeosang the next time he saw him at dance practice.

"WHAT THE FUCK, WHEN DID YOU GET ENGAGED, YOU SAID YOU WEREN'T EVEN DATING, WHAT IS THIS!?" Wooyoung screeched, tackling his friend to the ground.

Yeosang laid there, a lovestruck expression on his face as he thought of you. "There's no one else but her for me, so there was no point delaying it."

"I bet you were so unromantic about it, ugh! I feel for her," Wooyoung groaned, getting off of him with a disappointed shake of his head.

"She doesn't care about that," Yeosang said shaking his head, eyes closed, "She doesn't care about what supposed to be normal. She just cares about me."

Yeosang sat up, a glint in his eye as he looked at Wooyoung seriously, "And she never makes me question myself, so I would really appreciate it if you didn't make me question myself or her either, Wooyoung."

"Ah," Wooyoung said with a smile on his face, "I see."

"Okay, let's relax. Clearly we were teasing Yeosang too much that night," Hongjoong said, putting his hand on Wooyoung's chest, "We didn't mean anything by it Yeosang. We just worry about you sometimes. You met her not so long ago and we found out that you were getting married before we found out you were even dating. We got worried, but you don't owe us anything."

"We trust you," Hongjoong finished, then smacked Wooyoung upside the head, "Even Wooyoung."

"I always trusted him, I'm just trying to make sure he treats her right!" Wooyoung huffed.

"I'm not chasing her. I was never chasing her," Yeosang said softly, leaning his back against the wall. "I've just always been hers... and she's always been mine."

"Ugh, I don't know if he even hears himself right now," Wooyoung gagged, raising his hands in surrender, "Okay! Got it! You treat her well enough. Congratulations, Yeosang!"

The smiles on your face and Yeosang's faces were ecstatic the day of your wedding. You and Yeosang didn't care about anything else but each other that day. Your mothers had the time of their lives planning out the wedding for you, and you and Yeosang had nothing to worry about but each other.

You didn't even cry. You couldn't feel overwhelmed by something that felt so utterly natural and perfect. Yeosang was your person, and you were his.

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

Taglist: @ad0rechuu @spooo00oky @jaerisdiction @soso59love-blog @potatos-on-clouds @intartaruginha @hwasa28 @stacey-stonem @skersey33 @altxrr-ego @sunnyhokyu @sunnysidesins 

[yoonbroom]

Birthday Baby Wish

group : ateez

pairing : dad!yeosang × mom!reader

genre : smut

wc : 2.9 k

warning : mature, mdni, explicit sex; impregnation kink, piv sex (obvi), unrpotected sex (obvi), dirty talk, slight asphyxiation ? (not choking but the position makes it hard to breathe), nasty shit idk (not baby poop just... the process of making a baby), yeosang wants another baby

a/n : i'm finally doing another special birthday post for a member and y'all can blame not only my cycle but also kang yeosang for existing because how fucking dare he

buy me coffee ?

Yeosang's birthday party ended rather spectacularly, and following the group's hangout tradition, Yeosang foiled Wooyoung's kidnapping attempt, and he had to resort to wrestling him for his daughter. Wooyoung really did take advantage of Yeosang being preoccupied as he actually managed to get to the elevator before Yeosang realized.

After everyone left, you immediately started cleaning up while Yeosang spent a much needed time with his daughter.

Yeonhee's eyes were fluttering close, and Yeosang was just standing there, cradling his baby while looking at her in awe. She was already seventeen months old at that point, but Yeosang still couldn't believe that she was there with him. Since the moment she was born, Yeosang tried his best to spend every single moment with her. Even when you both were implementing the family bed, Yeosang would sometimes find himself spending at least an hour just staring at Yeonhee, comparing her features to yours and also with him, wondering who she'd look like more when sh'e older. So when you both agreed that it was time for Yeonhee to start sleeping in her own room, Yeosang immediately volunteered to be the one to tuck her in every night. That way, he would be able to admire her as much as he wanted. How could he not? He would watch the way she held onto his fingers with her more stubby ones, the way she was breathing oh-so-calmly in his arms, feelings built up and overpowered Yeosang, and it felt like he was going to explode. Realizing that if he stayed any longer he might do something to wake her up, he carefully placed Yeonhee in her crib, giving her one last kiss before quietly leaving.

He found you in the kitchen, scrubbing away the last of the dirty dishes, and he immediately wrapped his arms around your waist from the back.

"God, Yeosang! You scared me!" you lightly scolded, smacking the arm around your waist with your soapy hand, "Did you put the little princess to bed?" At the mention of his princess, Yeosang buried his face in your shoulder and let out a squeak, "Unfortunately, I did," he sighed. You raised an eyebrow at him, "Unfortunately? Baby, she needs her rest, did you not see how she was playing with Wooyoung? Had she stayed up any longer she'd be super cranky and we'd be dealing with her tantrum all night," you pointed out. Yeosang lifted his head and placed his chin on your shoulder. "Well, can you blame her for being excited? Wooyoung matches her energy because he's practically a toddler with a job, so of course, she'd be happy to have a playmate," he stated.

You couldn't help but purse your lips slightly, quietly agreeing to his point that your daughter does seem like she could benefit from having a steady playmate. But you said and did nothing other than putting the last of the dishes up on the drying rack and taking your gloves off.

"So I was thinking," Yeosang started, clearing his throat slightly while playing with the fabric of your apron, "You know... Since it's my birthday a-and usually we do... Things, things I want on my birthday... So..." You knew where this was going, and frankly, you were at the point of waiting for Yeosang to communicate his desire to you. You've seen the way Yeosang look at his daughter, and you've seen the long look he sported when he saw a big family walking by. You both had a deal of having two kids or three max, after talking him down from his insane baseball team-sized family, courtesy of Yunho. Though an understanding was established, you two were waiting for the perfect time. At least, that's what Yeosang was doing; you were just waiting for him to assert himself. Knowing Yeosang, he needed the push to make what he wanted known. Still, you think you deserve some fun watching him squirm to get his point across.

"So... What?" you asked nonchalantly, but a faint smirk made itself present on your face. Yeosang groaned and turned your body around, "I think we're ready for another baby," he said confidently, though a slight blush was present on his cheeks. "Really? So that's your birthday sex wish? To knock me up again?" You were taunting him slightly, but you had to admit, even the mere words made you clench. That and also the thought of how different Yeosang become when baby making is involved. You didn't know what exactly it was, but Yeosang practically became a different man; more pointed, more confident, more cocky.

Yeosang sharply exhaled from his nose, making it known that he, too was affected by your words. His hands skimmed up your body and rested on your waist, firmly holding with his big, strong grip that made your breath hitch. "My birthday wish, dear wife, is for us to have sex all night long until there is no doubt that you're pregnant," he leaned in and brushed his lips lightly against the skin of your cheek, "And we're starting now."

A squeal left your lips when Yeosang suddenly hauled you over his shoulder, and it was at that moment you understood, admired, and fully supported his dedication in the gym because he managed to make carrying another human your size very effortless.

Yeosang dropped you on your shared bed and immediately caged you under him. He hovered above you for a while, scanning your figure with hunger in his eyes, a purpose, a goal. Soon, he leaned down and started kissing you from your forehead, down to your cheek, the corner of your lips, your collarbone, and then stopping at your stomach. He inhaled deeply as he pushed the fabric of your shirt up, causing you to shudder when you felt his lips start nipping at your exposed skin. "Have I ever told you how absolutely breathtaking you are when you're pregnant?" he muttered against your skin. You raised an eyebrow at him as you ran a hand through his soft, silky hair, "Are you saying I'm not breathtaking when I'm not pregnant?" Teasing him further, you pulled up your knees so your feet were planted on the bed, trapping Yeosang's figure between your legs. Your skirt rode up, and it immediately caught Yeosang's eyes, which followed the way the flowy end pools at your hip, allowing him to peek into your red lacy underwear. "Not even when I'm like this?" you faked pouted at him. Yeosang's breathing immediately stuttered, and his face became even redder. You had been together for years already, so it was kind of embarrassing how he still blushed like a virgin seeing you in such a position.

Reacting to your taunts, Yeosang moved his hands into your underwear through the seams at the apex of your thighs. His thumbs immediately found purchase to your clit as they began gently massaging it while the other poked into your opening just a bit lower. Your eyes closed at the sensation but your mind was only completely disabled when Yeosang started sucking marks into the soft skin of your stomach. With each movement of his hand, you felt yourself getting wetter and the more Yeosang worked on you, the more pliant you became, moving your hips along with his movements.

"Honey, you always look breathtaking to me, but when you have my baby inside you?" you yelped when he suddenly took your skin between his teeth, "It was a miracle that we were able to get out of bed every morning," he smirked. "F-fuck, I know what you mean," you moaned when Yeosang pressed harder into your clit. "Do you know what I missed most about your pregnancy?" Yeosang asked as he slowly crawled up your body. You couldn't even answer him verbally as you were so clouded with pleasure, so you were only able to shake your head. "I miss how extremely horny you are, you get so wet and it just drives me crazy," Yeosang moaned as the thumb that was at your entrance turned into two fingers slipping inside. "F-fuck!" you gasped when he started pumping into you sloppily, spreading your arousal all over your pussy lips which made your underwear stick to you. "Not to mention you were always trying to jump my bones, and who was I to deny the mother of my child?" Yeosang chuckled as he pulled himself away from you, causing you to whine and whimper, "It's amazing how much I would give you after you gave me Yeonhee. Now imagine how even worse I'll be when you give me another baby."

Without wasting time, Yeosang immediately pulled himself out of his jeans. You took a peek and you realized how hard he had been while teasing you. The tip of his cock was red and leaking pre-cum, and the slight breeze from the AC caused it to twitch as if uncomfortable waiting any longer. You were about to take your clothes off when Yeosang stopped you, "No time, baby, I need to impregnate you right now." Then all of a sudden he pushed your thighs to your chest and aligned his tip right at your entrance. "Are you ready?" for a moment his cockiness slipped and the usual caring Yeosang came back, wanting to be sure that you were okay before he could proceed. You smiled and nodded before you took hold of your thighs, opening yourself for him, "Yeah, I am."

In a split second, Yeosang's eyes darkened, and he thrust himself inside you in one swift move. The fullness made your eyes roll and your back arch, but you didn't even get to enjoy the feeling because Yeosang was already shallowly thrusting inside you, setting a slow pace at first but he was making sure that his hips slapped your bottom every single time.

"Fuck! I'll never get tired of this pussy," he groaned, licking his bottom lip while smacking you once in the ass. You yelped on impact, but rather than feeling pain, you simply clenched, forcing more arousal to leak out of you. "You better not, since we'll be having even more sex during this pregnancy," you huffed. Yeosang's cock practically twitched inside you at the mention or maybe even affirmation that after this you will definitely get pregnant. "Fuck, can't just say something like that so casually to me, baby," suddenly he pulled your hips up and slid a pillow under, giving you a new angle, "I might not hold back," he smirked before dropping down to rest his elbows on the sides of your head. The new position locked you in place what with having the back of your thighs on Yeosang's chest and your knees now resting over his shoulders. "Do you not want me to hold back?" Yeosang asked as he thrust in again. This time, you felt him so deeply thanks to your elevated hips. You moaned loudly at the feeling, and Yeosang took it as a sign to move again.

Setting a new pace, Yeosang thrusted into you with power and precision. You could feel the veins of his cock scratching against your gummy walls, sending shivers up your spine which caused you to tangle your hands into his hair. "Fuck, Yeosang!" you whined, a bit louder than you wanted to which worried you because your daughter was sleeping in the room just down the hall and there you were screaming like a whore. "Shh, shh, baby, you don't wanna wake Yeonhee up, do you?" Yeosang smirked, teasing the absolute hell out of you because he knew exactly how loud you could be. You couldn't even answer him clearly, so in an effort to minimize the chances of your baby waking up, you smashed your lips with Yeosang. The position and Yeosang's mouth on you took away your breath, literally. You were starting to get lightheaded in the best way. It felt as if you were in a different space that only had you and Yeosang in it. Everything, including all your senses, was filled with Yeosang, and it was electrifying. There was a battle for dominance in the kiss, which was futile because you knew very well that Yeosang was pulling all the shots as the person in the more advantageous position. It was the thought that counted and Yesoang played along, as if he wasn't putting you in your place.

The more Yeosang thrust, the more you could feel him inside you, to the point that you felt like his tip was kissing your cervix, opening you up more to prepare you for what's to come.

You pulled away from the kiss slightly and whimpered, "F-fuck, Yeosang, I'm so close!" "Yeah? That's good baby, cum first, you need to cum first so can you touch yourself for me?"

With slight struggle, you managed your hand down to rub at your clit sloppily. "That's it mommy, show daddy how bad you want to get knocked up," Yeosang grunted shakily, clearly incredibly turned on, "You can't wait to get filled up by your husband, do you? I'm sorry honey, I should be doing better as a husband and fill you up with my cum every night," "Y-yes, fuck!" You gasped, "I should always be f-filled with your c-cum," you whimpered, edging yourself closer and closer to the end. "Okay baby, okay, you better cum soon then so I can fill up your little cunt," Yeosang smirked, pushing his body off of you slightly so he could watch the way he was fucking you just right while you chase after your high. To aid you, Yeosang slipped his right hand under your shirt and into your bra, groping at your tits harshly, tweaking at your perky nipple. "Come on baby, cum for me, cum for me quick," he breathed, starting to feel his own climax coming. The pleasure from his hand on your chest shot straight to your pussy and your body convulsed; your jaw slacked, your legs tensed to the point of almost cramping, your toes curled, and your back arched high. Yeosang only slowed his movements down, allowing you to come back down from your high without losing his momentum.

"T-that was..." You drawled as your senses returned. Your legs felt like jelly and they slid off Yeosang's shoulders due to the lack of strength. "I know, I saw you climax," Yeosang smirked before he positioned your legs again, this time simply spreading them open as he picked up his pace. "But now is my turn."

Overstimulation started building inside you the more Yeosang chased his high. He was so close and your slick was aiding in him reaching deep into your womb. You felt yourself opening up to him and you almost screamed so you resorted to covering your mouth with your hand. Seeing all of this, Yeosang smirked as he panted, "Hold on, okay, baby? Just a bit longer and you'll be stuffed. Just a bit longer and you'll get my cum," he grinned. You used your free hand to grip his shoulder, your nails digging into his skin as if telling him that it was too much, that you were overstimulated to the point that it started hurting. "No, no, no, you can take it, even your body knew you can," he saw how your hips were still meeting his own despite your brain telling you that you had enough and it was making his mouth water.

"P-please," you managed to whine despite your mouth being covered. Yeosang's movements became more erratic, and his breath became uneven, telltale signs that he was on the verge of coming undone, and you saw how his body was starting to twitch. Seeing him like that stirred something in you, and your hand suddenly moved on its own, from his shoulder to the back of his head. You grabbed a handful of his hair and you tugged it back once. It was as if that one simple action was a lever because the moment Yeosang threw his head back, his hip completely stilled, his cock twitched inside you, and the dam was released. Ropes of white painted your pulsing walls and your eyes, and his rolled back from ecstasy.

Yeosang's body slumped forward on top of yours, strength left him completely at that moment but his hips still twitched as your walls that rubbed on his cock overstimulated him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

"You did so well, baby," he hummed, pecking you gently on your lips, making you giggle. "That's so vanilla of you to say after you fold me in half and hammer into me like a possessed jackhammer," you teased and he blushed, embarrassed with the way you phrased things, so he buried his face into your shoulder.

It took you about fifteen minutes to regain all your senses back and the first thing you thought of doing was to clean yourself a little. Just as you tried to push Yeosang off of you, Yeosang grunted and pushed his body up slightly. "What are you doing?" he asked. "I need to clean myself, Yeosangie," you smiled and tried moving again, but were stopped when Yeosang pushed you back into the bed whilst simultaneously sitting up on his knees, which took you by surprise. "You think we're done?" he smiled angelically, but when he suddenly peeled his shirt off, you sensed that he was far from done. "We're just getting started, baby. I mean, I think I mentioned something about fucking all night long until we're sure you're pregnant."

A gasp escaped you when you felt Yeosang slowly dragging himself out before pushing himself back in as equally slow.

"You better get comfortable in this position, baby, since this position might increase the chance of getting pregnant."

network :

@sandsofire @pirateeznet @kflixnet

taglist :

@kodzukein @phenomenalgirl9 @skzatzloveismonsterous @memorymonster @surveilenceysystem @dreamlesswonder86 @maddiebabyxoxo @imababywolf @do-you-actually-care @marievllr-abg @ilsedingsx @wasteitonserendipity @bbymatz @noonaishere @honeyhwaaa @ateezourstars @yoonjunshi @yoongiigolden @camillelafaye @charreddonuts @kpopnightingale @starryunho @atinct @mirror-juliet @hyuckilstan @jayb17 @kpoplover718 @haatohwa @x-bluee @erinaimeexx @blackb3ll @mingiholic @itasluv @vampcharxter @meowmeowminnie @marvelous-llama @kawennote09 @hongjoong-lovebot @stopeatread

[yoonbroom]

feeling down bc of yeosang getting mistreated yet again 😕

[yoonbroom]

Baby girl?

summary: Derek and Emily find out about Spencer’s (unintentionally) secret kid.

wc: 0.5k

“You have a kid?” Derek gawked, Emily at the desk opposite with the same look on her face. Both staring at Reid.

“A daughter. She’s about to turn two.”

“Almost two years? And you never told us?

“The topic never came up.” Reid shrugged. 

“Well you never showed- you don’t even have a photo of her on your desk!”

“Yes I do! Right here.” Reid picked up a framed photo that sat right next to his computer he rarely used.

The image was the Aurora Borealis, bright purple and green waves displayed in the sky. 

Reid pointed to the corner of the image, it was him, you, and your daughter posing and smiling. You’d really have to look to notice you all in the corner, it’s not something your eye could pick up if you passed by the photo.

“Oh come on, you can barely see that. Don’t you have any other photos of her?”

Reid shifted in his seat, moving to grab his wallet out his back pocket. 

Once it got it, he opened it and turned it to face the two across from him, the clear slot showing a small photo of a baby girl, wrapped up in a soft quilt and smiling.

Emily and Derek both looked at it with dropped jaws. Their eyes darted to Reid’s unbothered face, then back to the photo, then back to his face, then back to the photo again.

They were shocked at how unbothered Reid was by this. It was never a secret though, the conversation just really never came up. He’d let them know when he wanted to.

“You know Garcias gonna be pissed she never got to set up a baby shower for you.” Derek scoffed, breaking the trance he was in. Reid put his wallet back in his pocket.

“Well you said she’s gonna turn two soon, maybe she can help out with her birthday.” Emily added in.

“So you were there for all the big moments? Birth, first steps, first words? Even with all the cases we had?” 

“I guess I got lucky.” Spencer shrugged.

“Lucky? I thought you didn’t believe in that, thought you were a man of science.” Derek mocked.

“I guess I was there at all the right times.”

It all began to click in Emily and Derek’s heads. All the days Reid was given a pass to do paperwork at home rather than being stuck in the office. Checking his cell phone more often. Seeming more busy on the weekends. Looking happier even though he was tired.

They knew it’d be something personal. They knew he had a partner, they knew you. They’ve met you before. But they never thought you’d have a child together.

“Wait, does Hotch know?” Emily said after stumbling over her words first, looking at Hotch's cracked open office door.

“Sharing details about Reid’s personal life is up to him, not me.” Hotch spoke, keeping his eyes focused on the papers he was writing on.

“Oh Garcia is gonna flip when she finds out you told him and not her!” Emily laughed while Garcia walked into the room.

“What? What am I gonna flip out about?” Garcia said, looking back and forth between everyone.

“Pretty boy over here has his own babygirl.”

“Babygirl? I thought we all knew you had a partner? Baby-girl. Baby girl? Oh. My. God!” Garcia's face dropped in shock and realization, she began to move around trying to find a place to put down her mug so she could properly freak out. “You have a daughter?”

back in business writing spencer fics!!!! oh yeah baby!!!!

[yoonbroom]

when the night ends | s.r.

in which your teenage daughter doesn't come home after prom

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: underage drinking, missing child, protective parents, prom, drunk driving. word count: 3.46k a/n: i hope u like dad!spencer because i have lotssss of him coming

You startled yourself awake, turning over from where you had fallen asleep on the couch, your eyes snapped open before you had the opportunity to topple over. Sitting up, you looked over to the recliner. In it, your eldest daughter was curled in a ball, sound asleep, just as you had been moments ago. 

Slowly, you dragged your hands down your face, the show you’d been watching together still playing on the television while you checked the time on the cable box below. 

Your heart dropped to your stomach when your eyes cleared enough to read the clock. It was nearly midnight, and you’d fallen asleep waiting for your younger daughter to get home from her school dance. She hadn’t woken you up on her way in, so you wrapped your arms around yourself while you made your way upstairs to her bedroom. 

While your intentions had been to make sure she got to bed safely, you felt sick to your stomach at the sight you were met with. Her room was just the way she left it, your sixteen year old, while usually neat as a pin, had been so excited getting ready for prom that makeup and earrings were strewn around her room. Her lamp was still on at her desk, which had been transformed into a vanity for the event, and Olivia was nowhere to be seen. 

“Spence?” You called out softly, not wanting to wake Finn, who you knew was asleep in his bed. You wondered if your husband was still awake, laying in bed reading, or if he too had succumbed to sleep. Your chest ached when you opened the door, finding him asleep with his reading light on. Part of you had hoped you’d find Olivia in there, gravitating to her favorite person to debrief with, likely so she’d have everything fully processed before breakfast. “Spencer,” you echoed, this time a bit louder, knowing you’d have to wake him up.

For better or for worse, Spencer was a light sleeper. Years spent in the BAU had trained him to wake up at the slightest of noises, and it wasn’t a skill that was easy to unlearn. He started to wake up after the second time you called his name, propping himself up on his hands and tilting his head. It took him less than a minute to remember, frowning at you and peeking out into the hallway, “Liv?” 

Swallowing thickly, you shook your head, “She’s not here.” You said, watching him stumble out of bed with an urgency you rarely saw from him—the last time would’ve been when Finn hit his head after falling out of a tree. You were fairly certain Spencer had never run so fast before. 

As fate would have it, Spencer had more experience with these situations than you did, so you followed his lead, trailing behind him while he made his way downstairs. “Where’s my phone?” He asked, patting the empty pockets of his pajama pants while he prowled the kitchen for the little black box. 

You glanced around the room, eyes skimming for any sign of a phone—yours or his. “Who are we calling?” The question was simple enough, you wanted to know who the first line of defense was in this instance. 

He frowned, finding his phone exactly where it should’ve been, sitting on the charger and opening it. “Emily,” he answered, having already made up his mind. 

Doubtful, you reached a tentative hand out and placed it on his wrist, stopping him in his frantic typing. “Shouldn’t we try to call Liv first?” 

Spencer’s shoulder’s slackened, arms falling limply when he nodded once. Your husband switched modes, opening the favorites tab on his contacts and calling your daughter. While the call went out, he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers before removing the phone from his ear and frowning at the screen. “Straight to voicemail,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. He lifted his chin to look over at you, his eyes finding something else over your shoulder. 

Looking behind you, you saw Nell standing nervously, her hair mussed on one side of her head while she teetered on the heels of her feet, glancing between her parents. The commotion had likely roused her from her spot on the recliner. She didn’t speak, waiting impatiently for someone to tell her what was going on. 

Considering your options, you looked at her phone, practically an attachment of herself, “Can you find your sister’s phone with yours?” 

Solemnly, Eleanor shook her head, “Not if your call went straight to voicemail. That means her phone’s probably dead.” 

“Probably?” Spencer asked doubtfully, he hoped for further explanation from your teenager, but you were already moving on to next steps. 

Nell shrugged helplessly, “Her phone is either off or dead, which is why it went to voicemail. Livvy wouldn’t turn her phone off for anything while she was out, she knows it’d freak you guys out.” Your daughter pursed her lips, “So it’s probably dead, or…” 

You bristled at the way her voice trailed off. “Or what?” Spencer asked, trying not to project his frustration onto your nineteen year old. 

“Or the phone’s broken,” you continued for her, watching your husband warily as you broke the news to him. “Nell, can you go on your phone and look at any social media site where you can talk to someone?” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “Livvy doesn’t use social media.”

Nodding, you turned back to face him, “But her friends do, all of the kids she went with have probably been on social media all night long posting pictures with the location tags on.” 

“Should I go get Finn?” Nell asked from her perch on the recliner, wondering aloud if her little brother should be involved in this search. 

In complete synchronicity, you and Spencer both answer, “No.” Finn was cranky enough in the morning, waking him up at midnight was a sure way to make everyone’s lives miserable tomorrow. “We need to figure out what we’re dealing with first…” You watched Spencer dial a number on his phone, “Who are you calling now?” 

Your husband lifted the phone to his ear, “Penelope… if anyone can find a phone while it’s off…” 

“It’s her,” you finished for him, nodding assuredly before turning around to look for your phone. You made your way over to the couch, stumbling slightly and using the armrest for support. 

Phone in hand, Eleanor watched you with concern, “Mom?”

Shaking your head, you dismissed her concern, pulling the blanket off of the couch and jostling it in the air in hopes that your phone would fall out of the bundle of fleece. You looked down at the couch, tossing the blanket onto the floor while you looked for your phone, breath hitching when you heard it start to ring. 

