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spencersawkward · 6 months ago

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switchblade faith // spencer reid - chapter 13

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her new friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid. (Baby Spence)

pairing: Fem!OC x Spencer

word count: 7.4k

content warnings: slight angst

A/N: Hi! AHH it's been so long! sincerely, I'm so sorry about that-- I've been thinking about this fic and honestly I got a bit stuck for a while and had to pull myself away to reconfigure my thoughts about it. but I'm back in it now and have been writing furiously lol. anyway, thank you for your patience on all of this. I see all of your sweet comments asking me to update and I HATE leaving y'all hanging so… this chapter is extra long (7.4k words? too much? probably!). I hope you're all living your best lives and thriving :) ok love you bye!

masterlist

despite working for the FBI, there is one crime I have committed.

I was never much of a partier in college, but when I started, it was nearly impossible to stop. like a snowball, my singular drink (which I'd initially decline) would morph into my fourth, fifth, and was complemented by a joint or two.

even before I had a job as serious as this one, I was high-strung and intense. everything was about making it to the top-- of my class, of my social group, whatever would get me to the point of success I craved.

but this also meant that slowing the momentum of my work at all was risking a complete spiral. I am, unfortunately, emotional when drunk. too many drinks and insecurity sets in, following me around with self-doubt and thoughts of grand failure. because what if all the work truly amounted to nothing?

I was anxious and self-medicating. this frequently resulted in my waking up in the fetal position on the floor of whatever apartment or house I was in, fists tightly clenched and memory foggy. smoking wasn't a stress reliever for me; it was sealing the fate on a terrible night. my brain chemistry seemed to reject the same drug that worked for so many others.

but I just kept doing it because those first few minutes felt deliciously worry-free.

one of these nights I was in a friend of a friend's apartment in college. I'd been drinking straight from the bottle because we'd just finished finals and every nerve in my body was fried.

I was aware of the slow nausea making its way through my stomach, the burn of alcohol in my throat. I was also aware of the twitching that often came with smoking too much. my fingers would clench and unclench, toes wiggle beyond my control. another reason not to keep doing it, and yet.

I barely knew anyone at the party. the friend of a friend was someone I had spoken to maybe once or twice. really, I had no relationship with anyone else there. but it hadn't seemed important at the start of the night.

despite the blur of the evening, I clearly remember having an existential crisis on their thrifted couch. everyone was talking and the music was loud, but the words were like sludge to my senses. I wanted to leave, but even through the haze I felt like maybe wandering the streets alone at night wasn't a good idea.

so I just wandered anywhere to get away from the noise. I tried several doors, a few of which were locked, until I pushed one open to someone's bedroom.

it was full of plants and smelled earthy, like dirt. it reminded me a little of home. although I shouldn't have gone into this person's personal space, I didn't have much sense of decorum at the moment. so I shut the door quickly behind me and walked over to a plant on the window sill. I sat next to it, pressed a large, healthy leaf to my nose and inhaled.

from my spot on the floor, I noticed a box under their dresser. it was old, like from their grandmother or something. polished wood with a gold clasp that held it shut.

my fingers raked over the carpet and grabbed it, pulling it towards me on the floor and, without a moment's hesitation, opened the box.

inside, there was a small collection of knives.

not kitchen utensils or huge murder-y serrated ones. they were lovely, delicate blades. the handles were perfectly molded to fit a person's hand, some of them carved with beautiful spirals and curls, some inlaid with silver.

I remember touching them with my fingertips and not worrying about them slicing my skin open; I was awed by how ornate they were. I wanted to slip them under my arm and leave.

I lifted one out of the box and handled it for a few seconds. it was a small knife-- the kind that's better for self-defense than anything else. the metal was cool in my palm, and the handle wooden and smooth with wear. the bottom was rounded and opalescent. the colors that refracted under the light mesmerized me, until I was tilting the weapon just to see each soft pink and blue and purple melt into the other. I was entranced like a child.

enough time passed there with my eyes glued to the shifting hues that my body stopped twitching and I felt more lucid. not sober, but not barreling into tearful realizations about my issues.

despite myself, I took the knife with me. I pulled off my hoodie and bundled it inside, carefully put the box back, and left the room without a backward glance. something cruelly sentimental inside me just needed to keep it. like a security blanket.

…

as I watch Spencer working through a chocolate-sprinkled donut, washing down each bite with a sip of coffee like clockwork, I wonder what he would say to my miniature crime. I suppose recreational cannabis use was also illegal, but that's far less interesting.

I remember Spencer's reaction when I pulled out the cute resin knife at the BAU Halloween party, and how I said there was no special reason I collected pretty blades. I still don't think it's that special of a reason. I just admire good craftsmanship and the illusion of safety.

Spencer catches me intently watching him eat and frowns at me mid-bite. there's a touch of chocolate at the corner of his mouth which brings a smile to my face.

JJ brought the pastries in for us from some famous LA donut shop, all wild flavors and frostings. she brought one normal one for Reid, though. he wouldn't have touched any of these other ones with a ten-foot pole.

I indulge in a Thai tea donut while Hotch catches us up on the plan for the day. yesterday, after talking in Lila's trailer, it turned out that we were too late to check on Michael. they found him dead in his office, very obviously the stalker's latest victim. I feel awful for Lila; they were close, and he genuinely cared about her wellbeing.

it's for that reason that Hotch has told us not to tell her just yet. it could make her reckless, and that might ultimately make it more dangerous for her until we catch this guy. we've settled for telling her Michael's been wrapped up in questioning and has to keep his distance for his own safety. I don't like lying to her, but it would be so much worse for her to do something impulsive and get herself killed, too.

it's best for me to keep my own distance from Reid as possible so I can stay focused. I try to stand near Prentiss so that Hotch will assign us together for the day, careful not to be next to Reid or Morgan. if anything, Derek will catch on further and bother me about my emotions. which are confusing and also irrelevant.

"did you want some of my donut?" Reid appears out of thin air next to me, ready to break off an untouched part of his treat to share. it's clear he thought I was checking out his food earlier.

"huh?" my brows knit together as I look down at his fingers. I suppress the elation at his willingness to share food. "oh, no, it's okay. I'm full."

he shrugs and I'm about to duck away from him when Hotch speaks.

"Reid, I want you to stay near Lila as much as possible. she seems to have a rapport with you," he says casually. the muscles in my jaw jump with irritation.

of course, part of me tries to logic my way through the irrational: Lila is a television star. it's not that she's out of Spencer's league or anything, but he's certainly not the type of guy people like her would be dating. I thought celebrities only dated each other.

I cling to this thought until Hotch's deep frown lands on me.

"Williams, go with Reid."

"why?" the question escapes my lips before I can think better of questioning my boss's orders.

"she's been apprehensive to protection already. having another woman around might help." Prentiss answers for him, her arms crossed over her chest. Hotch nods and moves on. there's something lacking in the explanation, but when we're dismissed, Emily makes a quick comment in my ear.

"if she decides to break protocol, do you really think Reid is gonna be able to stop her?" she lets out a chuckle at the end. I try to reciprocate the expression as my chest squeezes.

…

Spencer puts on his sunglasses in the car while we drive through the Hills to Lila's house.

"I feel like a movie star here," I say, turning down the music as I navigate the narrow roads.

"I actually think being a producer would be better," he replies.

"less attention?"

"less than an A list celebrity in most cases."

"same fat paycheck, though."

"exactly."

I laugh. the song fades into a different one, a popular one that I've had stuck in my head for a few days, and Spencer turns it up.

"you like this song?" I turn to look at him. he's drumming his fingertips against his thigh along with the beat.

"it's good."

I just suppress a smile and keep driving, trying my best not to comment when I see his head nodding to the chorus. but it's so cute, I can't hold my tongue.

"you're dancing!" I laugh.

immediately, he stops. "no, I'm not."

"Spence, it's okay to like it." I roll my eyes.

he ignores me.