You fished the phone out from between the cushions and checked the contact that was illuminating the screen. It was an unknown number, but you answered anyways, not willing to take any chances. Lifting your phone to your ear, you spoke first, “Livvy?” 

The other end of the call was silent, but you weren’t going to be the one to hang up. You waited, listening to the wind blow on the other end of the call. There was a dark pit in your chest at that moment, a horrified part of you thought a stranger was going to start speaking to you about your daughter. Both Spencer and Nell were giving you their undivided attention. 

Taking a deep breath, you almost said her name again, tears pricking along your lashline while you tried not to break down. Ever since you had kids, this had been your worst nightmare, one of them not coming home at the end of the day, and now it was your reality—you just didn’t know why. 

“Mommy?” A timid voice came through the call, and you sat down on the couch, sinking down into the cushion while fear and confusion and relief spun through your body quickly enough to give you vertigo. 

You looked up to meet Spencer’s eyes, hoping to signal him to your relief, “Where are you? Whose phone are you using?” She’d called you by a name none of your kids had used in years, and it sent you into even more worry. 

A small sniffle came from your daughter, and your previously heavy heart broke at the sound of her misery, “Uh, I walked to school after the dance. They still have a payphone.” 

Confused, you tried to recall the plans that she’d laid out for you in the midst of begging for permission to attend the senior prom, and there was never any information about walking anywhere. “Maya’s mom was supposed to drive you home,” you reminded her, getting up from the couch while Spencer gathered the car keys from a dish in the entryway. 

“But…” Liv’s voice trailed off, “I know. I’m sorry. I was gonna walk the rest of the way home but my phone died-” 

“You’re not walking home,” You interrupted her, pulling out your mom voice. “You’re going to stay put at school and dad and I are going to come get you. Here, talk to your sister for a second,” you quickly handed off your phone to Nell, surprising her for a moment before she took the phone and talked to her little sister. 

You went to the stairs, holding up a hand so Spencer would wait for you while you went to Liv’s room. “What are you doing?” Spencer asked, following you upstairs, growing anxious with every passing moment. 

Rummaging through her closet, you sighed at his impatience, “Grabbing a hoodie, it’s chilly outside.” While you fought with a hanger, you nodded at the floor, “We should take her flip flops with us.”

“Why?” Spencer asked, appalled at your suggestion. 

Glaring at him, you pointed to the floor again, “She’s been walking around in heels all night. Trust me, she’ll be grateful for the flip flops.”

Taking your word for it, Spencer crouched to the floor to grab her shoes, “Okay, let’s go.” 

By the time you took your phone back from Nell and got in the car, you leaned back in the passenger seat of the car. Your brain was still moving a mile a minute, but with Olivia sitting on the other end of the phone call, neither of you could say what you were really thinking. It would have to wait until all of your kids were under the same roof again. 

Your husband was similarly tense, his jaw tight while he spoke with your daughter, but the concern never left his eyes, a small part of him wondering if you’d make it to Liv before someone else got there. Silently, he reached a hand over, setting it on your thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze before he spoke, “We’re here, Liv.” Spencer moved his hand, using it to unbuckle his seatbelt while you followed suit. “Stay on the phone, we’ll come to you.” 

Liv was quiet on the other end of the call, the occasional forlorn sigh being the only sign of life from the teenager. 

“Liv!” You called out, nearing the corner where you were pretty sure the payphone was located. You turned the corner, and sure enough, Livvy was sitting on the pavement. Her dress was in a pool of lavender chiffon on the sidewalk, and when she noticed her parents approaching her, she looked horrified. 

As you got closer, you could see her face in the dim school lighting, her brown eyes were bleary with tears. Eyes bloodshot in a way that could only be produced by a high school dance gone wrong. 

Waiting to speak, you sat down next to her while Spencer tenderly took the payphone from her hands, returning it to the hook before sitting down on the side opposite of you. “Are you hurt?” Spencer asked, the first in a barrage of questions that the three of you had seen coming from a mile away. 

She shook her head miserably, strands of hair falling from her meticulous updo while she avoided looking at both of you, “No.” 

Unraveling the hoodie from your lap, you draped the cotton over her shoulders, wanting to warm her up after sitting outside for who knows how long. As you made sure her arms were covered and rubbed her arms up and down, you faltered when she started to trembled, shuddering back a sob when you put your arms around her. “It’s okay, lovey. We’re here,” you reassured her, smiling when Spencer pressed a soft kiss to her temple. 

“Maya wanted to leave early,” she cried, pulling away from you so she could put her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. “I went with her because I thought she’d have her mom pick us up from wherever we went, but she wanted to go hang out with a bunch of seniors.” 

You nodded, sweeping a lock of hair behind her ear while she explained herself, “You should’ve told us Liv.” You weren’t berating her, there would be plenty of time for consequences tomorrow, but right now she only needed comfort. 

She used the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe her face, cringing at the makeup that came off on the cuff, “One of the seniors asked me to come, and I wondered… I thought maybe he liked me.” 

Spencer bristled at her answer, but one glare from you got him to relax his shoulders, “It’s okay, Liv,” he murmured to her. “It’s okay to want to be liked, you know?” 

Her father understood her in ways you’d never be able to. He was the one who had to sit her down both times and discuss the opportunity to skip grades, explaining to her that graduating at sixteen was an option, but she didn’t have to take it. She’d left all of her friends behind in the process, and as time went by, invitations slowed, kids couldn’t reach out when she went to high school without them. The students in her own grade weren’t interested in being friends with someone so young, leaving Olivia ostracized from her own age and her own grade. It helped that Eleanor was just one grade above her, keeping an eye out for her little sister, but with Nell off at school this past year, senior year was hard for Liv. 

“I shouldn’t have left, I should’ve just stayed at prom,” Livvy insisted. “I’m supposed to be the smart one.”

Your eyebrows raised in alarm, sharing a look with your husband before asking, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Livvy shook her head dismissively, “Nell’s the oldest, and Finn’s the youngest and the only boy. I’m supposed to be the smart one. That’s my niche. I don’t have anything else.” 

“You have plenty,” you insisted, nudging her leg with yours. 

Your daughter looked dubious, but intrigued, “Like what?” 

Before you had the chance to list off one of her many positive attributes, Spencer answered for you, “You were the only planned baby.” 

“Spencer,” you sighed, hanging your head in exasperation. You took a deep breath to chide him, but bit your tongue at the realization that he’d gotten Olivia to giggle—likely his plan all along. 

The three of you sat in silence for a moment, and before you got to ask if she wanted to go home, Liv spoke up again, “We went to a park down the road, and one of the guys brought beers. I didn’t…” Her voice trailed off, nipped by nerves while she tried to explain the sequence of events from the evening. “I didn’t think about it until everyone got back in the car and they asked me to give directions home.” 

You hummed softly, “They were going to drive drunk.”

Olivia nodded, confirming your assumption. “I asked them to wait a little while before driving, but one of the guys’ girlfriends called and wanted them to pick her up. So, they kicked me out of the car and left anyway.” 

“Why didn’t you offer to drive instead?” Spencer asked, ever the logical thinker. 

She was silent, staring blankly at the pavement while you figured out the answer on your own, “You were drinking too.” 

Your daughter nodded miserably, more tears streaming down her face, “And it was gross! I don’t understand why people drink that stuff.” 

You stifled your laughter, knowing she was probably drinking cheap beer that had been sitting in the trunk of a kids car all night, “Are you feeling okay?” 

Shrugging, Liv wiped her face again, “I haven’t puked, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Look at it this way, you’re doing better than your sister the first night after we dropped her off at school,” Spencer consoled her, choosing to be lighthearted, but you both knew what he had to do next. “What kind of car are they driving?” 

“John’s mom’s old Pacifica,” Olivia answered, propping her chin up on her knees while Spencer pulled his phone from his pocket. Her eyes widened in fear, “What are you doing?” 

Spencer sighed, “I have to call and let someone know that they’re out right now.”

“Dad, no!” Liv begged, tears welling in the eyes that he’d passed down to her. She watched in terror as Spencer stood up and typed a number in his phone. “You can’t. Please. They’ll never talk to me again.”

It wasn’t something he wanted to do, per se, but rather it was something he felt duty bound to do. “Honey, they could hurt someone while they’re out driving under the influence. They could hurt themselves. That’s the reason you let them kick you out of the car, isn’t it?” 

The teenager faltered, running into a wall when she opened her mouth to rebut. “Mom,” Olivia begged, hoping you’d talk some sense into your husband, but he was making perfect sense. 

“Baby, would you rather they never speak to you again or would you rather hear about something happening on the news tomorrow?” You tried to reason with her, letting her rest her head on your shoulder while Spencer hit the call button on your phone. 

Spencer walked out of hearing distance while he spoke on the phone, probably to an old contact from the past. The two of you watched him talk while staying seated on the floor, “Nell said you wouldn’t be mad.” 

“We aren’t,” you assured her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “We were worried. Dad was ready to call the BAU in when we realized you weren’t at home,” you told her, watching a shy smile bloom on her face. “I hope you know this doesn’t change anything. We’re still so proud of you, Liv.”

She sniffled softly, “I’m sorry. I was so stupid,” she said mournfully. “I’ll never be that stupid again.” 

You hummed, “You were never stupid.” 

“Then what would you call it?” She asked, her natural curiosity peaked. 

Squeezing her shoulder, your eyes followed Spencer as he made his way back over to you. “Being sixteen,” you answered, and that reasoning was enough for you.

Her father crouched in front of her, gently resting a hand on her knee while he smiled at her. He smiled at her the way he had since the day they first met, “You know I love you, right?” 

Nervously, Liv nodded, “Yeah.” 

“I know it’s hard to go through school feeling like no one wants to be your friend, and I know how nice it is when someone finally extends that olive branch,” he consoled her. “Someday, these kids might thank you for calling us, and if they don’t, they weren’t worth your time anyway.” 

She accepted his hand when he reached out to help her up, letting him pull her into a hug while you rose to your feet, “I just wanted them to like me.” 

You smiled, “We like you.” 

“You’re my parents,” Olivia countered. 

Spencer shrugged, “Your brother and sister like you.” 

Your sixteen year old shook her head, “Finn does not like me. He’s just acting like he does because he wants my room when I move out.” 

“And he’s not gonna get it,” you reassured her. “You’ll always have a place to come back to, no matter how far away you move.”

Olivia frowned, “Mom, Boston isn’t that far away.” 

“To you, maybe,” Spencer interjected, “To us it’s like losing a limb.” 

“I think it might be better if you were mad at me,” Olivia suggested, leading the way to the car, groaning at the way you suggested leaving water and Tylenol out on her nightstand.

[yoonbroom]

hooting and hollering about spencer being obsessed with being married!

it's probably a year after your wedding, but he still gets giddy every time he sees you put your ring next to his on the nightstand before bed.

has a framed picture from your wedding day on his desk. not one of the posed ones, although those are all in prominent places on your walls, but one of your first look. you look radiant and happy and he looks a little ridiculous, white-knuckling his little book of vows with his eyes full of tears.

takes every single opportunity to call you his wife and it gets a little much.

like even to Derek or Emily, he'll go "yeah, my wife's picking me up" and they're both like ??? we know her name lmfao

gets the same kind of giddy when he hears you refer to him as your husband, like full on heart eyes as he trails after you.

also, every once in a while when you're fucking especially passionately, he gets the urge to recite his vows again, panting, hot breath fanning over your ear as his hips move as if on their own accord.

asks you to do it sometimes, gasping the prompt up at you as you drag yourself up and down on his lap.

"come on sweetheart, 'i take you, spencer reid', you can do it."

[yoonbroom]

Fatherless -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You hadn’t even wanted to stop by his office.

You were going to be late as it was—college friends already texting you asking where the hell you were, what you were wearing, if you were bringing anyone. And you'd been so damn close to skipping the good-daughter act, the polite goodbye before you threw yourself into basslines and tequila. But no. You always gave him that one last ounce of consideration.

Which made it worse.

Because you saw it—his hand on Emily’s hip, his head tipped low near her ear, the way she smiled like she had any right to. Your jaw clenched, fingers going numb around your phone.

Your chest twists painfully. She was your goddamn boss. Your dad’s subordinate. She was also kind, brilliant, and everything your mother was before years of neglect drained the life out of her.

It wasn’t even about Emily. Not really. It was about the way he touched her, softly, reverently—like he used to touch your mom.

Like he never touched you anymore. Not even in that gentle, fatherly way.

You hadn’t expected to cry in the elevator. But of course, you hadn’t expected to see your father practically pressed against Emily Prentiss’ desk either—his hand on her waist, her laugh soft and secretive, his expression the closest to affection you’d seen in months.

Maybe years.

Your heels clacked across the bullpen floor in staccato, and you swore someone called your name—but you didn’t stop. You threw open the elevator doors, jabbed the button for the lobby, and stepped inside like you were fleeing a fire. Because in a way, you were. The look on your dad’s face when you turned around, that half-step he took out of the office when he realized what you'd seen. But you were faster.

The elevator doors shut on his voice.

The elevator jolted to a stop on the next floor down, and—of course—it was him. Spencer Reid. Of fucking course. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

He stepped inside, trench coat half-draped across one arm, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

You turned your head away from him, scrubbing furiously under your eyes.

“Are you stalking me now Reid?” Your voice was sharp, but it cracked halfway through.

The doors slid shut. He shifted slightly closer to you as the elevator began its slow descent. “No, but I’m observant. It’s sort of in the job description.”

You laughed bitterly and kept your gaze trained on the floor numbers lighting up above the door. “Then you already know what I saw.”

“I saw you come out of your dad’s office. Did something—” he pauses, voice turning cautious, “did he yell at you again?”

You laugh bitterly, crossing your arms. “No. Guess he was too busy with Emily’s tongue down his throat.”

Spencer’s brows lift. His body straightens.

“They were—wait. Seriously?”

You nod, eyes flicking to him with venom. “Like, actually flirting. Like touching. Like she’s not just his coworker but his new thing now.” You sniff, clenching your jaw. “And my mom’s at home alone while he’s giving someone else all that attention she begged him for.”

You slump back against the elevator wall and glance at him, your voice quieter now. “I know they’re divorced. I know. But it’s not about him moving on. It’s about him doing it while still pretending I’m not even there. Like… I remind him of her, so it’s easier to just ignore me too.”

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself—but your eyes still burn and your fists are clenched at your sides. The image of your dad’s hand on Emily’s waist won’t stop looping through your mind like a cruel highlight reel.

“I’m sorry you saw that,” Spencer says at last, voice low and cautious.

You let out a sharp laugh. “Why? Because I interrupted their little office romance? Or because now I know why he can’t even look me in the eye half the time?”

“No,” Spencer says instantly, stepping a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “Because it hurt you.”

You stiffen, throat tightening. “It shouldn’t matter this much, right? I’m an adult. I should be happy he’s—moving on. But it just makes me feel like…” You trail off, forcing the words down. You don’t want to cry in front of him. Not when it feels like the only time anyone even looks at you is when you're breaking.

Spencer hesitates. You can feel the weight of his thoughts again, the tension rolling off him. Then he speaks—softer now, like he’s afraid of how much he means it.

“You shouldn’t have to beg for attention from your own father.”

That strikes something inside you—something hot and raw and aching. You glance over at him sharply. “What would you know about fathers?”

Spencer flinches slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “More than you’d think.”

And that… that settles between you differently. There’s no pity in his voice, no condescension—just shared damage. A mirror of your own, cracked in a different place.

The elevator dings softly, pausing on a floor neither of you had requested. No one’s waiting. The doors slide closed again, giving you both a moment of suspended reality. Just you and him.

Your voice drops, hushed. “He loved my mom once. You could tell by the way he looked at her. And then he stopped. And now he looks at Emily like that. And I just—I hate it. I hate how easily he gives his affection to other people. Like I don’t even fucking exist.”

A silence stretches between you—laced with grief, “I don’t want to go home like this,” you murmur finally.

Spencer shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face. “Then don’t. Come to my place. Just for a while.”

You blink. “What?”

“You don’t have to be alone with this. You shouldn’t be.” He softens, and for the first time in weeks, someone’s looking at you like you matter. “Come over. I’ll make tea and cry if you want to.”

“I’m not going to cry,” you lie.

He doesn’t call you on it. Just offers a quiet smile and steps closer, brushing your hand with his fingers. “Then you can just sit there and tell me everything you’ve been holding in. Or we don’t talk at all. Either way—I don’t want you driving like this.”

You hesitate for one beat.

Then nod. “Okay.”

The elevator dings again, this time at the lobby.

Spencer steps out first, casting a glance back over his shoulder to make sure you’re still with him. You follow, silent, still wrapped in the anger and grief—but now something else is threaded through it.

Because when Spencer opens the car door for you, and you slide in beside him, there’s a moment where your knees touch—and neither of you moves. And when he reaches over to buckle your seatbelt, his hand lingers a fraction too long at your shoulder. And when you turn your head to thank him, his eyes are already on your lips.

This night is far from over.

His apartment was dimly lit, warm with soft yellow light and shelves upon shelves of books you could drown in. He let you in without saying much, his movements quiet and careful.

“I can make tea,” he offered, already walking toward the kitchen.

“You think I’m overreacting,” you said, turning to face him fully. “Don’t you?”

“No.” He looked at you, really looked. “I think you’re hurt. And you’re angry. And you should be.”

“I stayed with him after the divorce. I thought—God, I thought maybe if I stayed, he’d at least see me. That maybe I’d be enough to matter. But I look like her. And I think that’s why he stopped talking to me too.”

Reid didn’t speak. He just stepped forward. And when his hand touched your cheek, it was so gentle it made your heart ache.

“You matter to me.”

Spencer stepped closer, his voice low. “You’re not just angry about them. Are you?”

You turned your head slowly toward him, the venom in your gaze starting to melt into something else. Lust. Pain. Both.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Reid,” you said, but it lacked conviction.

He stepped closer. And closer. Until your back hit the wall and his chest was barely brushing yours.

“I’m not,” he whispered. “I just hate watching you pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

Your jaw clenched. “He left her. Left me. And now he’s… giving that to someone else? And I’m supposed to be fine with it?”

“You shouldn’t go out tonight,” he said softly.

“I’m not drunk yet.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You tilted your head. “Then what did you mean?”

“I meant…” His voice dropped. “You’re angry. You’re vulnerable. And you’re looking for a distraction.”

You licked your lips, slow and deliberate, leaning into him. “The only distraction I’m looking for right now, is you”

“You sure?” he asked, breath shaky.

“Spencer,” you whispered, biting his lower lip, “if you don’t fuck me right now, I will go find someone else.”

You surged forward, hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, dragging him in like you needed his mouth just to breathe. The kiss was messy and brutal and devastatingly soft all at once—your grief bleeding into it, your rage and ache tangling in every movement.

He pushed you against the wall with more force now, mouth feverish, greedy. You didn’t realize you were moaning until he groaned in return, like the sound was some kind of trigger.

His hands slid under your dress, up your thighs, fingertips skimming higher until they found your lace panties.

“You wore these to the office?” he muttered against your throat, voice low and dark.

“Was going out after,” you gasped, rocking into his touch. “Didn’t know I’d end up here.”

You moaned as his hands slid up your legs, under your skirt, gripping your ass with bruising force as he hoisted you. You wrapped your legs around him without thinking, your back pressing hard to the wall as he carried you toward his bedroom like he was possessed.

He hooked a hand behind your knee and pulled your leg over his shoulder, dipping his head down between your thighs with zero hesitation. His tongue was hot and wet and filthy, and when he groaned against you like this was what he needed too, your head hit the pillow and your fingers dug into his hair like you were holding on for dear life.

He licked and sucked and devoured you, hands pinning your hips down so you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. You came with a choked sound, thighs trembling, and he didn’t stop—just slowed, gentled, let you ride it out with his name on your lips and his mouth buried in your body.

When he finally rose, face slick, eyes dark, you grabbed him by the waistband of his pants and tugged. “Now. I need you now.”

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips swollen, his hair a mess. You barely had time to catch your breath before you reached down, hand wrapping around him—hard, thick, twitching against your palm.

His breath stuttered. “Jesus Christ—”

You grinned, rolling him onto his back, straddling his hips. “You said tonight was about me, right?”

He groaned, head falling back against the pillows. “You’re going to kill me.”

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and filthy. “Good.”

You sank down onto him in one smooth motion—and the sound he made was primal.

You rocked against him slowly, hips grinding as you set the pace—deep and delicious and possessive. Spencer’s hands gripped your waist, trying to control himself, but it was useless. You felt too good, too perfect, too right.

He thrust up to meet you, rhythm building, the room filled with panting breaths and broken curses.

“You feel—fuck—so good,” he rasped, hands roaming your back, your thighs. “I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

Your breath left your lungs in a rush, head tilting back with a whimper. He swore under his breath, gripping your hips like a lifeline.

“You feel like heaven,” he groaned.

You clenched around him involuntarily, a needy noise escaping your throat. “Don’t be sweet to me. Not tonight.”

You gasped, arms wrapping around his neck as he started to move—deliberate, punishing thrusts that hit every broken place in you and filled them with heat instead of grief. His mouth found your collarbone, your throat, your jaw. He was everywhere.

“You’re not invisible,” Spencer gasped, as if reading your thoughts. “You’re not replaceable. Not to me. Not ever.”

Your breath caught, and then your second orgasm hit, you clung to him, your nails raking his back, and his rhythm faltered as he groaned low in your ear.

“I’m close,” he rasped. “Tell me—tell me where.”

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed and wrecked. “I don’t care, just—fuck, just do it.”

His restraint crumbled. He came, hips stuttering, arms shaking as he buried himself deep and spilled into you. It was rough, messy, desperate—the kind of climax that felt more like a breakdown. Like a release you’d both been craving for far too long.

Your body trembled as you collapsed against him, chest pressed to his, skin hot and flushed and damp with sweat. For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved—just your heartbeats thudding against one another

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Your voice was raw. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know.”

“I just—” Your breath hitched. “I didn’t want to feel invisible tonight.”

“You weren’t.” He reached up, thumb stroking the skin just beneath your eye. “Not to me.”

That did it. A single tear slipped free before you could stop it. You moved to pull away, to hide your face, but Spencer sat up with you, arms still wrapped around your waist.

He caught your chin gently, guiding your eyes back to his. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did. And you wished you hadn’t. Because there was something devastatingly tender in his expression—like he’d seen you fractured and bleeding and still wanted every sharp piece.

“You don’t have to do that,” you whispered.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel better after fucking me.”

Spencer shook his head, eyes locked on yours. “I’m not doing this because I feel sorry for you. I’m doing it because I care about you. Because this…” His voice dropped, rough and weighted. “This wasn’t just about sex. Not for me, I care so much for you.”

You closed your eyes, his words settling into your bones.

Then you pulled the comforter up over both of you, his arms wrapping around you again as your head came to rest on his chest. His fingers found your spine and traced it lazily, grounding you with every pass.

The weight of the day didn’t vanish. The ache of your father’s distance, the sting of seeing him with someone else—it didn’t magically go away.

But here, in Spencer’s bed, wrapped up in the only person who’d made you feel real in weeks—it didn’t matter quite as much.

The digital clock on Spencer’s kitchen wall blinked 2:13 AM in quiet mockery.

You blinked back at it, mind spinning, the warmth of his hands still lingering on your skin like a second pulse. You didn’t mean to stay that long. You didn’t mean to stay at all. But he’d looked at you like you were worth hearing. Like you were worth touching.

Now the silence afterward buzzed loud in your ears, a different kind of adrenaline creeping in—because the fog was lifting and your dad was expecting you home. Hours ago.

“Shit,” you whispered, bolting upright and tugging your top back into place. Spencer’s arm moved lazily across the bed, fingers curling around your wrist like a silent stay—but you shook your head with a half-laugh.

“He’s gonna fucking kill me,” you muttered, sliding off the bed and grabbing your phone from the nightstand.

Spencer sat up slowly, still bare from the waist up, his hair tousled like sin and sleep. “Want me to call you a car?”

You nodded, trying not to stare at the light bruises blooming along your hips where his mouth had lingered like he meant it.

He smiled faintly, slipping from the bed to walk you out. “Text me when you get in?”

You paused in the doorway, heart pounding again—but this time for a different reason. You looked back at him, eyes scanning the way his lips were still kiss-bitten and red. “You’re not going to pretend this didn’t happen, are you?”

Spencer’s eyes sharpened, his voice low. “Not a chance.”

You didn’t trust yourself to answer that—so you just left.

The air was cooler than you expected when you stepped out of the car, the soft click of your heels echoing against the driveway. You tilted your head back toward the night sky and groaned, the stars overhead mocking you with their indifference.

Of course the kitchen light was still on.

Because why wouldn’t it be?

“Oh come on,” you hissed, dragging a hand down your face. You tossed a glare skyward like the universe might answer for its crimes. “Why do you hate me?” you muttered under your breath. “Was I a dictator in a past life?”, dragging your fingers through your hair as you yanked your keys from the depths of your bag.

You were already hours late. Technically, you weren’t supposed to be out at all—not on a weekday, not when you were living under your father’s roof again for the semester and interning at the BAU. You weren’t even supposed to be drinking, let alone fucking one of his agents.

Oops.