"come on," I urge, turning up the volume even more. I have a terrible voice, but I sing along quietly for a second. he only joins in after a moment of hesitation.

we aren't screaming the chorus or even being very loud, but it's comfortable and fun to share the moment with someone else. despite the reason for our presence here, we're driving through the Hollywood Hills and how often does that happen for us? I let myself enjoy these three minutes.

sunlight glares through the windshield and hits our faces, that chemical boost that comes from warming air. our voices blend into the music, every memorized lyric coming out of us on instinct.

there's something pure about it, like we're sharing a secret. because it's funny that two FBI agents know a pop song this well, even funnier that one of them is Spencer Reid, Nerdiest of Them All.

my fingers tap on the wheel with the beat. at the risk of shattering this delicate moment, I glance over at Spencer. I can't help it.

he's smiling, cheeks flushed. the free-spiritedness of it unfurls something within me.

I realize that I've been collecting these seconds like diamonds, stuffing them in darkened corners of my mind, papered over with larger memories. they'll always burn through, though, moments when my eyes seek him out, the fewer ones when his seek mine. I'm hungry for the sight of him in a way that can't be sated; every glimmer in his pupils, every clench and turn of his chin— they accumulate endlessly.

I could live on this stretch of road forever.

but then I see our exit ahead, and I think of Lila's starlet grin. I'm reminded of every sinking feeling that's made up our time here. the song fades out, swallowing the sensation whole.

"what did Emily say to you earlier?" Spencer asks out of nowhere, after we've fallen into a sort of silence. my mouth opens and closes as I try to think up something to say.

"I--" the words dry up as soon as he looks at me. "I don't remember. it wasn't important, though, I don't think."

he nods, gaze lingering. he doesn't believe me. but I don't know what to tell him. his hands fidget in his lap. I can imagine the gears in his head turning, combining rational possibilities with his own insecurities.

"what do you think of her?" I try to make my voice sound level.

"of Lila?"

"yeah."

"I think she's nice."

"nice?"

"yeah. I don't really know any celebrities, so I was surprised by that," he shrugs.

"she's beautiful."

I wait for him to concur, or to dare to disagree. but the pause he gives is heavy and I know he's trying to select his words carefully.

lucky for him, we pull onto Lila's street before he can make any definitive statement about her attractiveness. I drive slowly, pulling into the dusty driveway of a beautiful home. it's modern, settled on a clearing that I'm sure boasts a beautiful view of the city.

I turn off the engine and glance over at Spencer, whose spine is suddenly so rigid that I nearly question the reality of his singing a song a few minutes ago.

"you okay?" I ask.

"yeah," he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and looks at the dashboard. "yes," he repeats.

"great. let's get this over with." I get out of the car.

Lila is already standing in the threshold of her house, watching the two of us.

"hello." she gives me a half-hearted smile.

"hi," I sigh. "sorry to keep you here tonight."

"I know, it's just for my safety," she shrugs and lets the two of us in. "hi, Spencer."

he gives an awkward wave and grips the strap of his messenger bag with a nervous tightness.

"did you bring work with you?" she laughs at the heavy-looking bag.

"yes," he says with total seriousness.

I clear my throat. "we should probably get the layout of the house first, Reid."

he purses his lips and nods. I catch Lila staring at him for a nanosecond too long, try to run the possibilities in my head. it's completely feasible that she's just trying to understand his awkward tendencies, like many of the people we deal with. I don't trust myself to draw conclusions about this particular thing, given how laced with bias they might be.

it's something of a relief as she shows us around the place-- it's not as big as it looks from the outside, but there's a pool out back that overlooks the hills. there aren't many points of entry and she, predictably, has a security system. my concern with modern houses like these is that there's usually tons of glass, creating a perfect opportunity for Peeping Toms and overzealous paparazzi.

sure enough, a decent portion of the back of the house is glass. the openness of it makes my hair stand on end a bit.

when I turn around, Spencer and Lila are looking at an art piece she's got hanging on her wall. it's a photographic collage, vertical slashes of brightly colored scenes that have been pasted together onto a long canvas. it's not very attractive, but judging from the way Lila explains its significance, it must be sentimental for her.

"I like it because it's like life, you know? like, obscure and difficult…" she trails off. Spencer nods in a way that could be understanding or unimpressed, I can't tell. for a profiler, I'm remarkably confused watching his interactions today.

"you should get a dog," he replies instead. "like a guard dog of some sort."

"allergic," she shrugs.

"Lila, have you ever had any security issues at this house before?" I break in. she turns to me and shakes her head.

"no, never. it's usually pretty quiet up here." her body language is relaxed. normally someone with a stalker would be more nervous, even apprehensive, about staying in a house with so much visibility. I know I would be. but she doesn't seem bothered at all. I guess it isn't that surprising, given how she's acted up to this point: refusing to stop work or change her lifestyle in any way. I still can't tell if I find this admirable or just stubborn. maybe a bit of both.

"can I get you guys some tea or something?" she smiles.

"uh, sure," I agree. my body is overactive right now and I need something to hold. Spencer declines her offer and waits until she leaves the room to speak again.

"the glass is a bit worrying." he points to the sliding doors leading out to the pool in the back.

"that's what I was thinking, too. maybe we can do a quick sweep and see if there are any other vulnerable spots," I suggest.

he nods and Lila walks back in. "your tea is steeping. do you want me to show you guys that layout now?"

"that would be great." it comes out sounding a bit sarcastic, though I don't mean it to. I'm still thinking about the glass and how creepy it would be to just have people be able to watch inside-- security system or not, I don't like the risk.

she guides us down the hallway, the walls of which are accented with random contemporary art pieces. the only real photos I see are in her bedroom-- framed pictures of her with her family, with her best friend. it's the same woman who works on her set and handed her that envelope earlier today. I don't remember her name, but it's obvious they're close.

there are only two bedrooms: hers and a guest room, which is tidy and doesn't seem to be used very frequently. I try to think of a polite way to say what I'm thinking.

"it doesn't look like you've decorated much here. did you move in recently?" my fingertips brush the wooden doorframe of the guest room as we start to make our way back to the living area. the small space is turning out to be advantageous; there aren't many extra points of entry or big windows that could be broken into.

"no, I moved in last year. I'm just not home very often since I work a lot. I'm sure you guys are familiar with that."

Spencer lets out something like a laugh and I give a half-grin. "we definitely get it."

she briefly takes us outside to give a better overview of the security system, and then we return to the main part of the house. Lila brings me my tea and we sit down to talk in more depth.

"there aren't a lot of opportunities for someone to break and enter," Spencer assures her. he's leaning his elbows on his knees. "we just need to watch out for a few things."

"the wall of glass, for example," I point to her backyard. "and we'll need access to your security footage from the past few weeks."

Spencer stands up and pulls out his phone. "I'll have Garcia get on that."

"great. if you have stuff you need to do here, Lila, you're welcome to do that. we're just going to be around in case you hear or need anything."

Spencer has gone to the kitchen to talk to Garcia, so it's just me and Lila sitting across from each other. the sun has started to set, pouring pinkish light into the room and making her hair appear even more brilliantly blonde.

"I just have to run some lines, really. maybe one of you can help me with that," she raises a brow and for a moment I can't tell if she's joking or being earnest.

"I'm not really sure that's a good idea. the whole reason Dr. Reid and I are here is to monitor the house."

"and me, right? what better way to do that than running lines?" her tone is flirtatious and it becomes evident that she just has this kind of personality. naturally playful. it's charming and I can see why people find it appealing. but right now, when her life is being directly threatened, it must be a way to deflect the fear. her pupils tend to dart around and it gives her away.

I soften a bit. her refusal to adjust her life set off alarm bells for me before, but now it's obvious that it's her way of managing the panic; if she doesn't shift her routine, it's easier to pretend it's not even happening.

thankfully, I'm saved from responding to her request by Spencer returning to join us.

"Garcia is running through the footage for any suspicious activity around here, but so far everything looks normal," he says. Lila smiles at this, this one a bit less showy and more as though processing everything.

this must be jarring for someone who doesn't work in this field. and she's only going to have it even worse when she finds out about Michael.

it's like a punch to the stomach when I remember we'll have to tell her soon. the sooner, the better. hopefully we can find this person within the next day or so; drawing it out is just cruel.