You opened the door with a practiced silence, the kind you’d perfected years ago as a teenager—before parties, sneaking in from dates, trying not to wake him when he was fresh off a case. The door clicked softly behind you, and you set your bag down with practiced ease.

You freeze, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. One voice is his. Low. Familiar. Controlled in the way only someone like him can be while still audibly enjoying himself.

The other? High. Feminine. Smooth. Emily fucking Prentiss.

Your spine straightened.

Oh, fuck that.

Your feet carried you forward before your brain could stop them, steps slow and deliberate as you crossed the living room and padded toward the kitchen. The light pooled out into the hallway like a spotlight waiting for you to walk into it.

You rounded the corner. And there they were.

Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss, sitting side-by-side at the kitchen island with drinks in hand, paperwork spread between them like some domestic goddamn dream. He was leaning just close enough to count as familiar, smiling at something she’d said. Emily’s legs were crossed elegantly, her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass, laughter still dancing in her eyes.

Your father’s head turned at the sound of your steps.

Emily’s did too.

You didn’t stop walking until you stood just inside the threshold.

You didn’t look at her.

You looked straight at your father.

And then you said it.

“I had sex with Spencer,” you said calmly.

A full beat of silence.

“I thought you should know,” you add, voice cold and surgical. “Since we’re sharing things now.”

Your dad blinked once. Then twice. The blood drained from his face, replaced by an unreadable tension that locked his jaw tight and froze his shoulders in place like he’d just taken a bullet to the chest.

Emily choked on nothing.

Her eyes went wide, darting between you and your father like she was waiting for the punchline to a joke that never came. Her wine glass clinked as she set it down on the counter too quickly. “I—excuse me—” she began, then stopped herself, clearly realizing there was no safe place to go next.

Your father stood slowly, his knuckles whitening against the edge of the countertop.

“What did you just say?”

You lifted your chin, ignoring the tremble in your spine, the way your heart was thrashing in your chest like it wanted out. “You heard me.”

He exhaled slowly. “That’s completely inappropriate—”

You smiled then, sharp and satisfied. “Oh! You mean like how you weren’t just pressed against Emily in your office three hours ago?”

That hit. Hard.

Emily just stared at you with wide, stunned eyes like she wanted to disappear. You ignored her entirely. You didn’t even look at her. This wasn’t about her.

You and your father stood in the silence that followed, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in between you like a loaded gun.

He finally spoke, voice hoarse with disbelief. “You slept with Spencer?”

“I did,” you said, still calm. “In his apartment. After you drove me to lose my goddamn mind tonight.”

His eyes closed. Just for a second. Like he was holding in an explosion.

You dropped your purse on the table and turned for the stairs, voice icy as you added over your shoulder, “But don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be sure to keep it professional in the office. Just like you do.”

“I’m your father,” Hotch snapped, stepping forward now, his voice low but sharp enough to cut glass. “This is not acceptable.”

“Oh, now you’re my father?” Your voice rose, just slightly. “Funny how that only comes out when it’s your feelings on the line. Not when I’m crying in the elevator or begging for scraps of your attention.”

“You don’t get to stand there and pretend like this is the same,” he hissed, pointing between you and the counter, between you and Emily. “You’re my daughter. And he’s—”

You watched the blood drain from his face, his jaw tightening, the muscles in his neck straining like he was fighting not to throw the glass against the wall. Slowly, his eyes met yours, and the expression behind them—shock, betrayal, fury—nearly made you grin.

Oh, that’s the version of him you remembered.

The one that got like this when you missed curfew. When you got suspended that one time for fighting a boy who tried to grab your ass. When you told him to fuck off at fourteen because he refused to come to your recital. That familiar, righteous, controlling rage that made you feel like you were still just a little girl breaking his rules in the only ways that made him notice you.

Only now you weren’t a little girl.

You were a grown woman. And you’d just fucked his best profiler.

“Get out.”

You blinked, feigning confusion. “I live here.”

“I don’t give a damn,” he snapped. “Get out.”

You didn’t move. You weren’t going to.

“You really think you get to act shocked?” you said softly, dangerously. “You’re here playing house with her like we’re not all pretending it’s fine that you forgot how to love the first family you had. You’re the one who stopped showing up, Dad. Don’t get pissed at me for finally finding someone who did.”

His jaw ticked. Emily touched his arm gently, a silent plea.

“Don’t,” you said instantly, your eyes cutting to her. “You don’t get to make him soft. Not when he couldn’t be bothered to remember my birthday last year.”

Emily flinched. You didn’t care. This wasn’t for her. It was for him.

You turned toward the stairs. “You wanted me to be an adult, right?” you tossed over your shoulder. “Welcome to the consequences.”

a/n: so many daddy issues like what the hell

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[yoonbroom]

fate, and other lies | s. reid

what moon songs do you sing your babies? / what sunshine do you bring? / who belongs / who decides who's crazy / who rights wrongs where others cling?

- Luna - The Smashing Pumpkins

summary : girldad!spencer who can't seem to find a logical reason why he was given the chance to be a father

tags : religion/religious questioning, mentions of the science/religion gap, spencer is a girl dad duh, his daughter's name is charlotte, sorry charlottes of cmblr, nerdy daughter, she's cute, spirituality, moon phases, fluff, no mention on y/n

a/n : thank u to @cherrriesinthespring for helping me not delete this entire draft. idk if this makes sense but i don't care!! this is my blog!!! general disclaimer idgaf what religion you subscribe to! spencer wouldn't gaf either! this is fiction!

words: 1.3k+

masterlist

Spencer is a man of science.

He has always been that way. He's never believed in the after life, or superstitions, or twin flames. He doesn't buy into astrological signs, or the idea of a past life. Manifestation doesn't happen. Religion abandoned him from a young age, and even if it hadn't, he's sure he’s read enough scientific literature to ruin the concept for himself eternally.

Fate is what it is; a series of events caused by a series of events. There is no luck–just probability– and if he's learned anything from his years of life, the odds are stacked against him.

It's dark inside the nursery, aside from the smattering of glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and the soft, warm glow of light reflecting off the smattering of space themed decorations filling the space. There's planets and stars, and somewhere among the chaos, a picture frame with the moon phase from the day Charlotte was born.

This does make sense. It's logical. Spencer Reid’s daughter, not yet three, who has taken an interest in science. Space, that is. Planets and stars and moons. And not in the way that many children are, focusing on astronauts and aliens, but a real, tangible interest. She asks questions with answers she's too young to comprehend, but she listens. The thirst of knowledge that drove Spencer to where he is today is somewhere inside her, too.

Charlotte’s cheek is tucked up against his chest, the warmth of her skin radiating against him. Tiny fingers wrap and unwrap themselves from the hem of his shirt, mindlessly toying with the material while she takes in the pages of the book propped against his knee. It's far past her bedtime, and while she should be tired, Spencer can just make out the movement of her eyes from the light reflecting off of them in the dim room.

“The moon does not produce it’s own light,” Spencer reads. “The moon reflects sunlight off its surface, which is what makes it shine at night. Depending on the position of the moon and earth, we can see the various phases of the moon.”

He turns the page carefully, placing the book back into its position without stirring Charlotte from her spot.

“Scientists use the phases of the moon for many different reasons. The moon helps us see the passage of time. It's phases also influence the tides. Some cultures believe the phases of the moon can predict other things about our lives.”

Spencer is well aware that Charlotte is too young to understand most of the book. She will grasp some things, like pictures and certain words. He doesn't expect much to stick.

“Do you know what that means?” He asks, smoothing back a stray curl from her face. “To predict something?”

Charlotte’s eyes momentarily glance up from their focus on the page. With her cheek still smashed against his chest, she shakes her head slightly.

“Predicting means we make a guess about something. A really good guess. So if we predict the future, we make a guess about what the future will be like.”

“The moon guesses what the future is like?”

“Not exactly,” he smiles. He sighs, searching for the words to explain such a concept to her. “The moon doesn't guess. We make a guess. We can look at the moon, and make a guess about the future based on its phase. But it's just a guess. No one really knows what will happen.”

Charlotte scooches herself up a bit, eyes still studying the page. He can tell she's formulating questions that he will struggle to answer.

“How do we know what the moon thinks?”

Spencer chuckles. “We don't know. But some people like to believe we do. So someone, a very long time ago, made up their own ideas about what the moon is trying to tell us. Look at this page.

He flips again to a new page, one that includes a picture of each moon phase. It only takes him a moment to locate what he's looking for.

“Do you recognize this moon?”

“That's my moon,” she nods. “What does the moon think about me?”

The logical side of Spencer knows not to feed into this. He knows how important it is to raise children who believe in science. One day, when she's older, he can explain to her why astrology, moon phases, superstition, and other similar things aren't rooted by science. But today he can play along.

“According to this book, waning crescent babies are very wise, empathetic, and introspective. They are good listeners, too.”

“I'm a good listener.”

“You are,” he chuckles. “But it's just a guess. It's just for fun.”

“Which moon is your moon?” She asks, tilting her head back to see him.

He sighs, but a smile is still present somewhere in his features.

“This one,” he says. “Waning gibbous.”

“You have a big moon, and I have a little moon.”

Charlotte's fingers run across the textured surface of the page for a moment as she absorbs the new information. Spencer is almost certain she's distracted herself with something else when she points back at the page.

“If we put our moons together, we could have a full moon.”

He looks down, back at her ever curious gaze. Her eyes, ones that mirror his nearly exactly, are seemingly searching his as if he has all the answers.

“I guess we would,” he nods.

“Is that because you're my dad?” She asks. “Does everyone’s moon match their dad?”

“No, honey. It's just a coincidence.”

His logical reasoning should remind him that there is no meaning in the phase of the moon, aside from the passage of time and positioning of the earth. But it's hard to ignore when this coincidence is just so big.

Charlotte tucks her head back against him, her cheeks squished to his chest. This is how every night ends for them. Spencer awkwardly sitting on her toddler sized bed, and Charlotte's entire body tucked up against his like she was meant to be there.

Part of him is convinced that she is meant to be there. And not only by way of a father and daughter relationship-of course he's responsible for her. But this, he believes, goes beyond obligation. Out of everything that's ever gone right for him, he's never had something that is so deeply correct. Something that comes so naturally, that he's not only good at, but also feels more whole for being a part of.

Moments like this remind him of just how strange it is to be someone’s father. And not just anyone, but Charlotte’s. Charlotte who looks just like him, acts just like him, and adds bits of his personality to her own every day. Charlotte who repeatedly chooses to be near him, to seek his comfort, and to trust him.

Spencer doesn't seek meaning in things. He's never been one to do that. But it's hard to resist the urge, particularly in moments like this. He hears it in the soft sound of his calloused hands running over the back of her pajama shirt. A callous from the pen he uses to sign paperwork, admitting faults in his own skills in the field. Another from the gun he carries that has been responsible for more deaths than he can count. Hands that navigated through his darkest of days, meanest of moments, and lowest of points. Hands littered with evidence that fate never should have led him here. But he also knows there are some things science just can't explain.

When he finally closes the book, she’ll already be fast asleep. He’ll tuck her back in, turn on her nightlight, and kiss her goodnight at least more time, even though she won't remember it. She's already asleep. His job is already done. Still, the fact that he's found himself lucky enough to defy every odd and wake up every morning to be her father is enough of a reason for him to buy into the idea that maybe, just maybe, there is something greater out there.

As far as he's concerned, she's enough reason to believe.

credit to @strangergraphics-archive for dividers

[yoonbroom]

Under Watch

.・゜✭・. Spencer Reid x Hotch’s Daughter .・゜✭・.

Summary: A string of murders on your college campus brings your estranged father and his team to investigate. To keep you safe, he assigns Spencer Reid to watch over you.

A/N: this takes place in the season 6, I just wanted glasses Reid to be in the pics, also not proofread I will come back and correct it later :) xoxox

BYR(b4 u Reid): babysitter Reid, Strict Hotch, Murder, guns, knives, SA, semi-detailed murder description, cuss words, talks of alcohol, kidnappings, stalking, and detailed make out sesh. | hopefully I don’t forget anything!

“I’m free tonight. We can start working on the project.” You tell the guy walking beside you as you both step out of the lecture hall.

“Yeah, that works. How’s seven?” He asks, holding the door open for you.

“That should be fine.” You say with a small smile

You don’t know him well, barely noticed him until today when he’d ask if you’d be his partner. But before the conversation could continue, a voice cuts through the noise of campus.

“Y/n!”

You turn, scanning the crowd until your eyes land on him. Your father stands in the middle of the quad, his team beside him. The weight of their stares settles over you.

Your brows furrow as you step toward them.

“Why are you here?” The words come out sharper than you intend, but you don’t back down.

Your father’s expression hardens. “You don’t know? Do you not stay informed on what happens around you?”

His tone makes you stiffen. “Mr. Hotchner.” The dean interjects carefully, stepping forward. “We’ve chosen to keep things as contained as possible. We don’t want to incite panic among the students.”

“Not warning them is more dangerous.” Rossi counters, unimpressed.

The dean exhales. “I understand your concerns but unless you’ve run a college campus, you don’t understand the position we’re in.”

You glance past your father at his team. Faces you recognize from home but haven’t seen since you left Virginia. They watch the exchange closely, some with sympathy, others with quiet apprehension.

“What’s going on?” You finally ask.

Your father doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for your arm, his grip firm but not forceful. “Come with us.”

You were led into the campus security building, where case files are scattered across tables. Your eyes flick to a white-board in the next room, crime scene photos pinned in a neat but unsettling arrangement.

“Shut that.” his voice is sharp, and when you glance back at him, his expression his unreadable.

“We were called here because there's been a series of murders on campus. Young woman.” he says, locking eyes with you.

For the first time, you see it, the fear beneath his controlled demeanor.

You don’t know how to respond, but when he lays down three photographs, fear settles in your chest.

“Sarah Johnston, Abigail Smith, Elizabeth Adam’s.” He lists “Do you see a pattern?”

Your stomach twists. Hair color, similar build. Even the way they smiled in their photos. You and these girls resembled each other.

“Could be a coincidence,” you murmur, though you don't believe it.

“It’s not, he has a type.” he firmly says “You can't be alone on this campus. Travel in groups, carry your pepper spray, and you are not to be alone with any male students.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “I have a project to do with a guy from my class-”

“Meet in a public space, surrounded by people.” Rossi interjects.

“The library is packed, and the study rooms are booked.”

“Cancel.” your father orders. “Tell him you're sick, do it now.”

Your eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

Your father stares. That look, the one that's ended entire arguments without him saying another word. You hesitate, but your fingers move, typing the message before holding up your phone for his approval.

“Good.” he nods, then turns to Reid. “Take her to her dorm, please.”

“I can walk myself.”

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why can't you just listen for once?” his voice rises, frustration creeping in.

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut.

“What about everyone else?” you challenge, voice tight. “The girls who aren't getting warnings? The ones who don't have an agent escorting them to their dorms? This isn't fair. I'm just a student like the rest of them. I don't need your protection.”

“You don't understand, and right now, I don't care if you do.” he says, his tone final. “My only concern is getting you to your room. And you're staying there for the rest of the night. Reid, take her.”

“If it helps.” Emily adds gently, resting a hand on your shoulder. “A statement is going out today. The school is setting up hotlines, resources, and people will be warned.”

You let out a slow breath. It doesn't make you feel better. Not really.

“Fine.” you turn on your heel, heading for the door. Spencer Reid following right behind you.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet, not awkward, just silent.

When you step inside, you toss your bag onto your bed and gesture toward the other one. “You can sit there. My roommate dropped out a while ago, so no one uses it.”

Reid hesitates before sitting. “Does your dad know?”

You glance at home, confused. “Why would he?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought that’s something a father would want to know.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our relationship is… complicated.”

“Yeah.” He says, nodding slightly. “I get that.”

You eye him for a second. “You and your dad close?”

Reid shifts in his seat, before you can take it back, he says. “He left my mom and me when I was a kid.”

You frown. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t affect me anymore.”

There’s a moment of quiet before you decide to change the subject. “I have some games. Do you like Jenga?”

That earns a small chuckle from him. “Yeah.”

You kneel beside your bed, pulling out the game. There were probably better things you could be doing, like assignments or your project, but this seemed like a better way to pass the time.

As you both set up the blocks on the floor, you smirk. “Usually when I play, my friends and I have a rule. Whoever knocks it over takes two shots.”

Reid gives you an amused look. “Are you even legal to drink?” You raise an eyebrow. “What, are you gonna tell my dad?”

He tilts his head. “Should I?”

You laugh. “I don’t think it’ll surprise him, I’m pretty sure he expects worse.”

Reid’s expression shifts slightly. “You know, your dad talks about you a lot. He’s very proud of you.” You freeze for a second. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Reid nodded.

You swallow, shifting slightly. “Huh. Didn’t know that.”

He doesn’t say anything else, instead gestures to the game. “You go first.”

The game begins, each turn making the tower more unsteady. Eventually, Spencer study’s the blocks carefully, trying to find a safe one to pull.

“This is getting difficult.” He mutters, eyes narrowed.

You laugh, watching as he finally picks one and pushes it, only for the entire tower to collapse.

“Shit.” He murmurs under his breath causing your eyes to widen. “Did you just cuss?” You teased.

Reid shakes his head with a smirk, while you get up and dig through your closet. When you return, you hold up a bottle. “Two shots?”

His eyes practically pop out of their sockets. “I’m working.” You scrunch your face. “Is it really called working when you’re watching an adult?”

“I’m still on duty.” He argues. “Your dad would fire me.”

You roll your eyes. “My dad loves you. But fine Spencer, be lame.” Before he could reply, there’s a knock at the door. You both glance at each other.

“I got it, " you say, heading toward the door forgetting there was a killer on the loose and Spencer Reid wasn’t in your room to play games.

Spencer moves ahead of you. “I’ll get it.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. You step back as he opens the door.

Standing there is Eli, the guy from your class.

“Oh, uh… is y/n here?” Eli asks, looking past Spencer. You step forward going to the door. “Eli? What are you doing here?”

“I saw your message. Just wanted to check on you.” He says, then glances at the bottle in your hand. His lips twitch into a smirk. “Having a party?”

You quickly lower the bottle. “No, I was just-no.” You stutter.

Eli raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look sick.”

You sigh. “Yeah…I’m not. I just can’t do the project tonight. I’m sorry.” Eli glances between you and Reid before nodding slowly. “Yeah, I get it.”

Silence lingers between the three of you. It’s awkward.

“Wait.” You ask suddenly. “How did you find my room?”

“Lisa.” He answers quickly. “I asked her.”

You nod, but something about it feels… off. You glance at Spencer, who’s watching Eli closely, brows drawn together like he’s analyzing something.

Eli clears his throat. “Well, I’ll let you guys be. Let me know when we can start the project.”

“Yeah, I will.” You say, before shutting the door.

You turn to Spencer. “That was awkward.” He nodded. “Is that your friend?”

“No. Barely know him. Just a project partner.” You say.

“Hmm.” Spencer’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression unreadable. You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” He says, but there’s a trace of suspicion in his voice. “You just can’t be too sure about people.”

You nod. “Do you think the unsub will be caught tonight?” He exhales, his lips pressing together in thought. “I’m not sure. So far, he hasn’t left much evidence behind.”

“How does he do it?” You ask, curiosity outweighing your nerves. Spencer hesitates. “I don’t think your dad would appreciate me telling you.”

You cross your arms. “Well, I don’t think that’s my dad’s choice.”

He sighs, clearly understanding your frustration. After a moment, he finally gives in.

“He stalks them.” Spencer says, his voice lower now. “He waits until they’re alone, takes them somewhere secluded. He hurts them… bad. And then he.” His jaw tightens before finishing. “He assaults them. It’s brutal y/n. That’s why Hotch is so worried.”

Your breath catches. His gaze is firm, searching yours, waiting for a reaction. And for a second, you don’t know what to say. You had meant what you said to your dad about it not being fair, but hearing this… it makes you feel something else.

“If he stalks them, does that make his killings far apart?” You ask, your voice quieter now.

Spencer nods. “He’s projected to strike again in a few days, but we are trying to prevent that. He only keeps his victims for a few hours, but he takes his time choosing them. He studies them.”

Goosebumps rise along your arms, and suddenly, the walls of your dorm feel too close. “I need air.”

Spencer watches you for a moment before offering. “Well can walk around?”

You nod.

The two of you walk with no destination, the sky shifting into soft oranges and purples as the sun starts to set. The air is cooler now, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable.

“So.” Spencer finally says, breaking the quiet. “How are you liking college?”

You glance at him, appreciating his efforts. “It’s been good. A lot of people to meet, a lot of things to do.”

He nods. “When I was in college, I didn’t really… do much.” You let out a small laugh. “Weren’t you, like, fourteen?”

He smirks. “Yeah. That might have had something to do with it.” You tilt your head. “What’s it like? Being that smart?”

Spencer thinks for a moment before answering. “Uh- I don’t know. Sometimes it’s good. Other times it feels like… too much. Even for myself.”

“Must be exhausting.” You murmur

“Can be.” He admits.

The wind picks up slightly, and you shiver without meaning to. You mentally curse yourself for not bringing a jacket.

Spencer notices. without a word, he shrugs off his own. “Here. Take mine.”

You shake your head. “What? No, it’s cold. You need it.”

“I was starting to feel hot in it anyway.” He says, holding it out to you. You narrow your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Spencer.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he just steps closer and drapes the jacket over your shoulders himself, his hands brushing against you for just a second longer than necessary.

You blink up at him, caught off guard.

“Now you have to take it.” He says simply.

You huff but pull it tighter around yourself, the fabric warm. “Fine.” Spencer smirks, satisfied.

You glance down, smiling softly. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He replied, giving you the same soft smile, and with that you both continued walking.

The conversation mostly consisting of Spencer throwing out random facts.

Just as he finished explaining why flamingoes stand on one leg, you glanced down and noticed your shoelace had come undone.

“Damn.” You muttered

Before you could react, Spencer crouched down without hesitation, his long fingers grabbing the laces. He tied them quickly, but his movements were gentle, careful.

You swallowed, feeling a rush of warmth crawl up your neck. It was a simple sweet gesture.

“Thanks.” You murmured.

He looked up at you, his eyes catching yours for just a second too long before he stood back up. You cleared your throat, motioning toward a nearby bench.

The two of you sat down, silence setting over for a brief moment before you turned toward him. “So, Spencer, do you have a girlfriend?”

The question clearly caught him off guard. His capture stiffened slightly, and he glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. “Uh-no. Why?”

You shrugged. “Because you do all these nice little things. Feels like there has to be a girl.”

He shook his head. “No girlfriend.”

“Hmm.” You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s surprising.” Spencer gave you a skeptical look. “Why?”

“Because.” You said simply, “You’re sweet. You’re smart.” Then, without much thought, you reached up and lightly brushed your fingers through his hair. “And you’re pretty good-looking.”

The reaction was instant. His whole face turned red, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Even his ears betrayed him, turning an adorable shade of pink.

“I-I just… I don’t know.” He stammered. “I’m busy, I guess.”

“Yeah.” You hummed, leaning back against the bench. Then, he smirked slightly, his confidence suddenly returning. “Why do you care?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Spencer. I’m just nosey, must be genetic.”

“Right.” He said, nodding as if he didn’t believe you for a second. You narrowed your eyes at him, amused by his boldness. Before you could stop yourself, you turned the question back on him.

“Well, do you think I have a boyfriend?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“Yeah.” You answered casually, watching as his smirk faltered for just a second. His expression was unreadable, but you caught the small shift, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled slightly against his lap.

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” He said

You let the silence hang for a bit too long before grinning. “I’m joking, Spencer. I don’t have one.”

He exhaled, shaking his head as he turned toward you, unimpressed. “Yeah, I think I can see why.”

You gasped, shoving his shoulder slightly. “Wow. Sassy.”

Spencer just laughed, and you found yourself staring at him a little too long, watching the way his smile softened his features.

Then, almost instinctively, the teasing faded. The space between you seemed smaller. His gaze flickering to your lips, so quick you almost thought you imagined it.

Your heart picked up speed.

“You know.” You said, your voice lower now. “For someone who’s never had a girlfriend, you sure don’t suck at flirting.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened with amusement. “Who says I’m flirting?” You arched a brow. “Oh, so you just tie everyone’s shoes for them, and hand out your coat?”

He smirked but didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted just slightly toward you.

Neither of you spoke, but something was different now, he was watching you in a way he hadn’t before, like he was debating something.

And then, before you could overthink it, you leaned in first. He met you halfway.

The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like neither of you wanted to acknowledge it was happening. But then Spencer’s hand found your jaw, his touch delicate, and suddenly, it wasn’t hesitant anymore.

Your fingers curled around the fabric of his button up, pulling him just a little closer, feeling the warmth of him against you.

Spencer’s lips moved against yours with surprising confidence, his fingers firm against your jaw as he deepened the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, pleading for entrance, and you don’t hesitate to grant it.

A quiet sigh escaped you, your hands instinctively tightening around the fabric of his shirt.

“Spencer.” You breathed between kisses, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His lips left your mouth only to find the curve of your jaw, then lower, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along your neck. The contrast was dizzying.

The Spencer you knew, the one who rattled off statistics and fidgeted when people stood too close felt miles away from the one currently leaving a trail of heat against your skin.

Had you really been gone that long?

Deep down, a part of you had always wondered about him.