"so, Spencer, I was just asking Agent Williams if either of you would be willing to run lines with me to pass the time," Lila recovers from her moment quickly, tossing her hair and glancing between the two of us. the difference between her calling him Spencer and me "Agent Williams" makes me want to cringe.

"you can just call me Clea," I correct her. she brightens at this.

"right. well, my question still stands."

"I don't think that's really appropriate--" I start, just as Spencer replies with a shaky, "Sure."

we lock eyes and I frown. he can do whatever he wants, I guess, but having two agents on high alert is better than one. Prentiss's words from earlier come back to me: do you really think Reid is gonna be able to stop her? and she's right.

"I'll be fine, don't worry. if you want, we can just do it here in the living room. so it's easy to watch over me," Lila grins.

when she runs out of the room to grab her script, I turn to Reid.

"really? running lines?" I can't keep the annoyance out of my voice.

"what? we're supposed to be keeping her in our sight," he defends himself, voice pitching up a bit.

"yeah, but you're gonna be distracted. this isn't the time to flirt." it comes out of my mouth before I have a chance to think, the frustration of him not following protocol and this other, indefinable thing welling up inside me.

Spencer's lips part like he wants to respond, brows furrowing together, but then Lila comes back in and peeks between us.

"everything okay?" she's trepidatious.

my gaze cuts quickly to Reid, who is still watching me, then right back to her. "yeah, everything's fine. I'm gonna do another outside sweep."

it's sort of unnecessary to do one, but honestly, I just need some fresh air.

as soon as I'm out the door, I take several deep breaths. regardless of whatever strange sensation keeps pulling at my gut, I don't enjoy being on a different page from my partner. it doesn't matter if it's Prentiss or Morgan or Reid-- we're supposed to be a team, and the way Spencer just gave into her worries me.

I have faith in him, but I like control. need it, really.

the California air is dry and much cooler at night. not uncomfortable, but breezy as I step around the perimeter of the house. at this point, the light has faded to a soft plum. the lights of Los Angeles start to sparkle down below, making me somewhat isolated. something about it causes my skin to crawl.

my gun is cool in my hand. the primal instinct that I usually get when someone is around isn't there, so I let myself breathe. when I make it to the back area, Spencer and Lila are visible through the glass doors. he sits across from her on the couch, holding a script. she's standing in the center of the living room and speaking animatedly. rehearsing.

I shove down the part of me that is guilty about Michael in the same way that Reid seems to do. it can be so hard to draw the line between what emotions are appropriate to indulge and the ones that are too dangerous. where my own moral boundaries stand. I hate lying, and letting her go on flirting while her close friend is in a morgue drawer nauseates me.

Lila laughs at something Spencer says-- though he doesn't appear to be making a joke, given his stoic expression-- and comes to sit next to him on the couch. when she touches his shoulder in an innocent way, I turn away and decide to go back inside.

about an hour later, Lila goes to her room to change into pajamas and I'm left alone with Spencer. he hasn't seem fazed at all by the constant doting from Lila, aside from the occasional stuttering and shifting when she gets too close or compliments him in any way. as soon as he and I are alone, he nods at the phone on the couch beside me.

"any word from Hotch?"

"uh, no," I clear my throat, unsure of what to say. "actually, I should probably just call and make sure."

if I needed to know anything, the team would have reached out, but I get up before Spencer can reply. instead, I excuse myself to the hallway and dial Morgan's number.

"what's up, Williams?" he answers on the second ring.

"hi. nothing, honestly. I'm just calling to check in-- I haven't heard from any of the team members for a bit."

"we've just been at the precinct. has Lila been asking about Michael?"

"no, no. I think she was satisfied with what we told her earlier," I curl my fingers into my palm, nails digging into the skin. "how are we gonna break it to her?"

"I don't know. maybe Spencer can after this whole thing is over. she seems to trust him, so maybe it'll be easier to process."

my breath catches, but I nod as if Morgan can see me. "sure. yeah."

"you alright?" his voice softens slightly, and it only reminds me that I need to clean up my behavior right now. it's hard to hide things from him, and the last thing I need is to have him needling me about my relationship with Spencer after we close the case.

"yeah, sorry," I smile, prepared to change the subject, when a sudden noise jolts me out of my thoughts.

a splash-- loud, from the other room.

the pool.

"shit, I gotta go." I hang up, running out to the living room area.

the doors are open, and there are two heads bobbing in the rippling water. Lila slicks her hair back and it's only then that I realize the other person in the water is Spencer.

Spencer, whose wet hair sticks to his face and who is still fully clothed.

my heart stops and restarts in my chest at the abruptness of the situation, but it starts hammering as I stand in the threshold. Spencer flips his head around to me, innocent, like he didn't mean for this to happen.

"she pulled me in!" he brushes the hair out of his eyes and seems to plead with me. Lila smirks at him, fully locked in on his expression.

I'm speechless. I believe him, but Lila's erratic behavior is starting to irritate me more and more. she's reckless and flirting with an FBI agent while he's on the job-- yanking him into the water when her own life could be at risk.

I know people cope with things in different ways, but there has to be a line.

"your gun." my voice comes out softly as I point to Reid's torso. the weapon is still submerged.

his face goes even paler than usual and he practically leaps to drop it on the cement by the edge of the pool. as he finds the underwater steps and trudges out, my gaze finds Lila's. if she realizes that I'm irritated with her, she makes no indication of it.

"sorry." her laugh is bubbly. she's wearing a bikini, I notice, as she slowly makes her way to the steps to come join us. the "pajamas" she went to change into earlier.

"you know, you've aged me ten years in the past 48 hours." Reid pulls the hem of his button-up out of his pants and wrings it out. his hair, dripping, hangs around his face.

I try not to notice the way the wet fabric clings to his body.

"I just thought you deserved to have five minutes of fun," Lila replies, as if we're supposed to be chatting over cocktails instead of keeping her safe.

"yeah, well, fun isn't part of our job description tonight." my tone is sharp, but at this point I don't care. she's frying my nerves, and Spencer isn't putting his foot down enough.

"do you have towels?" Reid is practically shaking in the cool evening air.

"use mine." Lila grabs the one she must have brought out with her and hands it to my coworker.

I spin on my heel and go back inside. I'll have to tell the girls about this when we're back in Quantico; they'll understand.

Morgan calls me as the two of them get changed into warm clothes-- Spencer's thin, lanky build apparently makes him the perfect fit for Lila's old sweats.

"what the hell happened?" he asks immediately.

"nothing. Lila pulled Reid into the pool, and it just made this big splash noise that startled me. everyone is fine."

"why'd she do that?"

"no idea. she's been acting like this whole night is prime time for flirting with Reid." it takes everything to keep the venom out of my voice.

"that's weird. maybe she's just trying to distract herself."

"maybe. I don't know, Reid should still be more strict with her. I feel like I'm insane."

"you're not insane. he's just awkward around people. but I get it-- I'll talk to him when we get back." Morgan's voice is soothing over the phone. my fists unclench a bit and the muscles in my back relax. he always has my back.

"thanks," I let out a long exhale. "I just wanna catch this guy so we can go home."

"we will. stay focused. Reid's a good partner-- I think he's just been thrown off his game by the added social factor here. victims aren't usually trying to get into his pants."

I try to let out a laugh, but my cringe causes it to come out strangled. even the thought of that makes me physically ill. "true."

Spencer wanders back into the living room with a hoodie and sweats on, hair still air-drying.

"I should go, Morgan. I'll call you if anything interesting happens."

"I'd hope so, pretty girl. stay safe."

"how's it going with him?" Spencer asks, plopping down.

"fine. I was just explaining Lila's little prank earlier."

"she didn't mean any harm by it." Spencer watches my features as though he can see right through me.

I dislike that, so I avert my gaze and straighten up in my seat. "just be careful. one wrong move and either of you could end up with a bullet in your head. this guy is obviously the jealous type."

Spencer winces at the harshness of the image, but nods as he leans his elbows on his knees and stares down at his clasped hands. "you're right."