You’d always thought he was cute. He was different from you in almost every way. Careful where you are reckless, and logical where you are impulsive.

Maybe that was why you found yourself so drawn to him.

His hands moved from your jaw to your throat, his fingers grazing lower, trailing down your body until they landed on your waist. His touch was warm, grounding.

You weren’t sure if you were pulling him closer or if he was the one doing it, but the space between you two was practically nonexistent.

Then, suddenly, he stiffened.

Spencer pulled back so fast it left you breathless, his wide eyes darting around. “Did you hear that?”

You blinked, still dazed. “What?”

“I think I heard something.” His body tensed, one hand instinctively resting on his gun as he stood, scanning the area.

You quickly straightened, glancing around. The campus was quiet, the only sound being the distant hum of crickets and rustling leaves from the breeze.

“Maybe we should head back.” You suggested, still trying to catch your breath.

Spencer nodded, but not before his gaze flickered back to you, his lips slightly swollen from the kiss you’d just shared.

“Yeah.” He said, his voice quieter now. “It’s late.”

The both of you walk back in silence, both thinking about the actions that took place a moment ago.

As you finally reach your dorm, something on the floor catches your eye. A pink envelope.

Spencer notices it too, his sharp gaze narrowing. Without hesitation, he bends down to grab it. “It just has your name.” He says, his voice low. He hands it over, and you take it.

You open it without thinking much, assuming it’s some harmless note. But the moment you pull out what’s inside, a wave of fear washes over you.

“Oh my god.”

Your voice trembles as your fingers clutch the two Polaroid photos. The first is of you and Spencer kissing. His hand cupping your jaw, the image capturing the undeniable intimacy of the moment.

The second photo was when Spencer was scanning the area after hearing a strange noise, his hand on his gun. Someone had been watching. Someone had been right there.

You shove the photos toward Spencer. His expression hardens as he studies them, brows furrowing deeply. He looked furious.

“We have to give these to the team.” He says firmly.

“No, it’s probably just a prank.” You argue, though your voice is weak. You’re desperate to convince yourself, but even you don’t believe it.

Spencer shakes his head. “We can’t be too sure. I’m sorry.” He apologizes as he slides the photos back into the envelope.

You swallow hard, the weight of it all crashing down. “My dad’s going to be upset.”

Spencer steps toward you, his fingers brushing the strands of your hair behind your ear. “It’s going to be alright.” He assures you.

Your eyes scan him, and you can see guilt flashing across his face. You know he feels responsible, and you can’t help but feel the same.

Without another word, he pulls out his phone. “We have something that might be connected.” He says into the receiver, his voice clipped. “Alright. We’ll be on our way.”

The walk to campus security is silent, the dread growing heavier with every step. When you arrive, your father is already there, his signature stoic expression barely concealing his concern.

“What is it?” He asks, striding toward you both.

You and Spencer exchange a quick, uneasy glance. Spencer hands him the envelope.

Your father opens the envelope, his eyes flickering over the contents. The tension in the room is unbearable. You swear you can hear Spencer’s heartbeat.

“What is this?” Hotch’s voice is low, but the restrained anger is clear. His gaze shifts to you, demanding answers.

“They were taken of us… not too long ago.” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn't respond immediately. The weight of his silence is crushing.

“So, I send an agent to watch over you, and instead, you make him go against orders. You kiss him while a murderer is on the loose, on your campus, targeting girls.” his words cut through you.

“I-I know. I'm sorry.” you stammer, instinctively glancing at Spencer. “It was my fault.”

But Spencer immediately shakes his head. “No it wasn’t. I’m the one that didn’t follow orders, it’s not her fault.”

“I don’t care whose fault it is. You both had orders, and you failed to comply.” He looks directly at Spencer. “Reid, join JJ. Now.”

Spencer hesitates, clearly torn, but nods. He gives you one last glance before walking away.

“Y/n.” Your father’s voice lowers. “We need to talk.”

You follow him into an empty room, the door clicking shut behind you. The air is thick with unspoken words. You brace yourself, expecting the worst. But when your father finally speaks, it isn’t the scolding you anticipated.

“Do you think you might know who took these?” His tone is calm, but his eyes remain sharp.

You’re caught off guard. “No. I don’t.”

“Think y/n. Is there anyone - someone you’ve been seeing? Someone who might have been watching you?”

You rack your brain, the panic making it hard to focus. “There’s… Eli. The guy I’m working on a project with. He came by to check on me, but that’s really the only person I’ve talked to.”

Your father nods, processing. “And your roommate, do you think she seems like the type to give out your whereabouts? Does she seem untrustworthy?”

You shake your head. “I don’t have one.”

His jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I didn’t think it was important.” You admit, your voice small.

“You didn’t think it was important to tell me you were alone in your dorm? That was the one thing I take comfort in while you are away, knowing there was someone else there.”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

His expression softens just a fraction, but the frustration is still evident. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I need to question Eli. What class?”

“Psychology.” You say

He gives you a short nod and turns to leave. You follow him out, but the tension lingers.

“Garcia can you look through the schools files for an Eli, a class he takes is psychology with y/n.” He says on the phone.

“I don’t think it’s him.” You say quietly. “I’ve barely seen him around.”

“And that.” Derek interjects, stepping beside you, “Makes him even more suspicious.”

Emily nods in agreement. “If he’s the unsub, he could’ve been targeting you. Sudden appearances aren’t always coincidences.”

You sigh, and take a seat in one of the chairs, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Despite the hum of voices around you, exhaustion wins. Your eyes fluttered close, and before you realize it, sleep over takes you.

“Okay, Garcia gave me the location of Eli’s apartment.” Your dad’s stern voice snaps you awake. “Morgan and JJ, come with me. Prentiss and Rossi, stay here and keep an eye on them.”

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you sit up. “What’s going on?”

Your father doesn’t answer, already halfway through to door. Emily steps closer, her expression a mixture of concern and relief. “They found Eli’s apartment. But, y/n … Eli was never enrolled in your class.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“He’s been sneaking in.” She says softly. “Pretending to be a student. We think he’s been watching you for a while.”

You stare at her, the words sinking in. Your pulse races as the realization hits. “Oh my god.”

“It’s becoming clear that you were most likely one of his next victims.” Rossi joins in, their eyes both full of empathy.

“But he seemed so…” you trail off, struggling to find the right word. Normal doesn’t feel right. Not now.

“I know.” Emily says, nodding. “It’s difficult. But we’re close to figuring this out. You’re safe now.”

You swallow, the reassurance barely easing your nerves. Rossi lays a reassuring hand on your should giving it a gentle squeeze “It’s going to be okay kid.” He says you nodded and watched as he walked away.

You sit back down, gathering the information you’ve just been told.

Just as the heavy silence settles in, Emily tilts her head, smirking slightly. “That’s a nice sweater.”

Confused, you glance down. It’s only then you remember, Spencer’s sweater. The sleeves are a little long, the faint scent of his cologne lingering.

“Oh. Uh it’s not mine.” You mumble, tugging at the hem. Emily’s smirk deepens. “I know.”

Without another word, she stands and walks toward one of the other rooms, leaving you with your thoughts. You let out a long breath, rubbing your hands over your face. The stress is unbearable.

“Here.” Spencer’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. He holds out a cup of coffee, his fingers brushing yours as you take it.

“Thank you.” You murmur, the warmth of the cup grounding you, he gave you a soft warm smile. “I’m sorry Spencer.” You apologize.

His eyes scan your face. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

You blink at him. “You’re acting as if I didn’t kiss you back.” He says. Heat creeps up your neck. “I just feel like this is my fault.” You admit, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re stuck here instead of searching Eli’s apartment. Emily having to babysit now. And all because-”

“Because we went for a walk?” Spencer finishes, raising an eyebrow. “And kissed? You do realize that without that walk, and that kiss, we probably wouldn’t have gotten this close to catching him.”

His words sink in. The guilt that’s been gnawing at you lessens, just a little.

“So in some weird, messed-up way.” He continues, his voice softer. “It’s a good thing.”

You manage a small smile. “I guess.”

Spencer’s grin grows, and for a second, the tension in the air lightens. “Well, I should get out of here before Emily comes back.”

“Probably a good idea.”

With one last lingering look, he turns and heads out. The warmth of the moment fades as the waiting continues. Minutes pass, then thirty. You sip the last of your coffee, anxiety prickling beneath your skin.

The sudden sound of the door opening draws your attention. Your father and Morgan stride inside, and between them, handcuffed and smirking, is Eli.

“Prentiss, Reid.” Hotch says, his voice sharp. “Join JJ at Eli’s apartment. She’s going through it now.”

Spencer and Emily don’t waste a second, slipping out of the building. You barely register them leaving, your focus locked on Eli. He walks past you, and despite the restraints, his presence feels suffocating.

“It’s not over.” He evilly smiles as the words left his mouth, your blood runs cold.

“Don’t speak to her!” Your father snaps, his voice booming. In an instant, Hotch has Eli shoved against the wall, his face pressed hard against the surface.

You flinch, heart stammering. Eli only laughs. The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

“y/n.” Morgan’s voice is calm but firm as he steps closer. “If you need anything, we’re here. Don’t go anywhere alone. Got it?”

You nod, barely able to find your voice. “Got it.”

Morgan gives you a reassuring nod before following your father into the makeshift interrogation room. You’re left there, your mind racing. Emily’s words from earlier echo in your head.

“You’re safe now”

You want to believe that, but with Eli’s words burned into your memory, it’s hard to feel safe at all.

After what felt like hours, you made your way to the restroom, you splash cold water on your face, the droplets sliding down your skin as you brace your hands on the sink.

The reflection staring back at you is pale and exhausted, the weight of everything visible in your eyes. You close them for a moment, willing the lingering feeling to disappear.

But then, the sound of a lock clicking behind you jolts you awake.

Your heart leaps as you whip around. A man stands in the front of the door, his expression twisted with excitement. He’s holding a gun, the metallic glint catching the harsh bathroom light.

“We’re going to do this the easy way, okay Claire?” His voice is disturbingly calm, like he’s rehearsed these words a thousand times.

“Claire?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m not Claire.”

But he doesn’t listen. He steps forward, his grip tightening around the gun. You instinctively back away.

“It’s okay.” He soothes, though his eyes are wild. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want you with me.”

He’s closing in now, his body looming. You can feel the panic rising, your chest tightening. Every part of you screams to run, but the barrel of the gun hovers dangerously close.

“Let’s go home, Claire.”

The words send a chill down your spine. You open your mouth to scream, but before you can make a sound, the gun is at your temple. The cold steel sends a shock through you.

“We’re going to be quiet, okay?” He growls, his lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t make me shoot you, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your pulse pounds. You can feel his erratic breathing, the tension in the air thick and suffocating. Every instinct tells you to fight, to scream, but you don’t.

“Okay.” You force out, your voice trembling.

He grabs your arm, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you towards the door. Each step is slow, calculated. He cracks the door open, peering down the empty hallway. You silently pray that someone will come, your dad, Morgan, Rossi, anyone.

But the hall remains empty.

No one sees.

No one hears.

And then, he’s dragging you through the exit.

——

Back in the interrogation room, Eli sits slouched in the chair, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“You’re making a mistake.” He taunts, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Rossi narrowed his eyes. “A mistake?”

Eli nods, chuckling to himself. “I knew you’d come. That’s why I was home. You’re too predictable. And while you’re all in here wasting time on me…” he leans forward, savoring every word. “No one’s watching your daughter.”

The room shifts in an instant. The air turns cold. Hotch’s face darkens, fear flashing through his eyes.

“Morgan, Rossi. Stay here.” Hotch orders, his voice sharp. Without another word, he storms out. His movements are frantic, searching every corner of the building. Empty chairs, empty hallways. The tension grows unbearable.

“Where the hell is she?” He demands, slamming his fists on the table when he returns. The sound echoes through the room.

Eli simply smirks. “I don’t know.”

——

The van jerks violently as the man speeds through the dark streets. Your wrists ache from the rope biting into your skin, and the duct tape over your mouth muffles your desperate pleads.

He’s erratic, mumbling to himself as he drives. You pray for the sight of flashing police lights, for anyone who might notice how reckless he’s being. But the roads remain empty.

After what feels like eternity, the van screeches to a stop.

“We’re here.” He announces, giddy like a child on Christmas morning.

He yanks open the back doors, his rough hands grabbing at you. You scream, the sound muffled and desperate. You kick, pounding your fists against his back as he hauls you over his shoulder. But it doesn’t faze him.

The air shifts as he carries you inside. The stench is unbearable, a rancid mixture of mildew, rot, and something metallic. The walls are stained, rust creeping across the cracked concrete. Water pools around the floor, dark and slick.

He dumps you onto the ground, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Before you can react, he pulls a heavy chain from the corner, the rusted links clinking together.

“This is so you don’t try and leave like the others.” He sneers

The chain clamps around your neck, the padlock snapping shut. The weight is suffocating, restricting your movements to only a few feet. You twist and pull, but it’s useless.

He crouches in front of you, his grin wide with satisfaction. “We’re finally together, Claire. Just like I promised.”

Tears burn your eyes as you stare at him, your heart continues to pound violently. The panic threatens to consume you, but you fight it. You have to stay calm. You have to find a way out.

But as he watches you with twisted delight, the truth sinks in. No one knows where you are.

The tape rips from your mouth, the sting sharp against your skin. You gasp, your chest heaving, but before you can speak, the man crouches in front of you, his eyes wild and desperate.

“Before we continue, Claire.” He says, his voice low and deliberate “I need you to be truthful.”

Your glare sharpens, every nerve in your body screaming to fight. “I’m not Claire, you psycho! Let me go!”

The words barely leave your lips before his hands snap to your face, gripping your chin tightly. The veins in his neck bulge with fury.

“You are Claire!”

His trembling hand digs into his pocket, pulling out a worn photo. He shoves it into your view. “This is us, Claire! Before you decided to leave!”

The woman in the photo has your face, or almost. The same features, the same hair.

“That’s not me.” You whisper, shaking your head.

“You always like to lie!” He growls, his voice cracking. He finally lets go, pushing you back against the cold wall as he paces, running his free hand through his greasy hair.

Then he stops.

“Who was that guy?” His voice drops, seething. “The scrawny agent. Why were you with him?”

You blink, confused. “What?”

His teeth clench. “Why did you let him touch you?” He snarls. “Why did you let him look at you like that?!”

He’s talking about Spencer.

“No, no.” You stammer, your pulse racing. “He’s no one. You don’t have to worry about him.”

But it’s too late. The idea is planted, festering in his mind. He shakes his head, a bitter grin twisting his lips.

“I need him here.” He says, his voice trembling with conviction. “I’m going to bring him here.”

“No!” You cry, panic lacing your voice. “You don’t need him! You have me!”

“You need to help me, Claire!” He pleads, crouching down once more. His eyes are wide, frantic. “You have to get him here.”

Tears burn your eyes as you shake your head. “I can't do that.”

He reaches forward, his rough thumb swiping a tear from your cheek. “Don’t cry, darling. It's going to be okay.”

But it won't be.

“Tell me the number.” his voice cracks, dangerous edge creeping in. “I wont.” you whisper.

His hand snaps to his belt, pulling out a small knife. The light catches the dull blade.

“Why are you making me do this?!” he roars, the knife flashing. Before you can move, the cold steel slices across your arm. The pain is immediate, searing. You scream, clutching at the bleeding wound.

——

“Y/n is missing.”

JJ’s words hit like a bullet. Spencer’s heart drops.

“What?” He breathes, his voice sharp. “How? Someone was supposed to be watching her.”

“We don’t know, but Hotch needs us.”

Without another thought, they leave Eli’s apartment and rush back to campus. Spencer’s mind races, his breath short. This can’t be happening.

Emily and JJ make their way into the building but before Spencer reaches the door behind them, his phone rings.

His hands fumble as he answers.

“Hello?”

“Spencer.” Your voice quivers on the other end. “It’s me.”

His chest tightens. “Y/n! Where are you? Hold on! Let me get Hotch.”

“No!” Your voice cracks. “Spencer, don’t. Please… just come. He wants you here, and he says he’ll hurt me if you bring the team.”

“Y/n.” Spencer runs a trembling hand through his hair, panic gripping him.

“Come unarmed.” You whisper. “The address is 3840 Cherry road.”

The line crackles. And then-

“Don’t come, Spencer! Please!”

A sickening thud enters through the phone, your muffled cries follow.

“y/n!” Spencer shouts, his voice breaking. But there’s no answer.

The line goes dead.

His hands shake as he scribbles the address onto a scrap of paper, dropping it where someone will find it. Without another word, he bolts for the SUV.

——

The building looms ahead, rotting, desolate. Spencer moves quickly, his steps silent. The walls are damp, stained with water and time. The stench of mold lingers.

Then he sees you. Sitting against a wall, your head hanging low.

“Y/n.” He gasps, rushing to your side. Blood stains your lips, your nose, and a fresh cut marks your cheek. You’re barely conscious, your head lolling.

“Spencer?” You murmur, your voice weak. But as your eyes adjust, terror flashes across your face.

“No.” You whisper, your hands weakly pushing him away. “Why did you come? I told you not to.”

Before Spencer can respond, a voice rings out.

“Stop touchin’ her.”

Spencer freezes. You both turn, dread pulling in your stomach. The man stands, his eyes blazing with fury.

He lunges, grabbing Spencer and shoving him to the ground, he then pulls out a gun.

“You don’t want to do this.” Spencer says, his hands raised. “We can talk.”

“Why were you with Claire?” The man’s voice booms, echoing through the building. “She doesn’t want you! She wants me!”

“Claire?” Spencer asks cautiously, trying to keep him talking. “Don’t say her name!”

“You want the truth?” Spencer’s voice is steady now, his eyes never leaving the gun. “She doesn’t want you. She never did.”

You stare at him in shock, wondering if he’s gone crazy.

“She wants me.” Spencer presses, his voice low “She doesn’t want you.”

“Do you want me to explain more of what we did?, what you didn’t get to see?” Spencer asked. “What is he talking about?” The unsub asked as he made his way towards you angrily. “You slut!” He spat in your face, but before he could strike you a gunshot echos.

The man in front of you crumbles, blood stains his chest. His eyes go wide, and the life drains from him.

You gasp, and look to see Spencer standing, his gun drawn, chest heaving.

He rushes to get the keys out of the pockets of the dead man, then to you unlocking the chain from your neck, and untying your wrists. The moment you’re free, you collapse into his arms.

“It’s okay.” He whispers, holding you tightly, his hand going up and down your back. “You’re safe now.”

You cling to him, sobbing. “I was so scared.”

“I know.” Spencer breathes, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

The sound of footsteps echo. “They’re in here!” Morgan’s voice rings out.

Hotch bursts through the doors, his eyes locking onto you and Spencer. You let go of Spencer and make your way towards your dad, stumbling, but he needs you halfway and catches you in his arms, tightly pulling you against him.

He was scared to let you go, scared you’d disappear.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispers, his voice thick with guilt.

You shook your head not wanting to hear his apologies, you were just thankful to be able to see him again.

“I want to go home.” You whisper, your tears soaking into his shirt.

Hotch’s hand gently cups your face, his fingers tracing the cuts. He nods, his voice trembling.

“We’ll go home, baby.”

——

1 month later…

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and stepped into the familiar hum of the BAU office. Jacks small hand gripped yours tightly while the other held a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven. As you passed through the glass doors, a wave of familiar faces greeted you, their smiles wide with excitement.

“Y/n!” JJ’s voice rang out first, her arms already reaching for you. She pulled you into a tight hug, swaying you slightly before Emily joined in.

“I was wondering when we’d get a visit!” Emily grinned, her dark eyes bright.

“Yeah, I would’ve come sooner but-”

“But I told her to stay home and rest.” Your dad cut in, his voice warm as he appeared beside you. Jack immediately wiggled free to run into his arms.

“Makes sense, recovery is important.” Rossi added, his fatherly tone laced with relief.

“Yeah, but it could’ve been worse.” You said, shrugging. “I’m just glad I healed up so quickly.”

“We all are, kid.” Derek said, squeezing your shoulder. His easy grin was one you’d miss.

“And what do we have here?” Penelope asked, her bright eyes locked on the plate in your hands.

“Cookies.” You answered, holding the plate up. “I wanted to thank you all. For everything. For helping me.”

A chorus of “Aww’s” and “Yay’s” echoed through the bullpen, and you set the plate on the nearest desk as the team eagerly grabbed a treat. Your father’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, his grip, strong and steady.

“Thank you.” He said softly, his voice just for you.

you met his gaze, the tension that had once existed between you now barely a shadow. “Thank you, dad. I wouldn’t be here without you. I’m sorry for how things were before. But I’m glad we’re…better now.”

His eyes softened, and he kissed the top of your head, a rare display of affection that made your chest ache in the best possible way.

As the others laughed and chatted, you scanned the room instinctively. And there he was.

Through the glass walls of an office, Spencer Reid stood, his tall frame slightly hunched as he watched you. His eyes met yours, warm and hesitant. Without thinking, you smiled. He moved towards you, his steps quick.

“Y/n.” He said

“Spencer.” The way his name left your lips felt far too easy. “How are you feeling? Are you- are you okay?” His voice was careful, but the concern was evident.

“I’m good. Really good.” You reassured him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Better than ever, actually.”

His smile mirrored yours, though his eyes lingered on you like he was still checking for any sign of pain. “That’s…that’s good. I’m happy to hear that.”

“You should grab a cookie before Morgan eats the whole plate.” You joked, tilting your head toward the group. “yeah, I probably should.” He laughed softly, but he didn’t move.

His gaze held yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“How about you? How’ve you been?” you asked, shifting slightly closer. “Oh, you know. Same old routine,” he said with a small shrug. “Books. Cases. A lot of facts no one asked for.”

You grinned. “Still no girlfriend then?”

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Uh, no. No girlfriend.”

“Shame.” You teased. “I finally turn twenty-one tomorrow, you know. So if you’re free we can finally have that drink you denied me last time at my dorm.”

He blinked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” You grinned. “And now you don’t have an excuse.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I’d like that a lot.”

“Good.” You lingered on the word, savoring how his cheeks turned reddened.

“I could pick you up.” He offered quickly. “If you want.”

“Perfect.” You nodded. “I live with my dad now, so just come by.”

“You moved back to Virginia?”

“Yeah, I transferred. It’s… nice being here. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I came back.”

“I’m glad you’re back.” Spencer said softly. “Maybe we can, uh, hang out more.”

You tilted your head, biting back a grin. “I’d like that. A lot.”

“Cool.” His voice cracked slightly, and the way his eyes flickered down to the floor only made him more endearing.

“Cool.” You echoed playfully, reaching for his hand. “But first, cookies!”

You tugged him gently, his hand gently squeezed yours, neither of you said anything, but the warmth lingered.

You and Jack stayed a bit longer, but the team eventually had to get back to work. With a few more laughs and lingering hugs, it was time to go.

“Well, it was nice seeing you guys,” you said, gripping Jack’s small hand. “Don’t be a stranger!” Penelope called with a wide grin.

“You’re always welcome,” Emily added. “And next time, bring cupcakes,” Rossi teased, flashing his signature smirk.

You laughed, the warmth of their affection lingering. “I will. Promise.”

After waving goodbye, you led Jack through the glass doors and out to the parking lot. Once you reached your car, you carefully buckled him into the backseat, ensuring he was comfortable.

“y/n.”

You froze, the sound of your name stirring something electric inside you. Turning, you saw Spencer walking toward you, his long strides closing the distance quickly. Before you could even process it, his hands cupped your jaw, fingers tracing the delicate lines of your face. And then, his lips were on yours.

It was sudden, desperate. His mouth moved against yours, soft and warm, but the urgency behind it set your skin on fire. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp air, and the world seemed to blur around you.

You pulled back, breathless, your wide eyes meeting his. “What was that?” you asked, though your lips still tingled from the kiss.

“I-I don’t know,” Spencer stammered, just as stunned as you were. His thumb brushed your cheek as if trying to memorize the moment. “I just felt like… I needed to do that.”

A slow smile spread across your face. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

And before he could respond, you pulled him back in. This time, it wasn’t rushed. Your hands slipped around his neck, fingertips tangling in his hair as his lips met yours once more. He responded instantly, his body pressing closer, the kiss deepening. Your tongue traced along his, and a soft, quiet groan escaped him, a sound that made warmth coil low in your stomach.

You could’ve stayed like that forever. The way he held you, the way his mouth tasted like coffee and something distinctly Spencer, it all felt intoxicating.

But then you remembered, the kid you’re responsible for in the back of your car.

“Spencer,” you murmured against his lips, reluctantly pulling away. “I have to go.”

He nodded, his forehead resting against yours. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You smiled, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “If you’re free tonight… I’d love to come over. Maybe we can pick up where we left off.”

His eyes darkened just slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “I’m free.”

“Good.”

He stepped back, but not without stealing one last lingering glance. Ever the gentleman, he opened the car door for you, waiting as you slipped inside.

“Drive safe,” he said softly, his hand still resting on the doorframe. You gave him a playful wink. “I will.”

As you pulled out of the parking lot, Jack’s voice piped up from the backseat.

“Eww.”

You caught his grin in the rearview mirror and brought a finger to your lips. “Shhh.”

He burst into laughter, and despite the embarrassment, a giddy warmth settled in your chest. . .

hope you guys love this, it took so long to write but I’m glad it’s finally finished! Lmk your thoughts<3

Thank you to everyone who reposts, and leave kind messages, you guys are the reason I continue writing! I appreciate it so much!

Tag list

@alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings

Check out my other works here<3

[yoonbroom]

Daddy’s girl - S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

“Don’t walk away from me,” Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen like a gunshot. The team freezes. No one dares to look up from their desks—except the new agent recruit. Spencer Reid watches as the girl in the pleated skirt and pressed white blouse turns back slowly, mouth twisted in irritation. She looks like she walked straight out of a catalog for expensive private schools.

“I came by to say hi after class,” you snap, arms folded. “Sorry for existing, Dad.” Dad? Spencer blinks. That’s Hotch’s daughter?

Hotch steps forward, a calm rage simmering behind his eyes. “You charged nearly two thousand dollars on that card this week. I warned you. Five missed classes in one week and a bar tab that could fund a tactical op? You’re done.”

“That was for my thesis!” you cut in.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. “Give me the card.”

“No.”

“Now.” as he held his hand out sternly.

“You’re actually doing this in front of everyone?” you hiss, hopping off JJ’s desk. “Right now?”

His tone doesn’t shift. “Now.” You roll your eyes, with an exaggerated sigh, you yank the black AMEX from your bag and slap it into his palm.

He cuts it clean in half.

“Enjoy campus dining,” he says.

You glare at him. “I fucking hate you.”

“You’ll thank me someday,” Hotch says coolly.

You throw your hands up dramatically and spin on your heel to storm out, fury radiating off you like heat. But not before you pass Spencer’s desk—your eyes catch on the stack of neatly organized files beside his laptop. His poor, innocent desk. And with a perfectly manicured hand, you swipe your arm across it, sending the entire pile of case files flying like paper snowflakes. Hotch raises his voice once again, “If you walk out this building your going to be looking at more than just your card taken away—”

You don’t even glance back. “Don’t wait up, Dad!” you shout, You keep walking, one middle finger raised in the air, aimed squarely at your father. Spencer watches you disappear through the elevator doors, your skirt swinging, attitude on full display.

“Jesus Christ,” Reid says with his eyebrows raised. “Who?”

“That,” Morgan says, clapping him on the back, “was the princess.”

“She’s—?”

Hotch sighs and rubs his temples. “My daughter.”

Spencer frowns, still staring at the papers on the floor. “She knocked over my files.” Emily shrugs. “She once crashed her Porsche into Hotch’s SUV and blamed the parking lot security.” Morgan pats him on the shoulder, laughing. “Welcome to the BAU, rookie.” The team goes back to their work like this is normal—because it is. Except for Spencer, who’s still carefully re-stacking the files you knocked over, eyes darting toward Hotch’s office every few seconds like the man might implode. 2 minutes later, Hotch appears again. But this time, he’s got his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and that special kind of father-is-done-with-your-shit face.

“Garcia, if she tries to swipe her badge again, deactivate it,” he says as he strides past.

“On it, sir,” she says with a salute, but she’s smiling. Everyone is. They’ve seen this before.

Spencer watches, confused. “Where’s he going?”

Morgan grins. “You’re about to witness a tactical extraction of a different kind.”

“Extraction?” Spencer echoes.

“Yeah. Of his daughter’s attitude.”

Outside in the parking lot, your phone buzzes again. You don’t check it. You already know what it says. You’ve barely made it to your car—keys in hand, still fuming—when you hear the sharp, familiar sound of polished dress shoes striking concrete.

Shit. Shit. Shit. You don’t even have time to climb into the driver’s seat before your dad’s voice cuts through the parking garage like a warning shot.

“Don’t you dare get in that car.”

You freeze with the door halfway open.

“Dad—”

“Out.” His tone is clipped, controlled, and unmistakably pissed. “Now.”

You slam the car door shut and turn around dramatically, arms crossed, “I already left. I made my exit. That was the whole point.”

“You made a scene. You humiliated yourself. And you disrespected someone on my team who’s done nothing to deserve it.”

You roll your eyes. “God, I barely touched the files.”

Hotch doesn’t budge. “You knocked over a federal agent’s files and flipped me off in front of my team. You’re going to walk back inside and apologize like an adult. Get. Upstairs.”

You push off the car and strut past him, tossing over your shoulder, “But you’re not getting a thank you. I’m doing this under protest.” He exhales like he’s bargaining with God not to lose his temper.

Back in the bullpen, Spencer is still carefully re-stacking the files when he hears the elevator ding again. He looks up—expecting Garcia, maybe—but freezes when he sees you marching in behind Hotch, arms crossed, lips pursed, sunglasses still on like you’re shielding yourself from the humility of being dragged back.

The entire team watches in silence. You come to a stop in front of Reid. Your chin’s high, your tone flat. “I’m sorry I knocked over your files or whatever.”

Reid, stunned by your sudden change in demeanor blinks, “Oh. Uh—thank you. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” your dad says behind you. “Say it like you mean it.”

You groan, “I’m sorry,” you say, voice syrupy-sweet now. “I didn’t mean to take my daddy issues out on you, Doctor Reid.” Spencer’s eyes widen. His brain short-circuits. “Oh my God,” Morgan mutters under his breath, laughing. Garcia fans herself. “I can’t breathe.”

“Okay,” Hotch snaps, clearly at the edge of his sanity. “We’re done here. Go back to class.”

You flash a sugary smile. “Of course, Daddy. Love ya.” You start toward the elevator again, this time with a little bounce in your step, Just as the doors begin to close, you shoot Reid a parting glance, tilt your head innocently, and say “Nice cardigan, by the way.”

a/n: I had no business writing this but here we are

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[yoonbroom]

Love You More

As newlyweds, you and Spencer can’t hold back the urges of wanting each other at all times [ 6k ]

Includes female reader; husband Spencer, kinda unit chief Spencer if you’d like; smut (+18): phone sex; p in v unprotected sex; breeding kink; reader is loud and talkative; (and so is he); a bit rough but still sweet and domestic and fluffy bc am who I am; multiple orgasms; after care; discussing baby names; brief infertility talk; Diana and reader are besties. did I mention how domestic this is?

Totally self indulgent but also this is my appreciation post to the lovely @reidgif thank you Eva for always blessing us with the best Spence gifs to ever exist <33 we love you and appreciate you tons mwaahhh💋

A framed picture of you sat on his desk.

Your happiness radiated through and made him smile every time he looked at it, taking him back to that day so vividly—when he asked you to be his girlfriend, three years ago. You’d captured that moment on your phone without him noticing. (He rarely noticed anything around him when he was with you). It was the hug right after you said yes to his question—chin tucked over his shoulder and your smile slightly covered by a few pieces of his hair that flowed with the salty beach breeze. The beach has turned into one of his favorite places on earth since then. 

Now, as newlyweds, he thought of updating your picture, or finding a companion piece for it, and framing one of you from the day he asked you to marry him, to keep the tradition going. If he did that, though, he would also have to find one to put there from the day you got married, which could end up looking like an altar of you.

That wouldn’t be too bad considering he had his own office now. The shelves behind him were still pretty empty.

Spencer sighed as he glanced at your smile for another second, then went back to his paperwork. He flipped through endless pages, and his wedding band flashed under the lamplight every time.

“Still not used to it, huh?” Luke’s voice entered the office.

Spencer glanced up just to find Alvez leaning on the door frame, his eyes glancing down at Spencer’s hand. Only then he noticed he’d been rolling his ring with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” Spencer merely breathed out, rolling the ring once again.

“I meant the office,” Luke chuckled as he stepped in and looked around, one hand tucked in his pocket while with the other he adjusted his backpack’s strap over his shoulder. “Still a bit empty.”

“Garcia said she was gonna take care of it while I’m on my honeymoon, so it won’t be like this for too long.” Spencer gave him a tight-lipped smile as he nodded.

“Now that’s gonna be interesting,” Luke softly laughed. “Where are you guys going?”

“Uh, Spain,” Spencer said with amusement.

“Huh,” Luke smirked. “It was her decision, wasn’t it?”

“Like everything else, pretty much.” Spencer’s cheeks flushed. He was happy with anything as long as it made you happy.

“Well, let me know if you need some Spanish classes, te puedo enseñar algunas palabras.”

Spencer quirked his brows. His Rs were much slurred than Luke’s, but he still tried. “Gracias?”

Luke frowned his lips as in not bad, then added, “Alright, just wanted to stop by and say goodnight before heading out. You should go, too. You have a wife at home.”

Yes, he did, but unfortunately…

“I still have a few more things to do.” Spencer waved Luke goodbye.

A single ding coming from Spencer’s pocket got his attention. It was your signature message sound, so he squeezed his phone out without a second thought.

It was time for a short break, anyway.

Y/n (wife) sent a video

Spencer smiled before opening the message, bringing his mug with steaming coffee to his lips. He was waiting to see your beautiful face with one of your usual reports about how the remodeling of the house was going. He had to admit, he felt guilty that he couldn’t be there and work on it too, but Morgan offered to help (since the house was one of his few remodeling projects), so you weren’t entirely on your own on this.

The preview was blurry, and what started playing was not what he expected.

At all.

Your hand—the one with the wedding band—massaged your bare left breast and ended with you tweaking your nipple and stretching it out.

The video lasted just five seconds, yet it was enough for his body to react almost immediately. Blood rushed to his cheeks, neck, and groin in an instant.

All while he spilled some coffee over his lap, choked on his last sip, and coughed most of it all over his paperwork.

“Shit,” he barely managed to breathe out between more short hitched coughs.

Ding!

Y/n (wife): Are you coming home soon? I miss you :(

God, you were the death of him.

He glanced down at his pants, then at the open door, and rushed to close it—lock it—and drew down the blinds.

His phone rang. 

Y/n (Wife) is calling…

His thumb hovered over the green button until the third ring as he cleared out his throat to speak properly.

Still, his voice came out tight and slightly panicked. “You can’t just do that.” 

Your devilish and adorable laugh tickled his ear.

“Hi, handsome. Did you like it?”

“Y-yeah, of course I liked it.” He cleared his throat yet again. He was madly obsessed with you. ”You look, god, you’re so beautiful, but I’m at work, wha-what if someone else saw it?!”

“I’d say they’re very lucky because one of those can be very expensive.”

As soon as he heard your tone, his demeanor changed, and his choked-up breathing came back to normal. He glided his fingers through the blinds just enough to peek outside.

Everyone was gone, so there was no need to panic, yet he said, “Stop it.”

And you completely ignored him. “Where are you now?” 

“My office.” He matched your tone.

“Look at you, so official now. I should surprise you one of these days so we can fuck on your desk,” you said and the mere thought of doing that fueled something in him. ”Would you bend me over and fuck me from behind?”

He didn’t answer right away as the image of him doing exactly what you’d said popped into his head. He’d love that, actually, sweeping everything out of his desk, bending you over, spreading your legs open as he undid his belt, dragging your pants down to your ankles…

“You know I’d much rather see your face,” he said. “And kiss your pretty mouth while we fuck.”

Every time, he let you know how much he enjoyed seeing every single expression of yours as he plunged into you.

Let me see your face

God, you’re beautiful

Show me your smile

There she is

“Is that a yes, then?” You challenged him.

Spencer paced toward his desk and leaned on it, facing the door just in case. “I can’t promise you we’ll fuck because you’re so loud.” He smiled to himself. “You could get me in trouble, but we can definitely do something, yeah.” 

“Would it be okay if I showed up one of these days unannounced?”

“So many questions,” he said through a soft laugh, almost to himself, then continued, “I, uh, yeah. Yes, you can always visit me. Whenever you want, just… don’t forget the condoms. We don’t want to get messy here. And I don’t think it would be appropriate if I kept some in my drawer.”

“And if I forget them on purpose?”

“You’ll have to use your mouth to get rid of the evidence,” he responded without hesitation.

You’d polished this side of him. So openly unbrazen to say out loud all of his darkest thoughts. 

Your provocative yet shy laugh softened him everywhere. “I’d be happy to.”

“I know you would.”

This wasn’t the first time you’d teased him during working hours, but it usually was when he was away for a few days and when you knew he was alone in a hotel room where he could peacefully take care of himself. And since the first time you did it, he learned what you liked and why you did it. You were frustrated, and you missed him and needed him to help you get off in one way or another. 

“Was that a recent video?” He asked. 

“Yeah, you think I pre-record videos?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should.” He teased you. “Are you still naked?”

“Mmm, almost. I’m wearing one of your shirts.”

Of course, you were, and you sounded so needy.

“Would you do something for me?” He reached for the picture at his desk and turned it so it’d face him. There was your smile. Your so beautiful smile that lit up every place you walked into. Even the most somber corners of his mind.

“Mhm.”

“Where are you now?” He asked, just to picture you better.

“Couch. Watching a movie.”

“Turn the volume down.”

The background sounds faded, and then it was just you, your breathing, and him.

“I wanna… talk to you about something.”

He didn’t, but his focus on finishing his paperwork was wholly gone, and since you became a part of his life, he promised himself you’d be at the top of his list, always. So he had to distract you to gain some time and get home as soon as possible because you needed him.

“Oh, okay?” 

“Remember the last time we fucked on our couch?” He asked.

He sandwiched his phone between his shoulder and ear and was quiet to gather his things—the reports he was now going to finish at home.

“You mean last night?”

“Last night, yeah,” he sweetly replied.

Last night was glorious. You’d decided to take the next step. Or at least, put a tentative date about when you could start trying to get pregnant. He still refused to finish inside you (despite you being on birth control), but he fucked you with the idea of beginning a family with you at that exact moment.

You had moaned his name until your mouth went dry and came around his cock four times. 

You just… Couldn’t. Stop. Coming.

He could still feel the ghost of your throbbing cunt around him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget last night.” You sighed.

Everything he needed was inside his messenger bag, so Spencer locked his office from the outside and hurriedly strolled to the elevator as he kept talking. “Me neither.”

“I… touched myself when I woke up this morning without you, you know, thinking about last night.”

“You did?” Spencer said before putting himself on mute for a moment just before the elevator dinged open. He entered it and pressed the button that would take him to the parking garage.

“I don’t know what it is, but every time you’re away I… I touch myself thinking about you…” Your voice was shy as you continued to tell him about your fantasy. He was two floors away from his stop. “Baby? You still there?”

Come on, come on, he muttered to himself, staring at the changing numbers.

2

1

-1

Yes!

“Even after we started dating,” he spoke immediately, sliding between the opening doors, then muted himself again. He took long, long steps toward his car, and after he swiftly got in, he turned the key. He hoped the purr inside wasn’t too loud as he put you on speaker.

“Oh, god, yes,” your voice filled the air of his car, and he already knew this was going to be a fun ride home.

“You’ve never told me that before.” He replied once he unmuted himself for good and started his journey back to you. He gripped the steering wheel tight. 

“I know. I… I would even touch myself thinking of you, come with you in my mind before our dates.”

So he didn’t imagine that scent when he kissed your knuckles on those first dates. It drove him crazy—your pheromones—and forced him to jerk off as soon as he got home. 

He hadn’t confessed that to you yet. But maybe it was time.

“That’s— wow, I didn’t know that.” He stopped at a red light and took the chance to untighten his pants by the crotch. Blood had been rushing through his erection since the video you sent him, and the more you talked… it just kept on growing. 

“I know, crap, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I thought it could be hot, but now I’m mortified.” You muffled yourself against something. “Why do you sound weird? Distant. Am I on speaker?”

“No! No, just… bad signal.” He swept your thoughts away. He couldn’t let you feel this way when he’d done the exact same. “What if I told you I did the same thing?” Your reply was a sigh. “Not before our dates but definitely after. I- I would picture you there in my bed, or in the shower, and I just… had to.”

You said something out of breath, then, “And you looked so innocent.” 

Spencer smirked to himself. “I never was.”

“Yeah, I know, you proved it to me. Many times.” Your smile was so present through those words… “Would you tell me how you did it? What… you did?”

His mind went straight to the first time he did it, and he had no trouble telling you all about it.

“It was… after our second date,” he confessed, then went on, in no hurry, as he kept on driving. “The night of our first kiss. When we agreed to take things slowly yet you still sat on my lap to kiss me. And we kissed, all night, just to kiss each other. You tangled your fingers in my hair, and I hoped you couldn’t feel how hard your kisses made me. How all of you had me. It was a cold night, but it felt like summer inside. I- I still feel awful for not staying that night as you’d asked me to, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready to have you like that, but then, when I got home, I got in the shower and my mind went somewhere. A moment we hadn’t had yet but knew would happen eventually. I pictured you there with me, and I was already hard but wanting you there with me…” he trailed off as he heard you curse under your breath. 

“Keep going, baby,” you said, and he smirked. 

So he kept going. 

“I… hesitated at first. You were the one good thing happening to me at that time, and I didn’t want to… stain you by objectifying you, but before I knew it, I was stroking myself. And it felt good. So good,” he almost whispered. 

He was good at this. He knew he was so he kept going, telling you all about that first time he touched himself thinking about you. 

The usual fourteen-minute quiet drive turned into 9 minutes of not-so-usual dirty talking, and soon, he was walking through the door of his home with the phone call still ongoing.

It smelled brand new. Like paint and wood and incense. 

You were supposed to be here on the first floor, in the living room, but you must’ve moved to the bedroom at some point because he didn’t find you there.

“…my god, f-fuck.” Your heavy breathing echoed between his ear and phone.

You’d given him a clear sign that you’d finished one time already—sweet, sweet moans filled his car a few minutes ago, and he had to make a quick stop at the side of the road or else he would’ve crashed—and now you were going for a second one. And he was right there to help you through it. 

From the empty living room, he heard your blissful noises and he followed them upstairs, bewitched by your voice. 

The call remained ongoing, but his phone was long forgotten in his pocket. Your harsh breathing was closer and closer with each step, and once he reached the bedroom, he stayed by the door. Inside his home, he allowed himself to be like this: a pervert, sometimes, he admitted. But it’s what you liked and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this, too.

The door was cracked open, and he peeked through to delight himself with the view. He had to muffle a long sigh, but his face flickered with immediate pleasure. Brows melting, bottom lip tucked between his teeth, nostrils flared ever so slightly.

There you were, lying on your stomach in the middle of the bed, naked from the waist down with his shirt riding up your back as if you’d stopped yourself from taking it off, legs spread open and a pillow between them. You were grinding it in perfect, short and controlled rocking motions. Back and forth. Side to side.

You whimpered against the mattress. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come again I—“

His cock throbbed. Jolted inside his pants, and his hand went there to calm the swelling.

“I need you so badly,” you breathed out. “So, so—“ your hips stuttered and began to roll and rub against the pillow until you released all the pleasure you’d been building.

Shit, he muttered to himself. 

He needed you, too. 

Reaching for his phone without tearing his eyes off you, he murmured, “You do?” quietly enough, pushing the door open with one finger and putting one foot inside, then another,  as he walked inside stealthily like the perfect intruder. 

He didn’t want to scare you, but also didn’t want to spoil the surprise, so he remained out of your possible eye range, by the end of the bed, and god, this point of view was so much better. You were something else like this. So immersed in your pleasure that you still hadn’t heard him coming inside.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, now loud enough for you to hear. 

But you didn’t. You were drowning in bliss; your hips never lost rhythm, riding the pillow, and your eyes remained closed, a slight frown over your brows and an exquisite smile.

That sight. He needed to fuck you right there. 

Without a second thought he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants with one hand while he stretched his other arm and reached for your ass, giving your right ass cheek a tight squeeze to finally let you know he was there. 

You gasped, and your eyes fluttered open, ready to stand up and fight whoever came here without a warning, but the moment you realized it was him—

“Baby,” you breathed out and let your body fall onto the bed with relief. “I thought– I– my heart almost gave out.” You then laughed a little.

Spencer walked to your side, leaned to kiss your temple and squeezed your ass one more time, murmuring in your ear, “Hi sweetheart, stay right there for me, yeah? Don’t move.”

All you did was nod. Willing to let him handle you however the fuck he wanted.

He took off all of his clothes right there and settled on the bed behind you, with his knees at either side of your hips, stroking his still growing erection to become fully hard when entering you.

You adjusted the pillow underneath you for support to keep your hips up and wiggled your ass onto him, using your hands to spread your cheeks open for him. 

So damn inviting.

“Jesus Christ.” He stared and gulped and kept staring, and his mouth watered. 

You were so ready for him. Wet and puffy. But he tortured himself for a moment, and instead of slipping his cock right in, he let it hover over your ass, smacking each cheek with it persistently, creating a sinful sound in the dimly lit up room. 

These bed lamps were new.

“Spencer, baby, please.” You lifted your ass towards him and blindly reached for his erection, but he pinned your hand close to your hip. You closed it into a defeated fist.

It was time to torture you now and let the tip of his cock simmer between your folds. Nestled there. Slippery and warm and soft. His hips stuttered instinctively and he almost slipped in, the gentle squeeze of the entrance of your cunt giving him a loving kiss. 

Always looking down, Spencer decided there was no point in holding back anymore and slowly–so very slowly–pushed his hips forward, delighting himself with the view of his cock being swallowed up. His gaze flickered up at your face then, that gorgeous needy face, and kept his eyes trained on you until he was fully inside. You angled your face toward your shoulder, shooting him a glance through fluttering lashes and a drunken smile. 

You bit your lip. “I think ‘m gonna come already, f–uck.” You tightened your walls around him and motioned your hips in a way that withdrew some of his erection and bent it slightly downward. Then you did it again, and your cunt began to pulse ardently. 

“Shit.” Spencer held onto you, hissed between clenched teeth, one hand tight on your hip while the other still held your hand in place by the wrist, now closer to your back.

It felt too good. You felt so damn good, and an early flutter grew in his balls and lower stomach, all while you turned into a whiny, moaning turmoil under him. Ever smiling. 

Right then, as you used his cock, all he could focus on was not coming just yet even though small drops started to drip out of the tip, but the pleasure snowballed too quickly for him to stop it. Spencer groaned, weakened, and let his body fall over yours, his hips just pressing and pressing against your ass desperately as you sucked everything out of him. Spurts of cum shot inside you with each jolt of his cock, and as his body naturally did that, the deliberate part of him searched for your hands and locked his fingers with yours, tight, pressing them on your sides and his lips and nose hovering along your jaw.

“That’s it, baby, come inside me, yes, yes, y-yes,” you encouraged him, and he grunted some more. “That’s so good, you feel so good, give it to me, please, please f-fuck!” Your voice went high-pitched, loud as you ever were, and he was sure you were coming again–pulsating and pulsating around his erection.

“Show me your face,” he whispered breathlessly at the back of your head and slammed into you. You cried out as an instant response. “Let me see your smile.” He slammed into you again, and harder. You turned your head, gluing your chin to your shoulder. He licked your earlobe, dragged his lips to the underside of your chin, then to your lips, capturing them into an open-mouthed kiss. You whined into it and glared at him from up close, nose to nose, and smiled sweetly. 

Every part of him softened with love. 

“There she is.” He smiled, too. “There’s my girl.”

“I love you so much, baby.” You breathed out.

Sweet nothings slipped through his lips to your skin about how much he loved you too, how good you felt, how good you were to him, and he stayed there, intentionally twitching his cock inside you as another way of showing you his love.

After a moment, he gave you one last messy kiss and straightened up with a grunt, allowing his cock to slip out. His cum dripped out of you like melting caramel, cascading down to the pillow that was so flattened out now, there was no purpose for it anymore. He yanked it out, tossed it to the floor, and snatched you close by your hips to lift them up, ready to go for a second round. A single spank there on your cheek to let you know that this was still going. 

You’ve trained him for this—coming multiple times in a row. It was torture the first few times (a good kind of torture, of course, one he much enjoyed), then it was the only way sex always went. Finishing once, then coming back inside you for a second one and third, giving his cock no chance to soften. 

No exceptions.

He used his own cum as lube, smearing it all over—up to your clit, between your swollen folds and back to your opening. Pushed the tip in, then drilled into you. Fuck, you were somehow tight now, sensitive by your many orgasms most likely, but you gave him no sign of discomfort. Instead, you took the lead and withdrew to slam back onto him, ready to keep going, too. 

Then he continued. The globes of your ass bounced and smacked against his lower stomach with each new thrust and this desperate rapped out cadence had his thighs stinging. But it was thrilling, so exquisite it went on for a long while, and you never ceased to let him know how much you were enjoying this. Moaning, whining, gripping the bed covers, and every once in a while reaching for the hand holding onto you.

Until you got tired from being with your face pressed down to the mattress.

There was no need to vocalize any of it, and agreed with a glance followed by a kiss that it was time to change positions. 

With even more kisses in between, Spencer lay down with his upper back pressed to the headboard and made himself more comfortable with a few pillows behind him, ready to have you riding him. You finally took off your shirt and settled on top of him. He couldn’t help but sit up right to take one of your breasts into his mouth, just to show you how much he loved them. Nuzzled his nose into your flesh while you sank into his erection. He hummed around your nipple and wrapped his arms around you into a hug to bring you with him as he settled back. 

“I’m gonna move fast, baby, I need to thrust so badly.”

“Go ahead,” he replied, peeling off your breast and looking up at you.

You were beautiful like this, in charge yet so cock-drunk.

You supported both hands under his ribs, not quite pressing but rather holding onto him, and did as you’d said—as you’d warned him. The prowess of your hips turned him into a groaning chaos. His feet tensed and his thighs clenched and unclenched trying to hold it together, but fuck, you were so good at this.