"sorry. I guess that was extreme," I bite my lower lip. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

his eyes lift to mine for a moment. they're so pretty and dark, ringed by long lashes. his mouth is set in a soft but steady line. for the first time in the last few hours, I don't want to glance away. he doesn't seem to, either.

but then he catches sight of the artwork from earlier behind me, the one with the strips of different photographs arranged in a puzzle-like way.

his pupils flicker rapidly between the images and I turn to see what he's trying to piece together.

"Lila?" his voice resonates through the house and the woman in question emerges from the hallway. she's wearing a silk robe.

"yes?"

"you went to Julliard, right?"

"yeah, why?"

"and you lived on Houston Street."

"mhmm."

Reid stands and inches closer to the piece. with his brows furrowed, it's easy to see the gears turning in his mind. "I think I see images of you in this. I need to take it apart."

Lila keeps peeking between the agent and the photos, as if trying to discern exactly what it is he sees, but it's a waste of effort to try. his brain is beyond explanation.

"sure, yeah, I guess," she agrees.

before long, we're leaning over the counter as Reid rearranges every slice into a series of complete pictures. my chin rests on my fist as I try to make out what I can from the composite.

"it looks like someone's been stalking you for years, Lila," I say gently. "this is, like, your life story."

"movie theaters, theater playbills, everything since college," Reid continues. he points to the respective scenes, including several dramatic shots of the actress in different performances.

Lila's hand covers her mouth. she points to one of the pictures. "that's our country house."

"who gave this to you?" I frown.

"Parker Dunley. we met a while ago. he runs a gallery here in LA." she points to another person's face in the piece, a man in one of the corners.

I pull out my cell and call Garcia.

"at your service, madam," she answers.

"Garcia, I need a sheet on a guy named Parker Dunley. can you send it to Morgan and Prentiss and have them go to the address?"

"absolutely. new suspect?"

"yeah. he gave Lila some collage a while ago and it's literally full of pictures of her."

"oh, ew." she replies, then hangs up.

I push my phone into my pocket and try to give Lila a reassuring smile. for the first time, she seems truly shaken. with a face to attach to the monster, it must be more real.

"we'll get the guy. don't worry." I infuse my voice with as much certainty as I can muster.

she nods, stays silent. Reid glances at her, clearly not sure how to comfort the woman.

unfortunately, all we can do for the next few minutes is wait as the rest of the team goes to talk to Dunley. Reid and I continue to look over the art in case there's anything important we might have missed, but Lila just paces back and forth across the kitchen floor.

it takes maybe fifteen minutes before I get a call from Hotch.

"hello?" my voice wavers slightly.

"Williams. it's not Dunley. it's a woman named Maggie Lowe."

my heart falters. "wait, what?"

"Dunley lied. Maggie made the collage and told him to give it to her. she's a crew member on Lila's show."

"oh. okay, thanks," I say stupidly, then hang up to address Lila. "do you know someone named Maggie Lowe?"

"Mags?" Lila pauses in his pacing and frowns at me. "yeah, of course I know her. I've known her for years. I got her a job on my show."

my mouth opens as I prepare to tell her that her close friend is, in fact, her stalker, when her own phone rings.

Spencer glances between the two of us. "what is it?"

"that's her calling right now." Lila's eyes drift from her screen up to us and my stomach knots up.

"is she calling from a cell?" Spencer asks.

"yeah."

"Lila, we think Maggie's the unsub," I break in.

"the what?"

"the stalker."

"what? no way." she shakes her head.

"answer the phone." I gesture to the device, which is still ringing.

"that's crazy. she wouldn't do that." Lila ignores me, coming over to the counter.

"answer the phone. act completely natural," Spencer approaches her earnestly. "keep her on the phone as long as you can. the longer she's on, the more likely we'll be able to trace the call."

she gives him a disbelieving look. the ringtone continues to blare, and I watch as Spencer puts his hand on her arm. it's kind. "trust me."

as she brings the receiver up to her ear, I walk away to call Garcia.

"oracle of Quantico," she answers. "speak if you deign to hear truth."

"Garcia, I need an emergency trace on a call to Lila Archer's phone."

"sure, go ahead."

Spencer grabs my phone and rattles off Lila's number-- which I've, of course, forgotten-- and hands it back to me.

"okay, just keep her talking," Garcia instructs over the sound of her fingers on the keyboard.

I turn to Lila, who has a concerned expression as she walks around the living room and speaks to Maggie.

"you're tired?" she asks softly over the line. "Mags, I saw you today."

there's a pause, and then she continues. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Spencer leans against the counter and gives me a worried look.

"Maggie," Lila sounds hurt and confused. "that was only for a weekend."

"Williams," Garcia speaks again, full of dread. "is Lila's address 6028 Pike Street?"

my stomach twists. "yeah." the word drags out of my slowly. there's only one reason she'd bring that up right now; I know what she's going to say next.

"she's calling from inside the house. I must have missed her on the security cams while I was talking to Hotch-- I'll get you some backup."

"thanks, Garcia."

my body is still slack for a second before I get Reid's attention, who seems to understand me without a word. we both turn to the actress.

"Lila," I whisper.

she raises her brows at me.

"Maggie is in the house."

"how did she get in?" Reid asks her.

"she has keys," Lila swallows, now off the phone. her stalker must have dropped the call.

Reid and I both reach for our guns.

"Lila, just stay with us," I instruct, trying to figure out where to search first.

she must have snuck in when we were out by the pool and just waited inside. maybe she's in the bedroom?

we start to move into the hallway, Lila between Reid and me so that she's covered on either side. I can hear our collective breaths, Lila's shaking. for a second, I feel crushing pity for her. the only paternal figure in her life and her own best friend, both gone in different ways.

this flies out of my mind, however, as we make our way into the bedroom. it seems undisturbed, a large space with a balcony that looks out over LA.

we're nearing one of the hidden corners of the room, where her walk-in closet resides, when there's a rush of air behind me. I spin around just in time for Maggie to smack my gun out of my hand.

it all happens so fast, I barely have time to register the movement. instead, I watch uselessly as the weapon thuds to the ground just a few feet away. but I can't go grab it, because her own gun is pointed right at me.

"why'd you have to bring these people here?" Maggie sneers, eyes shining with tears. she's disheveled, blonde hair wild as she scrutinizes us.

we're silent, Lila too shocked to speak first.

"put the gun down, Maggie," Spencer uses a gentle tone with her, but I know what he's doing without even looking. setting his gun on the ground; with a barrel pointed at all three of us, it's too much of a risk to have some kind of stand-off.

"don't call me Maggie," she scoffs. "you don't know me."

I want to speak, but I don't know what will defuse the situation. she's got the weapon leveled right at my face, and she's obviously impulsive. the wrong thing might just make her lose it.

"you shouldn't have brought them here. we have to get out, now, baby," Maggie continues instead, for a second twitching the gun at her intended victim. "come on."

"Maggie, don't hurt her," I raise my hands and move just enough to step in front of Lila. "you don't need to hurt her."

"you don't know anything," she replies with exasperation. when she walks over to Lila and pushes a piece of hair behind her ear, my spine goes rigid. the difference between how she speaks to use and how she speaks to the object of her desire is like two different people speaking from one body. "I would never hurt you. I created you."

"no, you didn't." Lila keeps her attention on Reid as Maggie brushes a hand over her locks, down her back.

"yes, I did." her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek, holding back her own rage. "I know I did. you stupid, ungrateful--"

with her laser-focused on Lila, I realize that she's completely forgotten about me. it would be easy to grab my gun, but I really don't want to shoot her. especially not in front of Lila; she's lost enough. I wrack my brain for another option.

"I can't believe that I loved you." Maggie's voice is breathless as she pulls away to aim the gun at Lila. she's shaking with anger.

I have no idea if she'll actually go through with it and shoot, but I can't risk it. my body lurches forward and I use one hand to grab her gun, the other to grab her wrist, and shove my shoulder into her body.

we topple to the ground, the gun easily falling into my possession. her grip was so weak; too anguished to be effective.