“You’re so h-hard, Spence, fuck.” Your eyes fluttered closed and bit your bottom lip through a smile and little laugh. 

So good, so fucking good, so hard, baby, you continued to praise him through clenched teeth.

He was, he so fucking was, it was a matter of a few more thrusts that he came again. 

His face twitched with the almost unbearable pleasure you were giving him, bouncing your ass up and down and giving him rolling motions in between that allowed your cunt to wrap around every curve of his cock. 

“’m gonna come again mm—!” Your cunt tightened and stayed tight while you kept moving, then those familiar pulses caressed his erection. “My god, you feel so fucking good, so b-big.”

Your hips lost rhythm, only spasmed persistently, but kept his cock curved in the way you so much liked and as you kept moving, you went silent. Focused. Eyes closed, brows low. Shaky breaths caged on your throat.

“That’s it, use my cock,” Spencer encouraged you. His mouth was dry.

Then you released it. All at once. A shaky yelp, relaxed and silky cunt. “Oh, sh-shit, baby, I’m coming, y-yess!” 

So was he. Fuck fuck fuck he was so close to coming too. He loved it when this magical synchronization happened. 

“Don’t stop,” he breathed out. He needed to come with you, so he built his pleasure some more by taking you in, all of you, and chased it and began to express it before it struck him fully. With short breathless groans and loving kisses on your arms, now that you were holding onto him by his sweaty shoulders. “Don’t stop, feels so good.”

Your voices blended together in the air and soon, your orgasms did, too.

“fucking god.” Spencer groaned, staring down at where your bodies met. 

His hands roamed across your sides, from your ribs to your hips and thighs then back to your ass and the arch of your back.

“One more, baby. You can come once more for me,” you told him, cupping his jaw. “Yeah? You just feel so good, I don’t want this to end.”

He knew he had it in him. A third one, it was right there even when he was barely out of the second one. 

Baby, please, you begged next to his ear.

Yeah, he definitely had a third one.

He harshly handled you so you’d be lying down instead, and he settled between your legs, entered you and ruthlessly pounded into you, mouths clasped together as you both moaned into each other, sharing a single, agitated breath. 

“Yes, yes, yes baby!” you cried out. “Come in me again.” 

Spencer tucked his face on your neck, blindly hooked his arms under your thighs to bend your legs and bring them up and with his eyes closed he still pictured you, as if he wasn’t right there on your arms. 

“Ah, sweetheart,” Spencer exhaled a groan. “You make me crazy.” He then hummed and nibbled your neck and spoke into your hot skin. “So fucking crazy.”

“Kiss me,” you breathed out. “Keep talking to me.” Spencer lifted his face from your neck and glued his lips to yours. “Like this, yeah.” 

You swept your tongue along his and as he kept plunging into you, in and out, creating a wet mess between your bodies, he said, “I want to get you pregnant so bad.”

“Yeah?” you replied, so damn whiny.

“Yeah, baby.” Spencer tugged your bottom lip between gentle teeth and morphed it into a kiss. His balls tightened; his cock spasmed. “Ah, fuck, there it is. I’m c-coming again.” 

“Yes, baby, do it, come inside me, please.”

Come in me, you repeated, and he clung into your embrace, thrusting and thrusting and groaning until he released inside you through a low and deep grunt that you gladly kissed and moaned into, too. Then the pleasure ripped through him so hard it almost jumped through his skin. 

There was nothing left inside him anymore. He felt drained in the most exhilarating way, so he stayed there in your arms for a moment. You gently tapped his arm so he’d let your legs go, and you relaxed them right away. Your muscles were trembling.  

“That was so good, baby.” You panted, and clammed your cunt around him as you adjusted your body under him. While still inside you, Spencer kissed your neck then brought his mouth to your lips. Your hands traveled to the back of his neck and pulled him closer to receive his lazy kisses with much more strength. “Thank you.” 

You then peppered kisses all over his sweaty face, which gave him enough fuel to move a little, falling on your side at last.

He took the longest, joyful breath.

“Tired?” You asked him.

You were quick to reach for wipes and began to clean yourself and him. An excess of cum pooled around his now softer cock and with so much care, you cleaned it all. 

“Sleepy,” he replied, and continued cleaning himself with another wipe as his eyes closed. His voice was barely there.

“Do you need something?” You pecked the corner of his mouth.

“I’m good.” He shook his head.

“‘Kay.” You kissed him again. “I’ll be right back.” 

You slipped from his side with a huff. An exhausted huff. He squinted one eye open to get a glimpse of you, and your legs wobbled as you bent to pick up something. He couldn’t hold back a mocking laugh.

You laughed along, shooting him a teasing smile. “You’re proud, aren’t you?”

“Mhm I am.” He raised his brows at you. 

His breathing was more regulated when you came back from the bathroom break. Still naked, you joined him in bed again, lying on your stomach.

Just to stare at him.

And play with his hair.

And steal some kisses.

“What did you do today?” He asked you, turning to face you. His hand mindlessly went to your back, and caressed you along your spine with his fingers with feather-light glides.

“I went tile shopping with Derek.” You brushed a piece of hair away from his forehead. “A cream tone for the kitchen and a light blue for the guest bathroom. Savannah and little Hank joined us for lunch, then I came back to paint the kitchen cabinets.” You then sweetly shrugged.

“Sage green?” His hand stopped briefly.

Your face lit up. “How do you know?” 

“I know things,” he said with a cocky grin and continued his motions along your back. He just saw the paint in the living room. “What else did you do?”

“I talked to Diana.”

“I called her today, too,” he raised his brows at the coincidence. 

“Well, she called me.” You countered with slight humor. “I thought she’d gotten the numbers mixed up, but she didn’t.” 

The proud look on your face was… endearing. 

“And what did she say?”

“She was wondering when I was going to visit her.”

“She didn’t ask about me?” He asked, mildly offended.

You shook your head and didn’t give him much time to think of it as you continued, “So, I was thinking, after Spain, we can make a stop in Vegas for a few days?”

“I like that, yeah.”

“And did you tell her, perhaps, about us and babies?”

“I don’t think so.” He quirked his brows. “Why?”

“She hinted at something, but maybe I’m thinking too much of it.”

“Tell me.”

You held the thought for a second, your eyes wandering around to explain, “She told me about how this woman from her home had a son and that he’d recently brought his newborn baby to meet her. She said how she could almost picture you doing the same someday.” You shrugged. “Then proceeded to say how the baby’s cry annoyed her.”

A heartily laugh rolled from his chest. 

This, knowing how his mom called you to just chat, was a dream come true. 

“Anyway, I don’t know why I asked her if she knew the baby’s name, but she didn’t, which made me think of baby names. For our future baby.” 

Spencer leaned and teased you by your ear. “You did?”

“Mhm.” You nodded. “I don’t know why, but I feel like… We’ll have a girl first.”

First. So you wanted more than one.

His chest fluttered. “And what’s her name?”

“You’re gonna laugh.” You covered your face with your palms.

“Tell me.” He reached for your fingers and gently peeled one hand away, bringing it to his lips. To kiss you. To nibble you.

“Sage.” You said, and your eyes glimmered. “I saw the name when I was searching for paint colors and something about it felt… right.”

“Sage,” he said in deep thought.

“Mhm. Sage Reid. Or Scout. I like that one too. Or Sadie. Definitely a name that starts with an S.” You drew lines over his chest. “I really like your initials.”

Spencer planted a kiss on your cheek and spoke right there with his lips brushing over your skin. “She could have my initials, but I’m sure she’ll have your eyes.”

You hummed, then something in you shifted.

“Spence, what if… we struggle to get pregnant?”

He frowned, pulling back to stare and try to read you. Something told him this uncertainty has been there for a while.

“Is this something you think about a lot?”

“No?” You frowned. “Not a lot, but it’s definitely a thought, I guess.”

“We’re not in a rush.” He lifted one hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek. “So, I don’t think struggle is a word if it takes us a while.”

“Yeah.” You let out a long sigh and snuggled into his embrace, one leg propped over his. “Do you think it’s late?”

“It was late when I left the office, so probably.” A soft kiss on the top of your head. “Why?”

“I haven’t eaten.” You grumbled. “And I have to shower, again.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said, kissing your temple. “Let’s shower first, then we’ll make something to eat.” You groaned again in protest. “Just stand there. I’ll soap up your gorgeous body.”

“And wash my hair?” You lifted your head to look at him.

“Double shampooing if you want.”

Eva if you made it to the end, I know it’s not exactly what we once talked about, but this was the result 🥹 I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless 💋

Dear reader, please don't hesitate to let me know what you thinkkkk. I'd love to read all of your thoughts

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTRELIST

[yoonbroom]

➳ THE SOUND OF HEARTBREAK — S.R

to nav 𓇙 to s.r mlist

spencer reid x soft!bimbo!reader

in which, for all your love, you just can’t compare to the most beautiful girl in the world

wc: 13.5k (woah)

warnings: post maeve arc (so spoilers for 8×10 - 8×12), heavy angst, but so so much love and fluff before it! im picturing this taking place between s8 and s9 lol. also some of the bau aren’t like. super nice in this one soz :/

a/n: don’t stress abt the ending too much bc im already planning a part two (tbh a whole saga around these two icl). also yeah if u can’t tell, i don’t really like maeve im so sorry. i don’t think i do her any injustice here but this is like. me fixing stuff. sorta. kinda. not really. mostly just painfully. :,) also omg reblogs?! best part of my day fr

“Just as one day we will be separated by my death or yours. I know this must seem like a heaping up of obscurities to you. I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.” -Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago.

The living room is quiet.

Spencer’s apartment is always quiet, peaceful, warm. How could it not be, surrounded by books you’d never heard of, shelves that reach the ceiling and lined edge-to-edge with copies of novels that are older than you, in languages you can’t begin to comprehend?

The chess table is still set up, mid-game, from where Spencer had been teaching you how to play the other day. He’d gotten a call from his boss that he had to come in, and Spencer had stared at the board for no more than a moment before saying you could continue once he was back, then he pressed a kiss to the space between your eyebrows—your glabella, as he had once mentioned—before rushing out the door.

It still feels strange, being in his apartment without him here. But he had called you from the jet on his way back, and asked if you’d be home when he got back. He sounded so sleepy, so sweet, you couldn’t help the murmur of assent from spilling from your lips.

He’d only given you a key a week ago, and you were beyond shocked when he had pressed it into your hand, the metal digging into your palm. This, between you, was still so new, so young. But he’d assured you that he trusted you, that he always wanted you around, that you having a key to his home wasn’t a matter of if, only when, and he’d prefer not to waste unnecessary time.

It’s late when the door opens.

Spencer is quiet when he enters, expecting to see you either curled up on his couch or lying asleep in his bed, but instead, you’re standing at one of his bookshelves, your hand outstretched to reach at the higher shelves.

He’s a bit surprised. The top three shelves on that unit are all foreign novels, ones he’s collected from his youth. Latin, German, Russian, Korean, and even a couple of thick Spanish texts that he used mostly to continue learning the language.

You’re silent, not even turning your head to acknowledge his presence, and Spencer wonders if you’ve even heard the door at all.

“Angel?” he prompts, causing your head to whip to the left so quickly he’s momentarily concerned you’ve given yourself whiplash. You tear yourself away from the shelf immediately, like the surface itself has burned you, and Spencer pauses. “You okay? You didn’t even hear me come in.”

You just nod, jerkily, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. “I was just looking,” you tilt your head to the shelf and shrug, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands and crossing your arms over your chest. “Sorry.”

Spencer shakes his head, hanging up his messenger bag and coat on the hook by the door. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says, coming closer to you. “Are you curious about them? You can borrow a few, if you want.” He sits on the couch carefully, like he knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You shake your head with a sigh, glancing back over at his stacks of novels. “That’s alright, Spence.” He pats the cushion next to him and you seat yourself slowly onto the cool leather, crossing your legs under yourself. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d get it anyway.”

Spencer furrows his brows. “I’m sure you would, actually. There’s no reason why you couldn’t, unless it was a language you don’t understand. But even then,” he tilts his head, scooching ever so slightly closer to you. “I can still read them to you.”

You sigh softly. “I know, honey. You know I love it when you read to me,” the corner of your lips twitch up, and it makes a slow grin pull at Spencer’s cheeks. “How was the case, anyway?”

Spencer shrugs. “Fine, as usual. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway.” He rests his arm over the back of the couch, a silent beckon for you to curl into him like usual. “I’m home now. With you,” he presses the softest of kisses to your hairline. “Are you tired?”

You shake your head, “Not really. I’m sure you are, though. Want me to start the kettle?” Spencer can’t help the nod—he is tired. Exhausted, even. You just smile at him before standing and padding to the kitchen and turning on the stove, setting the metal kettle on the burner.

He hears the cabinets open and the sound of ceramic being placed on granite. You’re quietly humming to yourself, and Spencer closes his eyes. It’s nice, so domestic in a way he hadn’t expected. You peek your head around the corner for a moment. “Lavender or peppermint?”

He smiles, all warm and soft. “Lavender, please.”

You nod once, your head hiding behind the wall again before you peek back out. “Maybe take a shower, honey. It’ll help you relax, y’know,” you grin, teasing at him. “The tea’ll be done when you are.”

Spencer’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, watching you turn back to the kitchen. He stands with a sigh before heading into his bedroom to grab pyjamas and a towel, then into the bathroom where he leaves the door open, just a crack.

You take the kettle off the burner before it has a chance to whistle, not wanting to disturb this quiet, peaceful comfort that has settled into the cozy warmth of your boyfriend’s apartment. You make his tea exactly how he likes it; black, with no less than four sugars.

You hear the water from the shower shut off just as you’re bringing the mugs to the coffee table—on coasters, cute little pastel ceramic ones shaped like fruit slices. You’d bought them at a flea market downtown years ago, and when you saw that he didn’t have any, despite all the coffee and tea he drinks, you didn’t hesitate to bring them over.

They might look slightly out of place in this warm, cozy place, but, well… Maybe you have that in common.

The bedroom door creaks open before you have the chance to spiral too far. Spencer emerges in a loose-fitting MIT tee and sweatpants. He meanders slowly to the couch before flopping down and grabbing his mug—his usual one, with “think like a proton, they’re always positive!” faded on the side. It’s starting to chip, but he got it for free at a physics convention in Anaheim back when he attended Caltech, and it’s been a memento since.

He smiles as he picks it up off the bright coaster before looking at you. He nods towards the bookshelf you were staring at earlier. “Can you grab that red one for me, angel?” he gestures to a large leather-bound hardcover on the second shelf.

You nod and reach up to grab it. It’s heavier than you’d expected, but you take it to the couch before curling into Spencer’s side.

This has become routine every night you spend here. You make tea, and Spencer reads to you on the couch until you’re either both passed out or too tired to continue, before heading to bed.

You get comfortable, pulling your knees to your chest as he covers you both with the plush throw blanket he keeps on the back of the couch. Spencer clears his throat before starting to read, flipping to some random page in the middle of the book. You don’t question it, just close your eyes and rest your head on his chest.

His voice is low, quiet as he begins to read. You’ve already begun to drift off by the time you start to register the words he’s saying. They’re not from anything he’s ever read to you before.

“I felt a mortal pity for the boy I was, and still more pity for the girl you were. My whole being was astonished and asked: If it’s so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love. ‘Here at last I’ve spoken it out. It could make you lose your mind. And the whole of me is in it.’”

You sit up, peering at the pages that Spencer’s eyes are trained on. You can’t hold back the way your breath catches.

“Spence, what is this?” Your brows furrow as you sit up fully, removing yourself from the warmth of his embrace. You wrap the throw blanket around your shoulders tightly.

He glances up from the book. “Doctor Zhivago,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. At your slightly raised brows, he continues. “It’s a Russian romantic novel by poet and composer Boris Pasternak. It was first published in 1957, and—”

“No, I mean, what is that?” You shake your head, pointing at the page.

Spencer’s brow furrows. “The language? This is Cyrillic. It’s the Russian alphabet, and—”

You cut him off again. “I know what Cyrillic is, Spencer.” You can’t hide the bite in your voice. “I meant, what- how- why are you reading it in Russian?”

He shrugs, closing the cover softly. “I have both the original Russian and the English translation, but I prefer this version. The translation makes it clunky, it doesn’t get the tone quite right.”

You just blink at him. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian,” you whisper, curling deeper into the blanket. You hate this, the feeling of inadequacy that comes so frequently from being with a man like Dr. Spencer Reid.

He sets the book down on the coffee table. “I don't, actually. I can read it, though.” He glances sidelong at you. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You shake your head, finally looking at him. “No, of course not, honey. I just,” you sigh. “I don’t know. I feel like I can’t keep up with you sometimes.”

All the time.

Spencer purses his lips. “Well, I don’t need you to. Frankly, I don’t really want you to.”

And that gives you pause. “Really?”

He nods, reaching for you, and you allow him to cradle you in his lap again. “Really. This might come as a bit of a surprise, angel,” he grins, “but I do like you.”

Your face goes warm. You press your cheek into his chest. “I know.” It’s quiet, a murmur, a whisper.

Spencer presses a feather-light kiss to your head. It’s late and quiet and calm, and you’re so warm, cuddled into him and under this plush blanket, that it takes no time at all until you’re fast asleep.

The sun wakes you before you’re quite ready, the bright rays shining on your face.

You’re still curled into Spencer’s chest, his legs stretched out along the length of the couch, whereas you know it’ll hurt to stand after having your knees tucked up all night. The blanket is still wrapped around you, the warmth more suffocating than comforting now, but the weight of his arm slung around your waist is a welcome one.

You peer your head up to look at him, to take him in, in this peaceful state of relaxation. You love this part, when you wake before him and he doesn’t turn his face away when you admire him.

His face is smushed into the throw pillow, his hair wild and messy, thrown every which way like a halo around his head. He’s snoring so softly you can barely hear it, but you do, because there’s nothing about this man you can’t notice.

You try to ignore the tug in your chest. It almost hurts. He looks so peaceful and happy and loved, so relaxed in this sleepy state of the early morning. You almost feel guilty for the thoughts that run wild in your head. How is this real? How is he real? How the hell do you fit into this world—his world—full of chess and tea and comfort and Russian poetry and genius minds?

But then he stirs, and his arm instinctively tightens its hold on your waist, his large hand splaying out over your back. He stretches slightly and, before he even opens his eyes, there’s a smile on his lips.

“Morning, angel.”

Your heart stutters wildly in your chest. You almost feel like bursting into tears right there, collapsing into his chest and letting him comfort you in that way you know he will. But you swallow it back. Just smile at the dopey look on his face, his eyes still shut.

You press the softest of kisses to his cheek, and maybe it’s your mind, but you swear he looks confused for a moment, his brows pulling together as he inhales, his nose at your neck.

It’s your mind. It has to be; your feelings of inadequacy are making you paranoid. “How’d you sleep, baby?” you murmur, your lips brushing his cheek before you pull away.

Then he opens his eyes, his honey-brown irises taking you in so sweetly, scanning over your face as a soft smile overtakes his lips. “Best sleep I’ve gotten in a long while,” he grins, pressing a peck at your lips. “Do you want any coffee?”

You nod, allowing him to crawl out from under you and stand from the couch. He pads into the kitchen, leaving you with your mugs from last night and the red leather hardcover of Doctor Zhivago. You soften immediately. Spencer was reading you poetry. He’d never done that before, read anything romantic. Usually, he read something you were at least familiar with, the classics, stuff you somewhat remember reading in high school. But this warms your heart so much you swear it’ll melt right there in your chest, drip down your ribs like sticky-sweet honey.

You stand, stretching out your legs, and pick up the mugs before bringing them to the kitchen. Spencer’s standing at the counter, his back to you, his hands bracing the edge of the counter. You set the mugs down in the sink and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his back. “You okay, honey?”

Spencer nods, placing his hands over yours where they lay on his front. “I’m fine, angel. You can leave the mugs, I’ll wash them. Did you want to shower?”

You hum, pulling away from the hug but maintaining your hold on his hand. “Sure. Did you wanna join me?” you grin, “y’know, save water, and all that?”

Spencer’s neck flushes red, and he swallows harshly. “Not right now, sweetheart. But go ahead, take your time.” He gives your palm a squeeze when you pout. “Your coffee will be done by the time you’re back, and I don’t have to go in to work. Not unless I get a call.” He smiles when your face brightens. “So we’ll have the day, okay?”

You nod, a grin wide across your lips before you’re bouncing off to his bedroom. He hears the shower turn on a moment later, and he sighs heavily as he turns on the sink to wash the mugs.

Spencer can’t stop the quirk of his lips as he stares at your mug for a moment—a cute, bright pink one, tapered at the top like an upside-down strawberry. He takes extra care as he washes it, making sure to get soapy water around all of the molded leaves and seeds.

He exhales as he sets it aside. Runs a damp hand down his face. He needs to collect himself, but god, it’s so hard when he swears she’s hovering over his shoulder.

Spencer’s reading silently on the couch, sipping at the last bit of coffee in his mug. You’re on the other end, scrolling absently on your phone as you set your strawberry mug onto an orange slice coaster. You glance over at him, and you soften. “Spence?”

He hums, looking up at you. You’re lost looking into his eyes. He’s wearing glasses today, his thick browline ones that frame his face just right, and you wonder why he wears contacts so often. Why he doesn’t let himself look like this more frequently. He looks stunning in spectacles. “Angel?”

You blink at his prompting. “I was just wondering,” you shrug, glancing over your shoulder at the chess table behind you. “Did you want to continue?”

Spencer lets a smile slowly overtake his cheeks. He nods, setting down his mug onto a pink grapefruit slice coaster. “If you want, sure.” At your assent, he stands, holding out a hand.

Your cheeks flush with warmth as he helps you stand from the couch. You follow him to the table before seating yourself in the same seat as a week ago, staring at the pieces in concentration.

He smiles. “Do you remember where we left off? You nod, and he moves his rook up two places.

Your hand hovers over your knight, then your queen, almost shaking with uncertainty. Spencer watches you, his eyes soft but calculating, patiently waiting for your next move. You rest your fingers over a pawn and move it up one space with resignation.

“You know, angel,” Spencer says softly, all gentle comfort. “It’s not about making the perfect move. It’s about thinking a few steps ahead, but also,” he moves his rook up and takes the pawn you’d just moved, setting it to the side. “Trusting your instincts. You’ve got this,” he smiles so warmly at you, so reassuring. You still feel the slightest twinge of frustration and embarrassment.

Chess doesn’t come naturally to you, but you’re determined to figure it out. For him.

You bite your lip, glancing over the board. You’re sure his comment about trusting your instincts has something to do with the way you’d hesitated, but you’re still so confused about what to do. You glance up at Spencer again, his eyes fixed on the board, his hands gently tapping at the edge of the table.

“What should I do with my queen?” you ask, a little hesitant. “I feel like she’s… I don’t know. Not doing much.” God, how do you stop feeling so stupid about this?

Spencer just smiles, that warm, gentle expression that makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Remember, your queen can move in any direction. Horizontal, vertical, or diagonal, but only as long as nothing is blocking her path. She’s powerful. You have to decide how to use her.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it in your head. “So… I can go anywhere? Like, here?” you ask, pointing to a spot near his king.

“Exactly,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze never leaving the board. “But you’ll want to think about what happens after you move her. Like, does it leave you open to being attacked? Does it bring you closer to checkmate?”

You inhale shakily, trying to digest it all as you nod, but it’s a lot to process. You take a deep breath. You can do this. You look down at the board, then back at him, his gaze still so patient. “What if I mess up?” you ask softly, unable to hide the shyness in your voice, your tone full of the nervous doubt you try to push down.

Spencer chuckles gently. “You won’t mess up, angel. Even if you do, it’s just part of learning. I’m not going anywhere,” he smiles. “You’re doing great.”

His words warm you more than the mug of coffee you’d just finished, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest. You allow yourself a small, shy grin before focusing on the board again. You move your queen exactly as he described, cautiously placing her diagonally across the board.

Spencer’s eyes light up a little, and his smile widens. “See? That’s the right move. You’re getting it. You’re really good at this,” and oh, how your chest positively aches at the pride in his expression.

Your heart skips a beat at his compliment, like it always does, and you let out a soft giggle. “I’m not that good, Spence,” you reply, trying to play it off.

He shakes his head, and you can see the admiration in his eyes. “You’re more natural at this than you think, trust me. Just keep practicing.” You sit back, watching him move a piece, and then he looks up at you, tilting his head. “It’s all about finding balance—taking risks, but also knowing when to protect what matters. Just like life.”

You blink at him, a little stunned by the way his words feel. Just like life? Maybe that’s what this whole chess thing is about—finding a way to balance your moves, even when things feel a little uncertain. Even when you’re just learning.

And then Spencer laughs softly, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You look so lost in thought, angel. Am I being too deep or introspective?” He gently pushes his glasses up his nose from where they’ve begun to slip down the slope of it.

You shake your head quickly, your heart racing as his eyes meet yours. “No, no! Not at all! I’m just thinking about how much you know.” You move your knight in an L-shape, like he taught you, and if the twinkle in his eye is any indication, you’ve made a good move. “Like, it’s crazy. You make it all sound so easy.”

Spencer just shrugs modestly, then picks up his rook and moves it up. “It’s just about seeing the whole board. Everyone has their own way of learning. Yours just happens to be different.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, and you feel your heart tug. “And I think that’s what makes you special.”