Reid pushes Lila behind him as he leaps to my side, grabbing the gun from me and putting it in his waistband. Maggie tries to wrestle with me, screeching like a banshee, but I weigh more than her and I've already got her wrists pinned to the ground.

mascara stains her cheeks. "kill me," she begs with the desperation of a cornered animal. "fucking kill me. please. I'll be so much happier."

I can't find the words to reply. the entirety of my short time in the BAU, nobody has ever asked me to kill them after being caught. it's awful, the sensation it causes deep in my chest.

for a second, I'm almost overwhelmed with the sadness and nausea that wrestle within me. I would never kill her like this, but part of me wishes I could take her out of her misery in some other way. I wouldn't want to live if I was haunted by this, either.

instead of giving her an answer, I bite down hard on my bottom lip until it bleeds inside my mouth. she tries to wrench herself away and I have to press my nails into her skin, breaking it. despite being small and weak, she's scrappy.

I'm not sure how long we're there, our gazes digging into each other, before I hear sirens and the team enters the bedroom. Reid pulls me off of Maggie. I'm slightly limp, so he pulls me into his chest to steady me.

my knees are like jelly, but I watch them take her out of the room in handcuffs. Lila is standing in silence by the balcony door, blankly staring as Morgan tries to help her regain herself. the fabric of Spencer's sweatshirt is soft against my cheek. I have no idea why this is affecting me so much; I can't relate to her in any real way, yet I can still feel the tiny amount of blood that I drew from her wrists under my nails. it makes me feel dirty.

"are you alright?" he asks quietly. his hands move to my arms, wrapping around them, and I realize how pathetic I must appear right now.

"yes. yeah, sorry, I think my arms and legs fell asleep from holding her there." I force out a laugh and pull away as if it's easy. he's so warm.

"oh, sure." his features are contorted with worry as he looks down at me.

I can't deal with the intensity of it, so I shift my body and he drops his hands from my body. a shiver runs down my spine that I also can't identify. the world is moving slow and fast all at once, nearly blurring the edges of my vision.

"let's go home, yeah?" I plaster on a smile and give his shoulder a short, friendly squeeze. we still have to somehow tell Lila that Michael is gone, but my body physically can't take that thought right now. it'll have to wait until tomorrow.

when I walk away without waiting for his response, there's an elephant's weight on my chest.

taglist (add yourself here or lmk if you want to be added/removed!): @reidsconverse @donald4spiderman @awritingtree @gingeraleluke @bewitchedbibliophile @xoxospencerreid @spencerreidat3am @azuriteannie @written-disasters @si1verscreens @pleasantwitchgarden

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #mgg #baby spencer reid #baby spence #bau!reader #spencer reid x bau!oc #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid fanfiction #cm #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid angst #cm angst

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babiebom · 2 years ago

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Heyy it's me again, lol. Ur criminal minds hcs for Reid were so good!! Thank u for blessing me. 🙌🏻 I was wondering if ud be down to write maybe a one-shot or a drabble of Reid comforting a reader (I almost wrote reider bc I spaced out and like akjsldj) who just had friends leave them when they thought they were really close? I hope that's not too specific!! Thank you sm for blessing the world with ur writing. It literally makes my day so much brighter whenever you post. 🥰

A/N: CUTE!! Reider would be a really cute fandom name for him ngl. Also I’ve fallen out of contact with friends that I thought were gonna be in it for the long run with me but unfortunately it just didn’t work out that way even if we didn’t fall out. ALSO specifics are great with me because then it’s clear what I need to write and what you want me to write so don’t apologize!! Can you tell I don’t know how to comfort anyone?

Tw: some cursing, some abandonment issues, mentions of bullying within the friend group. Isolation, ghosting. Lmk if there’s something I should tag!

Genre: angst, one shot, some fluff

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (can be read platonically or romantically in think. Also can be read as gender neutral maybe?) if I added pronouns or descriptors let me know!!

Wc:1.3k

Criminal Minds Masterlist

It’s strange when you break up with a friend, even more so when the reason that you breakup is something stupid, something avoidable. It hurts even more when you get abandoned, ghosted by someone you thought would be in your life for the rest of it. No one ever prepares you for friendships ending. You get prepared for romantic relationships, death, and maybe sometimes you drift apart from friends but even then you’re prepared.

You stare at the group chat that had defined your childhood and teenage years. Stare at the names followed by “has left the chat” with a feeling in your heart that is only rivaled by death of a loved one if you remembered correctly. It had been a while.

It was a petty argument that only lasted a day, something about how everyone treated you. You regretted bringing it up on the first day that you had been ignored after sending a message. That day turned into a week which turned into them all leaving the group chat without telling you which hurt more than being kicked out of it. Did you really mean that little that they would ghost you that easily?

You never started arguments usually. You never even participated in them, trying to stay neutral in order to keep everyone happy. Always passive and agreeable and everyone liked you that way. The one time you have something to get off your chest…maybe you shouldn’t have said anything.

You tried to message one of your friends first, you hadn’t known her as long as some of the others in the group, but she was always sweet and didn’t seem like the type to ghost.

You 5:43 pm: Irene what happened? I saw you all left the group chat. Is something wrong?

You don’t get an answer back for an hour. And it makes your heart squeeze in your chest. It isn’t really an answer, but at the same time it answered both of your questions. To her you didn’t really matter all that much and something was really wrong.

Irene 7:01 pm: just leave me alone. You said what you needed to say, if you message me again I’ll block you.

You try again with a different friend. One you have known a little longer. One who had complained to you and confided in you and one that you thought you were close to than this.

He doesn’t answer at all, and neither do the other two that you message. Eventually you figure out that your messages never sent because you had been blocked. Going to their instagrams and twitters, everything is gone as soon as you click on them. Even their TikTok’s have nothing for you to look at.

Soon enough you’re fighting off tears, your chest tight and your stomach swirling. Was speaking up for yourself really worth this? Your head spins and your vision becomes blurry as you click on the last contact that’s available to you.

Your best friend. Having known her for the longest time out of all of them, you’d think she’d say something before doing something like this. You two met in elementary school, and were friends before the group got together. If you think about it more your friendship reminded you of the one in Jennifer’s Body. Except instead of saving everyone, you were being ignored and abandoned by the person you thought was going to be there even if everyone else wouldn’t. The person that you thought you could rely on.

But before you could message her, one came straight to you. The bubbles popping up as she’s typing something else. You can’t really understand the first paragraph, your mind to overwhelmed by the weeks events to be able to read.

Emilie 7:42 pm: I just wanted to message you before you tried anything with me. I’m honestly not interested in talking to you anymore after how you talked to me and my friends. None of us want you in the group anymore, and honestly it’s fucking pathetic that you’re reaching out and asking if anything is wrong when you’re the reason everyone was upset in the first place. Like you said we were shit friends, and now you wanna act like everything confuses you? If we were so shitty to you, why do you want us to still talk to you? I told Jacob, Josh, Irene, and Paisley to block you if you message them because honestly they don’t need you to try to beg and plead with them. You’re toxic and we’re done with you. Honestly, you look pathetic and desperate for attention messaging all of us like this. I’m not even gonna bother blocking you because it doesn’t really matter that much to me and maybe in the future I could be open to being friends again but for right now, I’m over it. Bye. You should do better.

Now the tears fall down your face, hot and burning as they trail down your cheeks and onto the screen of your phone. Going onto instagram to doom scroll your feelings away, you are immediately met with a photo of your friend group hanging out without you. Taken aback, you try to bring yourself to unfollow Emilie, to block her and effectively cut her out of your life while your wounds are fresh and your friendship is newly ended so you don’t have to torture yourself. But that’s exactly what you do, torture yourself. Instead of unfollowing her, deleting all of the pictures of her and your friend group from your feed, you scroll through them, the tears falling faster the longer you sit there and reminisce. You don’t even hear the front door open and close, and the only reason you know it did is because of the weight that causes you to lean towards the new person in the bed. Warmth blankets around you, the feeling of arms wrapped around your body brings you out of your mind.

Turning to look at the man next to you, you see that Spencer is looking at you as if you’re a wounded animal and it makes you burst out into tears. Maybe you really did look pathetic. “Oh no…what happened?”