You bite down on your lip, trying to focus on the game again, but his words are ringing in your ears, making everything feel like it’s a little too perfect. The fact that he’s teaching you, patiently guiding you through something new, something you want to learn for him, feels so intimate.

You try to steady your breath as you make your next move, feeling your fingers brush against his as you capture his bishop. It’s a brief touch, but it makes your heart race. You chance a peek at him, and oh. His smile is so impossibly bright. You clear your throat and continue, tucking his bishop onto the table beside the board.

You’ve got this.

It's mid-afternoon when you pipe up again. “Y’know, the weather’s really nice today, Spence.”

He looks up from his book, honey-brown eyes tracing your nose from where you’re curled under his arm. “Yeah, I saw. It’s supposed to be pretty temperate until next week; then the rain is supposed to hit.” He lifts his arm from your shoulders and tenderly traces his knuckle down your jaw. “Did you want to go out?”

You shrug lamely, going shy and warm under his gentle gaze. “I don’t know, I guess, yeah. It’s really warm out.” Your eyes lock onto his. “I think we could go to the park or something?”

Spencer smiles, his hand gently gripping your chin as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. “That sounds great, sweetheart.” He stands, and pulls you up with him. He crouches to help you slip on your running shoes and ties the laces. You can’t tear your eyes from his lithe, slender fingers working the laces and, oh. Your heart beats wildly in your chest.

He stands and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder before grabbing his keys with one hand and yours with the other.

His fingers intertwine with yours, and you flush with warmth. He smiles at you as he leads you out of his apartment, locking the door with one hand before you head downstairs.

It’s warm and breezy, the air a perfect 75° outside, the wind just soft enough to sweep at your hair without messing it up. Spencer’s hand is still tangled with yours, and you can’t keep the smile off your face as he goes on some tangent about the differences between mallards and pintail ducks, because you’d just passed a pond and wondered why they looked so different.

You wish you were focusing, but god, you’re lost. So incredibly lost. Staring at his side profile, his brows raising and furrowing, his nose scrunching in that perfect way that makes you just want to bite it. He’s so animated, so enthusiastic about this, it’s a bit staggering.

You don't know when it happened, but now, looking up at him in this dreamy way, like he’s hardly real, like you’ve invented him to cover up the hurt from the meanness of those in your past, you’re sure of it.

You’re in love.

Somewhere between the way he reads to you and teaches you chess with all the patience in the world, between the way he remembers how you always take your coffee and kisses you first thing in the morning, between his warm linen sheets and the dusty scent of his books, you’ve fallen totally, completely in love.

And you don’t know why that invokes so much fear within you. Isn’t it a good thing, to fall in love with your boyfriend? To love him so wholly, so deeply, you aspire to learn the things he loves? To yearn for sameness, to relate to him, to keep up with his statistical rants about anything from the decline of leather-bound novels to the likelihood of walking past a serial killer without ever knowing it?

And then he looks down at you, notices the wistful, faraway look in your eyes as you just stare at him, and all he can do is laugh. He pulls you ever closer, pushes your hair back, and kisses your temple, and you positively melt. He’s so gentle with you, it almost hurts.

Then he’s tugging at your hand, and you look away from him for the first time since you arrived at the park. There’s a couple of tents set up along the path further ahead, and even though you groan through a laugh, Spencer looks so giddy, so excited, you can’t even think about ruining that. So you go along with him, his hand gently tugging at yours, before he stops at one tent towards the end.

Jewellry.

Spencer takes a while looking down at the display, before he picks up a simple gold necklace, a modest, tiny pink gemstone hanging off the chain. Spencer doesn’t hesitate before asking how much and pulling a twenty from his wallet.

You can’t tear your eyes from him. You feel like you haven’t so much as blinked in the last three minutes.

Spencer turns to you, the necklace hanging from his hand like it’s nothing more than a silly little trinket, and maybe it is. It’s probably some cheap, knockoff thing that’ll tarnish in a week, something that he paid far too much for, and you’re sure he knows that.

But he’s standing in front of you, holding it out with the sweetest, gentlest, most open expression you’ve ever seen on him.

And for that? The necklace might as well be twenty-four-carat gold and diamond-encrusted.

You blink at him, your brows furrowing upwards and eyes wide like a doe. “Do you want me to wear it?” you ask, sheepish and small and looking up at him like you’d give him the very earth itself if you could.

Spencer just smiles, all soft and warm and good. “I got it for you.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. Like it's casual and not like he’s holding your heart in his fist, like you trust him enough to not throttle it. “You can do whatever you want with it, angel.”

And, oh.

This is love. You’re certain of it. You’re so lost in the warmth of his eyes, the love pounding against your chest, that you don’t even notice the way he goes quiet, rigid, no longer looking at you, but through you. Like he heard something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Can you put it on me?”

Your soft voice breaks him from his trance, and immediately, the warmth returns to his gaze, his smile comes back so quickly it’s almost as if it never left. He nods, gently turning you around, and you pull your hair away from your neck.

Spencer is slow, reverent, as he drapes the chain around your neck. Careful as he clasps it. He even bends enough to press a soft, almost intangible kiss to your nape before stepping away.

And when you turn around, dropping your hair? Your palms go to his cheeks, clasping him like something precious between your hands, and you kiss him with all the love in the world.

All the love you’ve left unsaid.

You’re barely back inside his apartment when Spencer’s phone buzzes from its place in his bag.

You haven’t stopped toying with your necklace since he put it on you. The charm is almost glued to your fingers now; you’re unable to stop messing with it on your neck. It’s something so simple, but it feels like something more. Like something meaningful.

You’ve already seated yourself on his couch when he comes and plops beside you, a new, brighter grin on his face. “What was that, baby?” you ask softly, watching as he sets his phone face down on the coffee table.

“That was Garcia,” he smiles. “She invited us for drinks at Porter’s tonight.”

You blink. “She invited us, or she invited you?”

Spencer pauses, his hand momentarily ceasing its ministrations on your shoulder. “I mean, she invited me, and the team. But,” he sighs, turning to face you fully. “But, I think it would be nice. Introducing you to them.”

You inhale softly. “You sure? You don’t think it’s, like,” you glance down at your lap. “Too early?”

He shakes his head, his hand gently hooking under your chin to tilt your face up so he can look at you properly. “Angel, you already have a key to my place. I don’t think anything is ‘too early’ anymore.” His head tilts. “If you’re not ready to meet them, you know I wouldn’t force you to, right?” At your nod, he continues. “I would like for you to meet them. Really. They’re really important to me, and so are you. But if you don’t think you’re ready, or if you don’t want to, you don’t have to come. Or, I can stay home.”

Your eyes go wide, doelike and soft. Where on earth did this perfect man come from?

“Las Vegas,” he murmurs. You blink at him. He simply grins. “And I’m not perfect, sweetheart,” he turns bashful, his thumb gentle as it caresses your jaw.

“You’re so good,” you whisper, a whine in your voice. “Why- how are you so good?” You can’t help the tears that fill your waterline now, and Spencer immediately cradles you to his chest.

He shushes you softly. “I’m just normal, angel. I promise,” he chuckles. “I’m not doing anything that you don’t deserve.”

You sob impossibly harder.

“I would love to meet your friends, honey,” you pull away, your mascara smeared down your cheeks. Spencer’s hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb lightly brushing away the black smears from your skin like he’s doing something holy. Like he’s done it before, like he’d do it a thousand more times if you asked.

“You sure?” he whispers, careful, like if he speaks too loud this—you—might disappear. Like this is all some vivid dream he’s not quite convinced he deserves to wake up into.

You nod, just once. A little wobbly, but firm. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure, Spence.” Your fingers tug at the chain around your neck, the clasp digging gently into your skin. It stings, just a little. Just enough to feel real. To remind you, he gave it to you. Just today. That it means something. That Spencer is different.

“They’ll love you,” he smiles. He sounds so certain it almost breaks you in half. “I know they will.” You want to believe him. You want to let that live in your chest and take root. Because you’re not sure of much, really, but this? What you feel? It’s real. You know it’s real.

When he presses a kiss to your mascara-stained cheek, you close your eyes. Take it in. Take him in. He pulls away, looking at you warmly, openly, lovingly. “You can wear whatever you want. You don’t have to dress up,” he stands, his hand still warm where it’s clasped in yours. “We’re just going to a bar, and most of them are going straight from work.”

And maybe that’s exactly why you do want to dress up. You love Spencer. You want to make a good impression on his friends, his team, the people who keep him safe when he’s across the country chasing killers. Because you’re not just trying to impress them. You’re trying to seem enough.

In his bedroom, the light hangs low and golden and warm. Your dress hangs off your shoulders, and your hands tremble just slightly as you smooth it down again.

Spencer stands behind you, zipping you up with quiet hands and a look that could positively undo you. His touch settles at your hips, warm and grounding and real.

You study your reflection. “Is this okay, baby?” You catch his eyes in the mirror. Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you hate how small it sounds. How unsure. You can’t hide the way it trembles, the nerves that show through.

Spencer’s hands slide to your arms, trailing a path of fire before they cover your wrists, holding them steady. “Angel,” he whispers, turning you around gently. He looks at you like you’re an oasis in the middle of the driest of deserts. “You look beautiful.” He kisses you softly, tenderly. “I promise, they’re gonna love you. Please stop worrying.” His lips find that space between your eyebrows again, your glabella.

You know it means it. And that’s the worst part.

You’re still not used to someone holding you so closely, so gently, without an ounce of malice, of annoyance, of condescension.

You exhale shakily. You move your hands to the lapels of his blazer. Then to the knot of his tie. Then, finally resting them on his cheeks. Your eyes dart around his face, studying him like you haven’t already memorized the slope of his nose, the pink of his lips, the honey-brown warmth of his eyes.

Just in case. There’s a sinking in your gut you can’t explain. Let me remember you, it says, just in case.

“Thank you, honey.” You kiss him again, and when one of his hands finds the back of your head, you let him.

But then you sigh, pulling away. “If you ruin my hair, Dr. Reid, so help me,” you giggle, pressing a final kiss to his chin.

He chuckles softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he grins before heading to the living room and pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder.

You grab your purse and glance one last time at your reflection. Not to fix anything, no. Just to see yourself. To pretend you might resemble someone worth loving in a room full of people who love him.

When you step into the living room, Spencer’s already waiting by the door, his hands wringing at the strap of his bag, his smile still impossibly wide.

He links your fingers with his again like it’s second nature. Like this is just what you do. Like you belong with him.

You pretend—for just a moment—that you do.

You know you’re nervous when you hardly remember the metro ride. Conversations blurred around you until they were nothing but mist in the background. Just the steady warmth of Spencer’s hand in yours, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles on your skin, like he was tracing something only he could see. You remember the vibration under your feet and the way he held you when you stumbled as the train stopped.

By the time you step off the train and into the buzz of the city night, the air is cool, crisp. There’s a dewy scent of rain on the horizon.

You don’t even remember the walk to the bar until Porter’s flashes in bright red neon.

Your pulse is back in your throat, and suddenly it all feels too fast. Too real.

The gentle tug on your hand has your head snapping to your left. Spencer’s brows are furrowed, his lips pressed together. “Just take a breath, angel.” His voice is soft, warm. His thumb runs tenderly across your hand again. “It’ll be fine. Like I said, they’ll love you. I promise,” and oh. Oh, he looks so earnest. So sure. You can’t help the nod, the shaky exhale, the way your shoulders straighten out.

You blink. Look over at him again, a small smile quirking at your painted lips. “Okay, baby. I’m ready.”

He grins like sunshine.

Porter’s is busy; not packed, but there are enough patrons to have the bartenders ignoring attempts at conversation.

Spencer grins widely as a group of six, all settled around a circular booth, waves him over. His hand stays locked with yours until you get closer—then, he places it on the small of your back.

Their smiles start to… well. They falter, a bit, when they notice it. His hand, warm and steady on your back. You expected to surprise them, sure, but… You figured that for FBI profilers, they’d be a little better at hiding their shock.

And that means they’re not hiding it. They’re not trying to. If you can see their confusion, their surprise, their—is it discomfort?—then it’s intentional.

And that’s what stings the most. That this sudden tension, the glances, the raised brows, all point to you not fitting in.

They’re not impressed.

Spencer hardly notices it, though. You think it must be because he’s been so excited, but… really, how doesn’t he notice it? It’s like all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out, leaving six pairs of eyes staring at you like you’re other, like you don’t belong.

The blonde with wide eyes smiles at you, but it’s the kind that feels practiced, calculating. You’ve seen it before, more times than you can even remember.

The man next to her—broad, confident, handsome—raises a brow, his glass of whiskey stopping by his lip. He tilts his head when his eyes lower, meeting Spencer’s hand on your back.

Then the third woman, dark hair, a sharp gaze, pursed lips. God, she looks like Spencer when he’s trying to solve a crossword. You hate it, being studied like a puzzle yet to be solved.

And then Spencer says their names, and suddenly, for a moment, it clicks. “This is JJ, Morgan, Blake, Hotch, Rossi, and Garica.” Names you’ve only ever heard in fond little stories, in memories over takeout containers and sleepy mornings in bed.

You take a breath, willing yourself to breathe again. Your eyes land steadily on Garcia—Penelope. She’s already standing to hug you, her arms outstretched and a grin on her face. Spencer had described her as glitter and joy personified, and you can’t disagree. You think you love her already. “Oh my god, you’re real!” you giggle, “I was so sure Spence made you up!”

Penelope laughs with you, her hug warm and inviting, and you can’t help melting into it. She smells nice; like coconut and vanilla and citrus. You squeeze her back before pulling away, and her eyes are crinkled behind her wide pink glasses. “Oh, honey, I’m so real! But who are you, gorgeous? The Good Doctor’s been hiding you away from us!”

You smile shyly up at Spencer, watching as his hand returns to your back. “Uh, guys,” he glances down at you, all softness, before looking back at them. “This is my girlfriend.”

He says your name with reverence, dripping in pure affection, and the mood shifts yet again. Even Garcia freezes from her place next to you.

You wave timidly at them. “Hi,” you smile. “Spencer’s told me loads about you guys. He really loves you all, I can tell.”

And… there’s silence. JJ, Morgan, and Blake blink in unison. Like they’re sizing you up. Surprised in the worst way.

Your fingers reach up to your necklace again, gently pulling at it, tucking the charm between your digits again and again. You smooth your dress, tug it down. Maybe it’s too short? You bite your lip, check your posture, standing up straight. You hold back a sigh. You want to be enough. For them. For him.

JJ smiles a little softer, now. Her eyes more forgiving, just a fraction. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says. “What do you do?” she asks, scooching over on the bench. Spencer slides in first, then pats the space next to him. You squeeze onto the seat, and try to ignore the warm weight of his hand settling on your knee.

“I work in a flower shop,” you say softly. Blake’s eyes brighten a bit at that, and she unclasps her hands.

“You’re a florist?” she presses, taking a sip of her margarita.

You shrug. “I guess, that’s what my nametag says,” you laugh softly, folding your hands in your lap, fingers fidgeting beneath the table. “But I dunno if I’m like, a real florist. I just do the arrangements.”

Spencer squeezes your thigh gently. You do your best to ignore it.

Blake’s eyes dull again, just slightly. “So, how did you two meet?”

You feel underwater. Your hearing is muffled, you can barely hear the sweet story Spencer’s retelling, of when he walked into your flower shop and you giggled and handed him the store’s card with your number scribbled on the back.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the surface of the table. You try to control your breathing. Keep the tears at bay.

You’re being ridiculous. Absurd. Your insecurities are making you paranoid; you know it. This happens all the time.

But then Spencer’s lightly shaking your knee, his head tilted low enough to catch your gaze. His eyes are worried. You grin at him. “Sorry, what was that, honey?”

He furrows his brows. “I asked what you wanted to drink, angel.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. “Um,” you bite your lip, looking around the table at everyone’s drinks. Your eyes land on Garcia’s. “Penelope?” you prompt, and her head snaps over to you.

“Yeah?” She looks happy, a little buzzed.

“What’re you drinking?” you ask, nodding at her glass.

She grins widely. “Oh, sweetness,” she stands, holding out a hand for you. “Only the most delicious frozen strawberry daiquiri you’ll ever have! Come on,” she wiggles her fingers at you. “I’m due for a refill anyway, let’s go!”

You blink at her before taking her hand; it’s soft, and she closes it around yours in a way that feels so warm, so comforting. You barely get off the bench before she’s practically dragging you towards the bar.

She orders two frozen strawberry daiquiris, giving the bartender a flirty wink and an “extra pink, thanks, babe!”, before turning to you. “Oh my god, I need to know,” she says, gripping your shoulders like a lifeline. “How long have you and Einstein been together?”

You blink. “Um,” you furrow your brows. “Like, two-ish months, I think?”

Her face blanches, and suddenly, everything feels too fast, too sudden, like it’s the wrong answer, even though it’s not. You swallow your paranoia. “Spencer could probably tell you, like, the actual day, if you ask him. He’s really good with that stuff,” you add on, your voice low, a shy, proud little smile curling at your lips. He really is good with that stuff. Remembering the important things. Even something as simple as your favourite takeout place or the way you take your tea.

She pouts at you, her eyes softening, like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s hearing. It’s almost like she’s worried for you, like she feels sorry for you, but you can’t quite figure out why. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, collecting you into a hug you’re too confused to return. “I’m so sorry.” Her arms are too tight, too warm around you. You just stand there, stiff and unsure why everything feels so off.

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean, sorry?” you frown, your stomach doing a nervous little flip. “Everything’s been great. Spencer’s, like, sunshine in human form,” you try to laugh, but it comes out quiet, timid.

She sighs heavily, like she’s carrying a too-heavy weight on her shoulders, and then looks at you like she’s afraid to ask. “But… you don’t think this is, like, really soon?” She furrows her brows softly. “He doesn’t think so?”

You shake your head, confusion knitting your brows. You pull away from her grasp gently, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you didn’t before. “Penelope, what do you mean? Why would it be too soon?” You cross your arms over your chest, vulnerability eating at you. “Like… like me meeting you guys? ‘Cause I was worried about that, ‘cause it felt like, really early. But Spence said it was okay, ‘cause… like, I already have a key to his place, and I’m there, like, all the time, so—”

Penelope’s gasp is so sharp, so dramatic, that she covers her mouth with both hands in complete shock. “Oh. My. God!” Her eyes are nearly as wide as the frames of her glasses. “No- You- What?! You have a key? To his apartment?”

You nod slowly, and for some reason, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re saying the wrong thing. “Yeah? He gave it to me, like, a week or so ago,” you add, hoping it doesn’t sound as bad as you’re starting to feel it is.

And Penelope? Oh. She shifts like ice in the Arctic. Cold and imposing. You don’t think she even catches it, but she’s looking at you like you’re the villain in a story you didn’t even know existed. “That’s… so soon, sweetness.” Her eyes soften only slightly, and there’s a sympathetic lilt to her voice that feels less inviting and more pitiful. “What about Maeve?”

And you pause. Blink at her a couple of times, unsure if you’re dreaming, the weight of her words pressing on your chest. She stares at you, awaiting an answer. One you don’t have. “I-” you hesitate, like the words are too heavy to lift from your throat. “Who’s Maeve?”

Penelope frowns, her nose going red as though she can’t bear to see you confused. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, pulling you into her arms again, like she’s trying to shield you from the pain of her words. “Maeve was,” she starts, then pauses. “I feel like Reid- Spencer, should be the one to tell you.” She shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. She pulls away from the hug, her hands still lingering on your arms.

You keep a trembling hand on her wrist. “Clearly, he never told me anything. Who’s Maeve?” you ask again, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Is he-... Is he seeing someone else?”

You don’t want to be the fool again. Not again, not with Spencer. You swore he was different.

Penelope shakes her head, her arms smoothing over your shoulders in a calming motion. It doesn’t work. “No, no. Not at all, honey,” she whispers softly. She’s so… soft with you now. Her hands caress your shoulders like a mother comforting a child, explaining something you can hardly understand. “Maeve was Spencer’s girlfriend. They dated for, like, almost a year,” Penelope adds quietly, like she’s treading carefully around a wound that’s still raw.

That gives you pause. A year? That’s… serious. You feel the weight of its importance, like you’re not measuring up somehow. But Spencer’s not required to tell you about all of his past relationships, right? You know you haven't told him about yours, either.

But then Penelope sighs. “She died four months ago.” And the world goes still. You freeze, like the air’s been sucked right oout of your lungs. “She was kidnapped by her stalker, and she got shot. Right,” she pauses, swallowing hard. Her voice cracks as she continues, like she’s holding back her own pain. “Right in front of Spencer.”

And it’s there. A slow death, you can feel it creeping up on you. Your heart starts to melt against your ribs like thick, sticky honey. It burns you from the inside out, like acid; hot and relentless. “So,” your voice trembles, barely above a whisper. “So… I’m what?” You look into Penelope’s eyes, searing desperately for something to hold on to, but all you see is a deep, profound sadness. “I’m, like, a rebound?”

You wait. Penelope is silent. Her lips part, like there’s something she wants to say, to comfort you, to tell you no, he really loves you, but… She doesn’t. And when you see the minuscule shake of her head, you break.

You shatter like glass, like crystal. Like you’re fragmented in tiny shards scattered across the sticky bar floor, and suddenly, Porter’s is too bright. Too loud. Too much.

The sob escapes you before you can stop it, crawling up your throat and across your tongue like bile. You cover your mouth with your hand, tears freely spilling down your cheeks relentlessly.

Penelope’s lip wobbles as she watches you push past her and run down the back hall, before hearing the slam of the ladies’ room door.

She stands there, still and frozen.

What did she just do…?

Her gaze slowly moves to the table. Nobody has turned around, nobody has noticed a thing. Spencer’s laughing at something JJ says, and the guilt gnaws at Penelope like a plague.

You stumble into the bathroom like a storm, leaning your back against the door like you can hardly hold yourself up on your own, your legs shaky and trembling like a fawn taking her first steps.

The bathroom lights are harsh, fluorescent, and unforgiving. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and recoil like you’ve seen a ghost. Your mascara is smeared down your cheeks, bleeding down to your jaw, inked like grief itself has manifested onto your skin.

Your lipgloss is mostly gone—just a faint shimmer clinging to the dip of your cupid’s bow, like it’s trying to hold on for you.

You can’t help the way you begin to sway, dizzy as your knees nearly buckle in your heels. You grip the sink like it might hold you upright, like you’re not actively falling apart. But the second you meet your own eyes again, something inside you cracks.

You can’t look at yourself.

You can’t look at her—the girl stupid enough to think she was someone’s forever, not just a placeholder for a ghost.

You stumble into a stall and lock the door behind you, the click too loud in this stifling silence. You sit down hard on the toilet lid, burying your face in your hands as the sobs come back with a vengeance.

You feel like a fool. You’d really thought Spencer was different.

You wish he was here.

You wish he wasn’t.

Penelope shudders a breath, wobbling back to the table with two frozen strawberry daiquiris in hand. Her smile is long gone, her face pale and blotchy and tear-stained. Her eyes are red behind her glasses.

She sets the glasses down on the table like she doesn’t know what else to do with her hands.

JJ’s brows knit together. “Garcia?” She leans forward from her seat. “Are you okay?”

But Spencer’s looking over his shoulder, eyes darting around for you. He’s already standing when he notes your absence, like a string inside him has been pulled too tight, too restrictive, too wrong. “Garcia?” he asks, his voice shaky and low. “Where is she? What happened?”

Penelope’s lip wobbles. She wrings her fingers together, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—I just, I thought she knew, I thought you told her, and I—Spencer, I’m so sorry—”

Spencer’s heart drops to his gut. His mouth goes dry. “Told her what?” Penelope doesn’t answer. He takes a step closer, his throat going tight, his voice sharper now. “Penelope, what did you say?”

Her silence says everything. Her guilt fills the blanks. She shakes her head weakly at him, her hands coming up, her mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t know what to say. She sniffles.

Spencer’s eyes go wide. “Penelope,” he breathes out, horrified. His irises dart around her face. “What did you say to her?”

Penelope’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come out. Her face crumbles as she looks at the man in front of her. Her own words play back in her head, your reaction playing like a film sheet behind her eyes. She collapses next to Morgan on the bench, tucking herself into the booth. “Bathroom,” she mutters softly, like a confession. Like it hurts.

Her glasses come off in one swift, clumsy motion as she covers her face with both hands. She’s wiping her tears, covering her guilt, trying to hide from the shame of what she’s done.

Spencer’s gone before anyone can even fully comprehend what’s just happened.

He doesn’t walk, he runs, tearing through the bar like it’s life or death, like he might already be too late. His heart’s in his throat, hammering loud against his ribs, and he doesn’t care who sees, doesn’t care how crazy he must look.

He just needs to find you. Needs to explain, to defend, to apologize.

Maeve’s ghost hovers over his shoulder like a curse.

There’s an incessant banging at the door to the bathroom.

You think it must be him—who else would knock on the door to a public restroom?

You do all you can to ignore it; you cover your ears, tucking your face as far into your lap as you can. Try to block it out. Block him out.

But then the door opens, and frazzled footsteps rush into the bathroom until they stop in front of the locked door of your stall. You can see his brown oxfords standing in front of the door. “Angel,” he whispers, slightly out of breath. “Please open the door… please?”