You tried to explain, but couldn’t properly while you were blubbering. Instead you just throw your phone to him and let your head fall into your hands. He takes a literal second to read, then lets out a gust of air that usually meant he was surprised and didn’t know what to say.

He moves to hug you again, resting his head on top of yours. “You know…they say that it takes 200 hours to form a close friendship with someone. And when that friendship ends unexpectedly, it can cause a multitude of issues in the future with how you trust and open up to people…”

His ramblings weren’t all that comforting, but just hearing him speak made you start to feel better. Of course he would attempt to make things better by spouting facts that one hundred percent would make anyone else annoyed at him. You snuggle into his arms, nodding your head to show that you’re listening in between sobs. “S-so how long until I s-stop feeling like my h-heart is broken?” You ask. It did somehow feel like being broken up with, or having someone die.

“Well, most grief experts think that a year is a good estimate on how long it takes to get used to the loss of someone major in your life…”

“A year?” You whine, letting your head tilt backwards dramatically. “That’s too long!” It’s kind of a joke, the way you say it. But the way he looks at you lets you know that he knows you’re being somewhat serious.

“She was your best friend…of course it’s going to take some time to get used to not talking to her…however long you take to grieve is how long it’s going to take. It’s not a complete science.”

You nod, and hide your face in his chest. While you still felt like the Earth was ending, maybe it’s not ending right this second anymore.

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds oneshot #criminal minds headcanons #cm x reader #cm spencer reid #cm #cm headcanon #cm Oneshots #criminal minds angst #cm angst #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid angst

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megumimania · 2 months ago

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OH BABY! — spencer reid

summary: spencer finds out why you’ve been so avoidant with him lately when it comes to having kids.

pairings: spencer reid x afab!reader

warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy and children, spencer has baby fever, fluff, angst (somewhat), no use of y/n

a/n: tried something new with the layout dk how to feel about it, finally releasing another fic from the drafts!! the latter half of this fic was written at 5am so it’s not proofread—this was supposed to be lighthearted oops!

spencer’s dropping hints and you’re not so sure if you want to pick them up.

at first it was subtle, he’d send you videos of babies and kittens interacting—normal, typical right? then you noticed that look in his eyes when you played with henry and michael, preferring to enjoy the scene quietly with a cup of earl grey as he looked on contently.

you couldn’t miss the obvious way he looked at baby clothes with such fondness, talking about a future where’d he be chasing after a bunch of screaming, scraggling children instead of unsubs. your heart bloomed knowing that he saw you in his future, but that didn’t quell the slight anxiety in your stomach.

luckily life got in the way and the baby talk died down, with mentions of case files and paperwork taking up your nightly conversations over dinner and you were relieved, preferring to hear about spencer’s day or time in a different state for a case just like he enjoyed to hear about your day in return.

however you knew that eventually this conversation would come back into the fold.

“we never really finished our conversation,” he said one night, lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. you racked through your mind the topic you’d been skirting around for weeks was now being brought up and now there was no escaping it.

he doesn’t prod or rush, allowing you to lead the conversation—after all it was and is your choice. you put your laptop aside and sink into his touch, the quiet intimacy of it all allowing you to have the moment to think quietly for the first time in weeks.

“about having kids?” you respond, you voice a little more quiet, the gravity of the possible future finally weighing on you. spencer notices your change in tone and his gaze softens slightly, he feels like he’s struck a nerve and doesn’t know how to make you feel at ease.

he’s noticed you’ve been off lately. particularly when it comes to the subject of kids. the way you’d shut down and look uncomfortable when the topic is brought up. he spotted all of your tells (one of the perks of knowing you for so long) the slight change in pitch, the way you fidgeted with your fingers, the way you’d tense up as if your body was preparing for an attack.

yet he didn’t push, despite the voice in his head screaming for him to but he knew better than to push and prod, it wouldn’t yield any good results for either of you. so he chose to give you space. he tried to fill the uncomfortable silence here and there with a random piece of pop culture he learned from penelope or he’d send a link to an interesting article he’d read and thought you’d like.

the little acts like those that showed he still loved and supported you irregardless of what you were going through, is what helped calmed his own anxieties down a little but it still didn’t entirely erase them.

“im sorry, I’ve really scatterbrained as of late. work’s just ramped up a bit more ever since we had that department meeting a couple of weeks ago.” you tell him. which was partially the truth, spencer knew of how’d stressed you were about that meeting. he remembered how you were telling him about feeling a sense impending doom that he tried to talk you out of on the drive to work.

but that meeting had happened a couple of months ago, not in recent weeks.

he was incredibly concerned now but decided to come back to it later. he made mental notes to buy some vitamins and ensure you were eating and staying hydrated and if things got worse, he had your physician on speed dial.

“baby, are you okay?” he asks you, gently facing you towards him. you try to put on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you try and calm him down, knowing that his mind was probably racing at a million miles per hour.

“i’m fine spence, just tired.” you yawn as you leaned against his shoulder, your body feeling heavy with exhaustion. spencer was not convinced at all, it was worrying him how evasive you were about everything as of late. he softly rubbed your back as he felt you finally relax for what seemed like the first time in days.

“you know you can tell me anything right, hm?” he murmurs in your ear softly as if the walls could hear him too. he felt your body move once more as you tried to make yourself more comfortable in his embrace and when you were, you finally spoke making eye contact with him.

“spence, you know i want to have kids with you more than anything—i mean you’re the only person who’d i want to do this with and i like talking about the hypotheticals but what happens when the kid is actually here? what will happen to us?”

and for the fifth time in his life spencer walter reid was stunned. the usual answer that he had ready in his back pocket could no longer be found. sure, he could rattle off studies about parental relationships post pregnancy or offer words of comfort to you but they weren’t that effective. it wouldn’t prepare either of you for the potential shift in your relationship that would occur once that baby would come into the picture.

“i don’t know.” he replied with a sigh as he affectionately squeezes your hand in his. “but what i do know is that we will make great parents together, you won’t be alone in this i promise. yeah we’ll fuck up at times or we’ll argue with each other but as long as we continue to love,cherish and respect one another and extend that same love to our future children, we’ll be okay.”

spencer’s words are reassuring, to say the least. the niggling doubts in the back of your mind threaten to dispel the sense of comfort you feel, reeling you back to your anxious state with the worst possible outcomes in mind. yet spencer’s words and subsequently his love for you is what you choose to cling onto in spite of all else because unlike the horrors and fears your mind conjured up for you like a sleeping draught, spencer’s love was real, it was tangible.

“what if we’re not talking about the hypothetical future…what if it’s real?” a voice that seems to be yours asks but it’s smaller, you hate how fragile you sound as if any single thing could shatter you into million pieces. spencer doesn’t look at you with judgment, he listens trying to follow your line of thought.

it takes him a split second to register what you were saying before he looks at you his eyes glittering with unshed tears. “you don’t mean that you’re…” he asks and you nod, the future that he’d talked about in length and thought about often was soon approaching and it was kinda surreal to think about.

and now everything made sense, the brain fog, the fatigue, the aversion to talking about kids, your lack of appetite when it came to certain foods or smells—it all made sense and he was even more annoyed that he failed to compute it all sooner, knowing how scared you must’ve felt about it all.

before he knows it hot tears stream down your face and he is at the ready, wiping them away with gentle loving words and kisses and you feel a sense of warmth flooding you. knowing that you picked no better person to love and raise your kid.it makes you, ever the skeptic, believe in fate somewhat. who knew a random coffee shop encounter on a rainy wednesday morning would lead to this down the line?

“i love you and im sorry for keeping this from you.” you sniffle as you try to gather yourself together but its no use as you break down again and spencer is ready to catch you. he feels awful seeing you cry like this.

“you don’t have to apologise.” he murmurs into your hair as he pulls you into his embrace, letting you cry into his shirt. he knows that it will be damp with tears and snot soon and he should probably give you a tissue to get everything out but it wasn’t the right time. now he was focusing on giving all the love and support you needed at that moment, to make up for the times he wasn’t there.

however later that night when you were asleep, he’d be up busy researching the best foods, hospitals, supplies, and mom and baby support groups so that these next nine months and the months that followed post partum would be less of a bumpy ride for the pair of you.

and he may have bought a quantum physics for babies book in his excitement but he couldn’t help it, even though this pregnancy came as a surprise he was ready to be the best partner to you and father to the baby that he could ever be.

#spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x black!reader #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds angst #vina writes: cm

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omniscient3teabag · 2 months ago

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billy batson au/scenario where billy gets caught up in an incident as billy himself and his only way to not literally BLEED OUT and DIE is to transform back as captain marvel (And chooses to stay as him. how will he survive if he detransforms back anyways? he can't risk it yet,)

So. times go by, captain marvel hasn't detransformed in maybe a month or two and it's sorta? starting to affect billys own body for some reason. But not enough for the kid to die,, And then , in one of the missions that most of the main justice league members have to join in, a magical rune/spell/whatever is casted onto them to show the day all of them will individually die (with diana and superman probably having the most amount of time out of everyone, and with batman surprisingly having 31:19:03 years, hours and minutes to his name left(yeah, even batman himself was rather surprised at that)) for the thrill of it.

but, it isn't fate, they could still survive if they change any little thing. if they get help or not. it's not set in stone!!

and so to show that one of the timers could go off at any moment. Like. some of the timers just cut to zero even if there were a few more years to its name and they'll immediately kick the bucket. or like their heads explode. and their lives r on a gamble to hope that their own timers won't get chosen to be the next to be resetted. so all of their timers start ticking, as they fight their way through the battle they're fighting in

even after they win, the timers don't go away , so they're up in the watchtower, the annoying tick of each minute getting louder and louder in their ears, and having a meeting until they realize

captains timer is only ones that isn't ticking? so they look over to cm's timer and see,

00:00:04. Four minutes left. what? why is he literally almost on deaths door? metaphorically. I mean

but thats not all, it's not even going down. minute after minute, it's like it's stuck in stasis which is .. weird???? and like captain is sorta sweating bullets because like oooooh crumbs. Oh gods

also. accompanying art hshsssfjgdf

(he thought if he stayed still no one would notice his odd ass death timer)

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cerisereids · 4 months ago

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𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗔𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗛𝗶𝗺 𝗪𝗮𝘀 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗟𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗠𝗲- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- early seasons!Spencer Reid x bombshell!Reader

Summary- You’re completely and totally enamored with Spencer Reid. When you have to flirt as part of a case, he is not happy.

Contains- not proofread we die like men, fem!reader, mention of reader's boobs and ass, the most unhinged work place flirting you've ever seen, Spencer is Horny, the case isn't rly canon compliant but fuck it we ball, nasty suspect who reader has to flirt with, Spencer gets insecure, they make-up and make out on the jet

A/N: divider from @saradika-graphics !!!

The soft, golden glow of sunlight filters through the window. The glimmer coats the BAU in an extra layer of warmth from the early spring chill. You adjust your light pink blouse as you approach the desk of your favorite coworker, Spencer Reid. You prop yourself up on his desk, your floral skirt pulling taut around your hips as you settle.

You swing your legs playfully, waiting for him to turn his attention away from his case file and on to you. A small smile curves his lips, and you know you got him. A heeled foot hooks behind his shin, running along the length of it until his gaze finally finds you. His eyes shine when they meet yours, a large hand moving to grip your ankle and bring it to his knee. He keeps it there, a soothing thumb rubbing the expanse of the skin there.

Your heart flutters at the action, his own cheeks tinting pink at his temerity. This has been a recent update between the two of you, Spencer's touch, his affection. Since you started at the bureau, only a few short months after him, you've been fascinated by the genius sitting beneath you now. At first, he was shocked by your immediate friendship, not used to such affection without having to earn it. In the past few months, though, his hands will graze your waist, his hugs lingering a moment too long. This change in behavior sparks a flicker of hope in your chest. Hope that, maybe, he sees you the way you see him.

You see him now, looking up at you with sparkling brown eyes. The early morning light highlights the caramel tone seeping through the dark brown. It captivates you. Your eyes drift down the rest of his face, it's all you can do to not get completely lost in him, in those eyes.

"Whatcha looking at, handsome?" you drawl, sweet as honey as you reach for the case file on his desk.

You can't help the small smile that forms as heat rushes into his face, deepening his complexion a deep red.

"It-" his words catch in his throat, which he clears before continuing, "it's for a potential new case. From Hotch."

His tone is clipped, as if he's forcing himself to sound casual. He does that when he's nervous, you've come to find out. You wonder if the pointed toe heel resting delicately on his knee has anything to do with that. You press the ball of your foot into him playfully, reveling in the way he flushes even deeper.

"Can I see?" you ask lightly, tilting your head and pouting your lips, "I want to see if it's the one I passed along to him on Monday. I still haven't heard back from him about it."

You hop down from his desk, grabbing the chair adjacent from his desk. Maybe you pull it a little too close to his chair, but you can't seem to care too much once his bicep grazes your own. The smallest touch sends shock waves through you, a surge of electricity pumping straight to your heart.

You hear his breath pick up as you reach across his lap to grab the file. A small smile spreads across your lips as Spencer nods his head frantically, long, deft fingers passing the file to you.

"Yeah-yeah, I think it is. The white collar case on Cape Cod, right?" he asks, and you nod.

"Yeah, he wanted you to look at it?" you look towards him with bright eyes, hopeful. "I wasn't sure he'd be okay with us picking this one up. It's not really something we normally cover, but I have a feeling about it. Something's not right..." you trail off, scanning the details once more.

"I agree," he says, and it's almost laughable how relieved you feel at his approval. "I couldn't help but notice the fraud charge. They wired the money to an account in Germany. If this crosses country lines then we might be dealing with something more than just fraud."

"That's exactly what I was thinking!" your fingers latch onto his forearm in excitement. His eyes flash to your touch, his breath catching again.

Your eyes linger on his face, tracing each freckle of his smooth skin. His eyes flit up to yours, and the contact stops time. Everything around you comes to a standstill, you and Spencer are the only ones that exist in this moment.

A tap of a manila folder snaps you out of your Spencer-induced-haze, cheeks heating as you look up to find Hotch. A knowing look glimmers in his eye, and you twist your hands in your lap.

"Get ready to leave for Cape Cod," is all he says, tone definitive before he goes to brief the rest of the team.

Spencer's heart clutches in his chest as they exit the plane, right onto a coastal beach. She's dressed for the occasion, an airy, floral sundress ebbing and flowing around her gorgeous figure. He shoves his hands in his pockets, willing his gaze to focus anywhere else. He finds solace in his Converse, the way they squish against the sand deters him from the way her dress dips lower at the chest.

He shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the thought, as guilt creeps into the pit of his stomach. He's been fighting these feelings ever since she joined the bureau. The magnetic pull she has on him, the grip of want clutching his heart, his lungs, until he can barely breathe. As always, she saddles up next to him, as if she knew she's on his mind. She's always on his mind.

A mix of coconut and chemicals fill his nostrils, her sunscreen infiltrating all his senses. Her bare arm grazes against his, her proximity nearly suffocating. He'd rather die than move away from her, though.

They're assigned the same task, analyzing the letters sent to and from various money launderers. She's bent at the waist, palms flat against the white folding table set up on the beach. Hormones rage through him, he feels like a perverse teenager, but the way she pops her hip out nearly gives him a heart attack.

His arm lifts, almost involuntarily, his hand lightly grazing her elbow as he makes his presence known. He revels in the way her eyes light up as they find him, her hand finding his shoulder. He feels dizzy when she gives it a light squeeze, the prettiest smile painting her glossy lips.

"What have you found?" he ponders. She raises her brow at him.

"We've been here for not even five minutes. How do you know I've found something?" she inquires. A light chuckle escapes his lips, his eyes finding the letters she's been scanning.

"You have that crease in your brow when you know something," he mentions softly, her smile widening. "What is it?"

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, the plump flesh ever so tempting. She's so beautiful when she works, it takes his breath away.

"This. Look at this sentence, here," she points about halfway through an old, crinkled letter. It catches his eye immediately.