You inhale shakily, holding your hands tighter over your ears. You don’t want to hear him, his excuses, his lies.

“Go away,” you murmur, tears coating your voice, your throat clenching tight. “I don’t want to see you.”

Spencer sighs, crouching in front of the door. “Sweetheart, let me in, please. I don’t know what Garcia told you,” he knows it’s a lie. “But you have to believe me. I want you. Only you. I swear it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to hear more lies, Spencer.” You swallow a sob. “I know about Maeve.”

Spencer’s heart stops in his chest. “It- It’s not what you think,” he tries, his voice thick with tears he feebly attempts to hold back. But then you sniffle harshly, from under the door he sees you stand, planting your heels on the tile. He stays crouching, swiping at his red-rimmed eyes.

You open the door just a crack, eyes catching sight of his lowered form. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is quiet, pained, tight. Spencer raises his head, meets your eyes. You look ruined. Makeup smeared, eyes red and puffy, lips bitten red and swollen.

He hates that he’s made you look like this. He hates that he still thinks you look gorgeous. Like a tragedy, beautiful and broken and raw.

“I,” he hesitates, eyes never leaving yours. He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he sighs simply.

Your face crumples again, and Spencer’s brows knit tight. His eyes stay locked on the way you tuck your lip between your teeth to hold in a sob, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way you fall apart. “You should’ve told me,” you whimper, sniffling. “It’s not fair, Spence.”

He flinches at the crack in your voice. He bows his head. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I should’ve, I’m so sorry, angel.” He can’t help the way he leans forward, just enough to rest his forehead against the softness of your tummy.

Your hand cards through his hair like you don’t hate him, like you never could, and it breaks you even more. This was a betrayal. You can’t forget that, even if the softness of his curls feels like home between your fingers. “Was I just a rebound for you?”

Your question is broken, tearful, and your chest stutters with a breath. Spencer’s head lifts slowly from your middle. He swallows. “No,” he breathes out, the word like acid on his tongue. His eyes are slow to meet your gaze. “No, angel. Never.”

Your eyes close, a shaky exhale exiting your nose as you purse your lips. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” You remove your hand from his hair, crossing your arms over your chest.

You’re closing off. Spencer stands from his crouch, his left knee clicking as it extends. He wrings his hands to prevent himself from reaching out for you. “I should’ve.”

You just shake your head, lifting your chin to eye him steadily. “I asked why, Spencer. Why didn’t you tell me about her if I wasn’t a rebound, a replacement?”

He swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “I don’t know. I think I was still…” he shrugs meekly. “Hurting, I guess.”

Your arms fall to your sides. “I could’ve helped you.”

Spencer lowers his head, shaking it roughly. “No, you couldn’t.” His eyes squeeze shut. He swears there’s a cold spot on the centre of his back, like someone’s staring into him, through him. He tries desperately to ignore her presence. “I never really dealt with it, I just wanted to move on. And,” he raises his head again, his eyes pained as he looks at you. “I did. I started to. With you.”

He reaches out his arm, his shaky hand settling softly on your elbow. You sigh, setting your gaze to the floor, but you don’t pull away from him. Spencer thinks it’s a small win. He tests the waters by taking a small step closer, invading your space, and his heart thrums in his chest when you let him.

You can’t hold it back. You want to hate him. You want to hurt him, like he’s hurt you. You thought you’d finally found it, your forever, the man who would treat you like you’re something worthy of love, of respect, of kindness. Who doesn’t criticize your curiosity, but who lets it thrive, who answers your questions softly, with reverence in his voice, with love in the way he holds you.

You thought he was different. You really did. But you think it’s fitting, really. To still love him, even now, even after he’s shattered your heart in your chest, even after he’s killed you from the inside out.

You collapse into his chest, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around you, holding you tightly, like he’s holding your very form together. Like if he so much as loosens his grip, you’ll break apart into tiny pieces on this dirty bathroom floor.

His lips go to your hair, his hand cradling the back of your head. He can feel the way the sobs wrack through your body, the way they shake against him, your form trembling as you fist the fabric of his cardigan, needing something to keep you grounded in reality—to keep you out of your head.

“I thought you were different,” you sob, broken and pained and whimpering into his shoulder. Spencer freezes. “I thought you wouldn’t hurt me. Not like them, not like before.”

He opens his mouth, but he can’t find the words. How does he respond to that? To your wailing of grief, of betrayal? Of admitting you’d believed in magic just to find out it was all sleight of hand? How does he acknowledge being the source of your pain, of hurting you so wholly that your knees buckle under the weight of it?

He doesn’t know. So he just holds you impossibly tighter, rocking your trembling form in his arms as he tries to find some way to fix this mess he’s caused.

You’re silent for too long. No longer sobbing, just quiet sniffling as you bury your head in Spencer’s chest, no doubt staining his cardigan with your makeup. He doesn’t care.

You pull back slightly, hands still fisted in the fabric. “I want to go home.” Your voice is quiet, raspy, like your throat itself is protesting you talking to him.

Spencer nods, petting your hair down softly. “Okay,” he whispers back. His gaze catches yours before you lower your eyes to his chest again, your hand instinctively going to wipe at the smudge of mascara. Your brow furrows, and your eyes fill with tears again as your thumb rubs at the stain, just to smear it around. Spencer gently wraps his hand around your wrist, and your eyes snap up to meet his. “It’s okay,” he nods softly. “Please don’t worry about it, angel.”

You sniffle again before pulling away, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I want to go home, Spence,” you murmur again. He nods, holding a hand out for you.

You don't take it, don't even look at it, averting your gaze to the floor again.

Spencer sighs, blinking away tears before he’s opening the door to the bathroom, and following you out.

He doesn’t touch you, even though his hand is hovering over your back, your head down as you stand by the front door. Spencer swallows roughly, grabbing his bag off the bench of the booth, avoiding the eyes of his team, who watch him silently.

Hotch’s eyes stay steady on the black stain on the front of Spencer’s cardigan, Garcia’s still got her hands on her face, and JJ is looking at you; small and feeble and shy, and still shaking with tears as you wait for Spencer. He holds the door open for you, whispers something to you as you both exit, and JJ heaves a sigh, taking a gulp of her drink. She and Blake share a look.

The back of the cab is quiet. Uncomfortable, stifling, suffocating silence. You’re seated on opposite ends of the backseat, Spencer’s eyes on you, your gaze out the window.

When the driver pulls up to Spencer’s apartment block, your brows furrow, your eyes going to Spencer, who’s already climbing out the door and opening yours. “I said home, Spencer,” you frown, ignoring his hand. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

Spencer flinches. “Please, angel. Just for tonight? So we can talk?”

You heave a sigh, glaring at him as you slap away his hand, stepping out of the yellow car and walking past him and into the building.

Spencer exhales, his hands wringing tightly on the strap of his messenger bag before following you up the stairs. You’ve already unlocked the door with your key and slumped onto his couch, sniffling as you lean down to take off your heels.

He doesn’t bother removing his bag from his shoulder, just closes and locks the door before rounding the couch and sitting on the coffee table, gently taking your foot and tucking it into his lap. His fingers undo the strap around your ankle, his hands slow as they pull off the offending shoe. He does the same for the other foot, then stands, picking up your heels as he heads back to the entrance to place them down beside his beat-up old converse.

Spencer hangs up his messenger bag, toes off his oxfords, and looks over at you.

You’re curled up on the couch, tucked into the corner, arms around your knees. Your gaze is fixed on one of his bookshelves, brows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together. Like you’re trying to understand something, trying to solve a puzzle he can’t see.

Spencer slowly makes his way over, sits cautiously beside you, his eyes following yours to the shelf. He doesn’t know if the book you’re staring at is the one his eyes are drawn to immediately, but he tears his gaze away like it’s burned him.

The Narrative of John Smith sits like a ghost on his shelf, its very presence mocking what Spencer’s tried so hard to build with you.

“I don’t know how to get over this,” you mutter softly.

Spencer looks up at you to find your eyes already on him. You shake your head gently, like the small motion of it is just too much. “I don’t know how to move on, now.”

He swallows, tucking his feet up under his legs. “I know.” His hands wring in his lap. “I don’t either. I just know that I want you.”

You scoff, avert your eyes. “If you did, you would’ve told me about her. Now you’ve just made me feel like an idiot,” you sigh. “Again.”

His lips turn, the corners of his mouth pulled into a pout. “Again?”

You sniffle again, shrugging. “I told you. I thought you were different. I thought,” you sigh, raising your head to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Spencer tilts his head. “You say that a lot,” he notes. “‘I don’t know’. Like you’re afraid to say what you’re thinking. Like you’re expecting to be wrong, or dismissed. Or left,” he catches your eyes when your head snaps back to his. “And I hate that. I hate that someone taught you to apologize for existing, for being curious, for not knowing. And I…” he sighs, blinking at you, his expression soft and gentle and guilt-ridden. “I hate that I did that, too. To you.”

You swallow a sob, your eyes going wide.

Spencer scooches a little bit closer to you, just enough that your knees knock against his. “I should’ve told you about…” He tries to say her name. His tongue freezes, paralyzed.

“About Maeve,” you whisper. Spencer tries to hide his flinch, like hearing you say her name is wrong. Like the mixing of these two aspects of his life shouldn’t be happening.

He nods jerkily. “About Maeve,” he tries to ignore the way his voice catches on the word. “I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

You nod, tucking your lip between your teeth. “I know you are,” you glance sidelong at him. “I know.”

Spencer exhales shakily. “And I’m sorry Garcia told you.”

“I’m not.” Your voice is shockingly steady as you say it. You shrug when he looks at you. “If she didn’t, I don’t know how long it would’ve been before you did. Honestly, Spencer,” you turn to face him. “Would you have ever even told me?”

He wants to nod, to tell you he would’ve, but he swears he can see her brown hair in the corner of the room, stalking, watching, waiting. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You wait. And then sigh heavily. “You’re not okay,” you murmur. “I can’t help you, you were right.”

And then you stand from the couch, head into his bedroom, and close the door.

Spencer hears rummaging, the sound of his drawers being opened and closed, then his shower starts, and he buries his face in his hands. Rubs his palms aggressively over his cheeks, pushing his hair away from his forehead.

He stands, peeling the cardigan off. He holds it out, his eyes locked on the black stain that’s, ironically enough, just over his heart. He exhales softly before putting it into the dirty laundry hamper in his bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, the sound of the shower muffled behind it.

He sighs. Drags his feet into the kitchen to start the kettle. His hands move on autopilot: setting the kettle onto the stove, the soft clanging of your mug and his being pulled out of the cupboard, just like always. He freezes when his fingers close around the handle of your pink strawberry mug. It looks like something Garcia would’ve picked out. Too bright, too bubbly, too you. His heart skips a beat.

You were right. God, you were right. He wouldn’t have said anything; not now, maybe not ever. He would’ve stayed silent, keeping you blissfully unaware. You would’ve never found out about Maeve had Garcia not told you anything. The guilt eats at him, gnawing on his chest like a disease, spreading through his ribs like rot.

His hands tremble as he sets it down on the counter beside his. The ceramic clinks too loudly in the silence. He rocks his head back and forth, like he can shake the memories out.

When he opens his eyes, he swears she’s there. Just there, at the edge of his vision, he catches a glimpse of her sweater. He pours the water from the kettle into your mug. It’s all he can do to stop himself from shouting at a ghost.

She haunts these walls—ones she’s never once stepped into. It drives him mad.

Spencer’s sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap and his head bowed when you re-enter the room.

He looks up as the couch dips beneath your weight. You settle in the opposite corner, as far as you can be while still sharing the same space. Spencer clears his throat, rubs his palms nervously over the tops of his thighs. “I made you tea,” he whispers.

You blink. Your strawberry mug sits neatly on an orange slice coaster. He reaches for his, and you see the grapefruit one under it. Your throat goes tight again.

You don’t want to cry again. You refuse to.

You sigh. “I didn’t really want any tea.” Your lips press together as you curl further into your corner. “But thanks anyway.”

Spencer flinches. It’s barely noticeable, just a twitch. But of course you catch it. There’s nothing about this man you don’t notice.

Or so you thought.

Because now he’s staring at you.

Or, not quite; he’s staring through you.

You swallow hard. How many times has this happened before without you noticing? Without knowing he was haunted? Broken? Grieving someone you never knew existed. Mourning the woman you replaced.

You avert your gaze again. You can’t keep looking at your boyfriend while he stares through you, at the woman he lost. “Spencer,” you say, quiet yet sharp. It snaps him out of his trance.

His eyes dart to the side of your face. His brows pull together, unsure, almost pleading. He swallows roughly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, setting his mug down. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” he chews on his lip, shrugging. “I just… I thought you might want it. Like…” he trails off.

You know what he was going to say, anyway. Like every other night. Like routine. But if he thinks you’re about to cuddle up to him while he reads to you, he’s sorely mistaken.

But then you look at him. Just once. And he looks so broken, you can’t bring yourself to say it.

So you stand, slowly, achingly, like just leaving him there is enough to hurt. “I’m tired,” you mutter softly. Spencer’s eyes track your movement. He untucks a leg, like he’s about to follow you like some lost, desperate puppy. You hold up a hand. “I’d like to be alone for a bit. You brought me here,” you can’t help the narrowing of your eyes. “The least you could do is let me have that.”

Spencer gulps, sinks back into the couch with a jerky nod. “Of course,” he whispers. He doesn’t look away, not even when his bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

He turns back around, squeezing his eyes shut. He scrubs at his cheeks, as if trying to wipe the grief and guilt from his skin itself.

There’s rustling behind the door. Spencer pictures you crawling into his bed. He wonders if you’re cuddling his pillow, like you always do when he leaves for work in the morning.

Then he figures you’ve probably thrown it off the bed. The thought tugs harshly at his chest.

He sighs, pulling the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around his shoulders. He sits in silence, his mind running too loud, too fast, for even him to keep up.

There’s a chill to his left. He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t want to face the visible manifestation of his guilt, his grief.

Spencer doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. The tea cools in both mugs; the steam rising and fading, like breathing out a ghost. His apartment is too quiet. Too silent to have you just in the next room. Too quiet for a mind like his. It feels wrong. Suffocating. Smothering. His lungs ache like he’s drowning in it.

It’s been hours. Two cups of lavender tea, three hours lost in casefiles and novels and poetry, and none of it has helped him sleep. It hurts even more when he realizes it’s because you’re not there beside him.

Spencer stands with a quiet groan, dragging himself to his bookshelf. He stares at it, needing something else. Anything to get him to sleep, anything to quiet his thoughts, even if just for a moment.

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to go to it. Doesn’t even realize his hand’s already reaching, already pulling it off the shelf. His mind doesn’t catch up to reality until Spencer’s already sitting on the couch with The Narrative of John Smith open on his lap. Maeve’s handwriting stares back at him from the first page.

“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another.”

The tears come before he even realizes he’s crying.

Spencer’s vision comes back slowly, like waking from a dream, walking out of a fog, seeing past the haze. He blinks, looking down at the book in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee table—careful, like it burns to so much as hold it.

He gulps. Two books sit side-by-side. Two mugs, four coasters.

He sighs, lying back on the couch. He listens, but the bedroom stays silent.

You wake early. So early that not even the sun is up, the birds aren’t even singing, and the stars are still twinkling in the darkness. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling in silence. It’s so quiet here, the only sound is the crickets chirping softly outside the window.

You sit up, heaving your legs over the side of his bed with a heavy sigh. This room… you’ll miss it. It’s warm, comfortable. Smells like old books and clean linen and him.

Spencer.

Just the thought of him has you holding back tears again.

You shake your head, trying to push away your impending grief, and stand slowly. You open the drawer he’s dedicated to you, your hands trembling as you dress yourself. You avoid your reflection as you take the rest of your clothing out of the drawer and shove it into your bag. You grab your toothbrush and your makeup bag.

And you take one mismatched set of socks from his drawer.

You’re slow, quiet, as you creak open the bedroom door, your bag slung over your shoulder. You peek over to the couch. Spencer’s stretched out, long limbs draping over the armrest. His brow is pinched, mouth slightly agape, but he’s asleep.

You exhale a sigh of relief. Your eyes catch sight of the coasters—your coasters. Bright, vibrant, fruit slice circles of ceramic. They still look out of place. Still don’t belong here.

You can’t bring yourself to take them with you. They brighten up this warm, cozy space, this place that they just don’t fit in. You’ve related to them since you brought them over.

Oh well.

Spencer can decide what to do with them. You try to ignore the stinging in your chest when you imagine him throwing them out.

With a reluctant turn, you silently slip on your shoes, tug on your jacket, and sling your purse over your shoulder beside your bag.

You don’t leave a note. You wouldn’t know what to say.

You exhale as you crack the front door open quietly, allowing yourself just one last glance around the apartment.

You’ll miss it.

You close the door gently behind you, careful not to let it click. Your hands shake as you lock it, fingers trembling as you remove the key from your keyring. You slide it under the door. It catches on the floorboard for a second, then disappears into his apartment. Like it never belonged to you in the first place.

Your fingers go to the tiny pink gemstone on your neck. You tug at it gently. Rest your fingertips over the chain in something not unlike reverence, before lowering your hand.

You straighten your shoulders. You don’t look back.

Spencer wakes sluggishly. Like his body’s not quite his, his limbs tired and heavy. When he finally manages to sit up, he blinks the sleep out of his eyes. The door to his bedroom is open; he can see his bed made neatly. Too neatly.

He glances to the kitchen, expecting to see you standing at the counter, humming, pouring coffee into your favourite mug and smiling over at him, like you always do, every morning. But it’s empty.

Spencer’s brow furrows, knitting together tightly. He calls your name, soft, then louder. His voice shakes.

He rises slowly, like lost in a dream, his gaze drifting to the door.

Your shoes are gone, leaving his beat-up old converse and scuffed oxfords alone by the door. Your jacket’s not hung up beside his on the hooks. Your purse is missing from where you always hung it in front of his messenger bag.

Spencer rounds the couch, his hands trembling, panic rearing its ugly head, fear clawing at his chest. “Angel?” he tries again, his voice softer now. “Sweetheart, please… please answer me,” he whimpers, his throat going tight.

His gaze drifts down to the floor, like he’s hoping, just for a moment, that he’s wrong. That his peripheral was lying to him.

It shines, like some cruel joke, where it rests on the hardwood, the first rays of dawn catching it.

The spare key. The one he gave you. The one he thought meant home.

It gleams from the floor, tossed carelessly, just in front of the front door, like you’d locked it and slid it under the threshold when you’d left.

Left.

He doesn’t even know when you left. Doesn’t know if it was hours ago or mere minutes, but the air still feels thick with your absence.

Spencer stumbles, almost collapsing to the floor beside that key. The key to his home. To his heart. The key you’d left behind.

He staggers back to the couch, eyes hollow, locking onto the coffee table. Your coasters. And your mug. Just… sitting there.

You’d left them.

He swallows his sobs, choking on the grief that’s clawing its way up his throat. They look so bright. Too bright. Out of place here, in the dim silence of his apartment. You were, too. You brought a brightness to this warm, cozy place. One he didn’t know he needed until you’d taken it away. Like the sun setting, sinking slowly beneath the horizon, leaving nothing but a cold darkness in its wake. An emptiness he can’t escape.

Spencer reaches for the book left beside them. Flips it open to page 639 like muscle memory.

The Cyrillic stares back at him. He can hardly make it out through the tears clouding his vision. His voice cracks as he forces the quote out—the one he had meant to read to you just last night—his memory carrying him.

“I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.”

He breaks down into a lump of broken sobs on his couch, clutching the red leather-bound novel to his chest like it’s the only thing holding him together.

This is it. Doctor Zhivago, bright fruit slice coasters, and a strawberry mug. It’s all he has left of you, when he never thought he’d have to face the reality of life without you again.

Your absence chokes him like a vice.

The air turns frigid; Spencer feels like he’s wrapped in a sudden chill, like the warmth that was in his chest is being stolen from his soul itself.

He won’t open his eyes—refuses to. He won’t face this ghost that haunts him, keeps him broken, that pushed you away. He can’t look at her brown hair and warm sweater and blood on her cheek.

He just hugs the novel closer to his chest and mourns once more, wailing his grief into the air like pain personified is being ripped from his chest, leaving him hollow, empty, alone.

[yoonbroom]

Hello! I am in love with your writing, you’ve written most of my favorite fics! I was wondering if you could write a fic where Gideon comes back (Nelson’s sparrow never happens) and he runs into Spencer who has a wife and kids and is a MAN now, and Gideon is shocked because Reid has changed so much. They reconnect and it’s pretty fluffy like they spend a day together and reconcile their relationship🥺 you don’t have to write this, I’ll still read and love every piece you continue to write!

A/N: I am so sorry it look me like 18 years to write this but I ADORE this request and I wanted to get it just right. I hope I did it justice. Also I know very little about chess, so I’m sorry if it’s incorrect. (Posting two days in a row? Who do I think I am?)

———

“Your move, Spence.” You said, looking at your husband from across the chess table.

It was a warm day and you and Spencer had decided to take your daughter, Lucy, to the park. Lucy was only two, and didn’t really understand how to play chess, but she liked sitting on your lap and watching the faces Spencer would make at her.

“Which peice should I move, Lucy?” Spencer asked dramatically.

“Horsey!” Lucy said, pointing at the knight.

Spencer picked up the knight and moved it around the board, making horse noises before placing it on its new place.

Lucy giggled before turning and snuggling back into your shoulder.

“Playground!” Lucy called putting, noting the play structure behind you.

“We’re almost done, then we’ll go play.” You said, picking up a peice and moving it around the board.

“Playground!” Lucy said again, this time more stubborn.

“Go on. We know I would’ve won anyway.” Spencer said. You playfully rolled you eyes and stood up, following Lucy along to the playground.

-

Spencer watched Y/N follow Lucy to the playground twenty feet away. Spencer smiled. He could just barely see the start of Y/N’s baby bump, and smiled as he turned his attention back to the chessboard.

Spencer started resetting the peices before somebody said something.

“Mind if I sit here?” An oddly familiar voice said from across from Spencer.

Spencer looked up and suddenly it was 10 years ago.

Standing across from him was none other than Jason Gideon.

Spencer froze, not quite sure what to do.

Gideon raised his eyebrow, waiting for a response.

“I-uh-yeah, you can sit here.” Spencer squeaked out.

Gideon sat down and finished putting the chess peices back in the right places. “How have you been, Spencer?” Gideon asked.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. He was 90% sure that he had fallen and hit his head, and was now in some kind of coma where it was 10 years ago. Spencer pinched his wrist, but no, he was very much awake.

And across from him was Gideon, talking like nothing had happened. But something had happened. Gideon has left the BAU with only a note, never to be seen again, until today.

“I’m ok. How are you?” Spencer asked.

Gideon shrugged. He moved a pawn forward on the board, clearly starting a game with Spencer. “I’ve been better.”

Spencer moved his pawn forward, still a little dazed.

“Clearly you’re doing well.” Gideon said, picking up another pawn and motioning it twoards the wedding band on Spencer’s hand.

A smile broke out across Spencer’s face. “Yeah, you could say that.” He said.

“What’s her name?” Gideon asked, not looking up from the chess board.

“Y/N.” Spencer said.

Gideon nodded. There were a few minutes of quiet as the pair played chess. From the playground there was the sound of a child crying, and Spencer looked up, relieved when he saw that Y/N and Lucy were fine.

Gideon, ever the profiler noticed this but let a beat pass before he asked. “So which one is yours?”

“Huh?” Spencer asked, looking up from the chess board. 

“When the kid cried you looked up at the playground. Which one is yours?” Gideon said. “Check in five.”

“The little girl on the green slide. Lucy.” Spencer said.

Gideon turned around to look, and Spencer moved his rook to capture Gideon’s bishop. Gideon turned back to the game and made a move before he asked his next question.

“Are you still at the BAU?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said. “What have you been doing?”

“Traveling. Looking into some things.”

“What’re you doing back here? Check in two.” Spencer said.

“I was around.” Gideon said. He pondered his next move carefully before moving one of his peices.

“Check.” Spencer said, moving his queen.

Gideon moved one of his peices and and sat back in his chair.

Spencer smiled and then moved his queen again. “Checkmate.”

Gideon smiled as well. “You’ve clearly had some practice.”

“Just a little.”

The two reset the peices.

“I might stay in town for a while longer. If you would be willing to play another game of chess, you should let me know.” Gideon said. He reached into his pocket to find a notepad and quickly scribbled down his phone number.

Spencer took the number, smiling. A shriek of joy came from the playground, and Spencer looked up to see that this time it was his daughter.

At that same moment Y/N looked up from Lucy to make eye contact with Spencer.

Spencer and Gideon stood up from the table and shook hands. “I won’t keep you any longer.” Gideon said.

The pair parted and Spencer made his way down the hill to the playground, feeling renewed. Knowing that he would see Gideon again soon made him realize that he was great full for some many things in his life.

If Spencer hadn’t met Y/N and never had Lucy, he might not have been sitting at that table and might have never seen Gideon again.

“Who was that?” Y/N asked when Spencer reached her and Lucy, who was in a swing.

“Somebody I used to work with.” Spencer said, smiling.

Tags! (Open)

@rexorangecouny @magnificentmgg @rachelxwayne @itsmyblogandiwillblogifiwantto @andreasworldIsboring101