"'It's been handled. There's nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.' What do you make of that?" he asks, though he has some theories himself.

"A partnership. It almost seems romantic, 'pretty little head'," she repeats, "it's almost flirtatious. Like he wants to take care of the partner, man or woman."

Spencer has no idea how the perfect combination of beauty and brains found him, of all people, but God, is he thankful.

"I agree, nice work," he smiles at her, and he revels in the way she preens at his praise. The sun coats her skin, and the natural light makes her shimmer like an angel.

"Thanks, Spence," she nudges his shoulder with hers, and his cheeks heat. It's not from the sun.

An arrest is made not long after they touch down- a 25 year old manager of a local golf club. He's a broad, muscly type, the kind of guy that's always made Spencer feel smaller, less-than. He sees it. The moment he clocks her. It makes him sick.

He's handcuffed, Hotch dragging him along the beach to the interrogation space. On his way there, his eyes lock on the girl right next to him. Acidic bile rises in his throat as his eyes scan up and down, sizing her up like a lamb for slaughter.

Hotch approaches them a few minutes later, his gaze directed at her.

"He says he'll only talk to you. He wants 'the pretty one'," Hotch informs. A shiver unzips Spencer's spine at that, the sick feeling from earlier creeping up his throat once again. He can't help but link his pinkie finger through hers, a reassuring gesture that she's more than this.

Hotch leans closer, his voice a low timbre. "Between us, this guy is a bona fide creep. You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

A wave of relief rushes through Spencer at this, though his stomach drops when she removes her pinkie from his. He sees her straighten her spine in his peripheral, and his head snaps up to look at her. He knows the second he sees her. She's going to do it.

"No," she says to Hotch, almost defiant, "I can do it. I want to help in any way I can."

Hotch studies her for a moment, his brow furrowing in a concern Spencer shares. He nods tersely, and Spencer knows fighting this is a lost cause.

"Alright, let's go," Hotch says lowly, letting her go before both of them.

Spencer follows. It's against his better judgement, he knows he'd probably be of better use elsewhere. He can't let her go in alone, though. Not even if he tried.

Your heart is thumping in your chest, your blood thrumming in your veins as you near the interrogation room. Spencer's behind you the whole time, you can tell. A tiny flame of hope flickers in your chest as he stands at the glass, a white knuckle grip on the table beneath him.

You make eye contact with him one last time before opening the door. You see the restraint in his big brown eyes, how badly he wants to tell you to not go in. You take a deep breath and open the door anyway.

A sickly feeling creeps its way into your stomach, acid bubbling in the deepest part of you. You watch as he sizes you up, his gaze lingering a little too long on your chest. You're used to this, to men treating you like a piece of meat. It never gets easier, but you find a small bit of comfort in the fact that you're helping your team. So, you plaster your sweetest smile, falling into the role that's expected of you.

"Hi! How are you doing? Uncomfortable?" you pout your glossy lips, tone sickly sweet as you perch on the edge of the table. His eyes linger on your ass, the fat of it emphasized by your weight on the table. You arch your back slightly. You know you look good, you decide to lean into it instead of focusing on the man in front of you.

"What do you think, sweetheart?" he asks, sarcasm lacing his tone as he rattles his cuffs. "You help, though."

Your stomach churns, but your smile never falters. Your experience with men like this isn't foreign to you. You know every button you need to push.

"Yeah?" you drawl, your manicured nails crawling to his forearm, resting gingerly there. "Anything I can get you? Food? Water?" you bat your lashes sweetly. The glint in his eye reeks of objectification, and you swallow the lump in your throat.

"Get me a cheeseburger and fries from Louie's. Oh- and a chocolate milkshake, cherry on top," he winks at that last line. You pity him for how proud he seems of it.

You place a hand on his forearm, leaning in so your face is parallel with his. You watch his eyes flit down to your chest, now even more exposed in your position.

"You got it," your tone is saccharine, your nails dragging lightly against his arm as you stand to leave. You make sure to sway your hips a little extra as you leave, looking over your shoulder one more time before opening the door.

You exit the interrogation room to the shocked expressions of your team members, most are impressed, others in pure shock. You catch Spencer, though, and it doesn't take a genius to see the incredulous expression on his face. His brows furrowed, a pout hanging low on his lips.

"Way to work it, honey," Morgan claps you on the back. Hotch nods his agreement.

Pride swells in your belly at their praise. You can't shake Spencer's lack of enthusiasm, though. His inability to look you in the eye sparks a flame of disappointment, blazing through the content you felt just moments before.

You weave your way through the small room, linking your fingers around Spencer's wrist and pulling him out into the precinct. He still can't look at you.

"Spencer, what's wrong?" you're not really sure where to start. You hope this gets him talking.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong," his voice is high pitched in the way that it does when he's lying. "I just- I can't watch you put yourself on display for someone that looks at you like a piece of meat! Is that just your natural state? Since it clearly comes so easily to you."

He mumbles the last part under his breath, and it shocks you into silence. Frustration flares in your chest, spreading like wildfire from head to toe.

"You don't have to watch, then, Spencer," you spit out his name, and he flinches at your tone. "I'm trying to help our team solve this case. If you can't watch, then maybe your skills would be used better somewhere else."

You stalk off, hurt piercing through every nerve in your body. You wiggle your fingers, stretching your neck side to side as you try to shake off the feeling. It finds its way back to you, no matter what you do, rising like bile up your throat.

You open the door back to the interrogation room, watching the man behind the glass eat his food without a care in the world. You stew for a moment, letting yourself sit in the hurt, the anger. You decide to let it fuel you.

You reach your hands into your dress, pushing your boobs up so they rest perkily above the neckline. You turn to Hotch, who looks like he regrets the day he was born, fire blazing in your eye.

"I can crack him," you say assuredly. Hotch nods in response, and you turn the knob to the interrogation room.

Spencer can't help but find his way back into the interrogation room. He sits in the back, behind Hotch and Morgan, back hunched, arms crossed over his chest. His brows are furrowed, the pout on his lips everlasting.

Guilt boils in his stomach as she saunters back in the room. The way his eyes light up when he sees her makes Spencer physically ill. He clears his throat uncomfortably, which causes Derek's head to cross over his shoulder, finding Spencer immediately.

Spencer shrinks into himself even more as Derek moves to join him at the back table. They sit for a moment, watching as she bends over the table at the waist, popping her hip out in a way that's sinful. Spencer bites his lip, completely giving up on hiding his feelings from Derek. He figured him out months ago.

"The way I spoke to her, Derek..." Spencer trails off shamefully. He shakes his head, unable to look at her without feeling nauseous.

"She's going to forgive you. She just needs to know you're coming from a place of concern, not judgement," Derek says, his poignancy grating Spencer's nerves even further. How dare he have such good judgement?

"How do you know she'll forgive me?" Spencer murmurs. He can't remember the last time he sounded so weak.

"Because I know," his certainty draws Spencer's gaze up to meet Morgan's. They sit in loaded silence, the only sound cutting through is her saccharine tone from the other side of the glass. It churns in Spencer's stomach like bad milk.

Derek moves back to where he was before, next to Hotch at the glass window. It's then that Spencer finally wills himself to look at her. She's got her hands on her hips, all her weight resting on one foot in a way that highlights her figure. She flips her hair, and the suspect is completely drawn to her.

"You're a smart guy, I can just tell..." she croons, moving closer towards him, "but being smart doesn't mean you can hide from me, you know?"

The suspect blushes at this, though a smug smirk paints his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about, baby. I didn't do anything."

Spencer white knuckles the table beneath him. It's all he can do to not go in there and wipe that smile right off his face.

"I know you're not used to pretty girls pushing back. Most of them just fall for that smile, huh?" her voice is lower, more intimate, as a nail traces the shape of his lip.

The suspect tenses then, turning his gaze down to his hands. Spencer sits up at this, adrenaline striking him at the suspect's discomfort.

"I...I didn't do anything. I swear," the suspect emphasizes that last part, and Spencer knows she's got him.

"You really think I'm going to let you get away with that answer, when I know the truth?" she's resting on the table now, her hip delicately perched just inches away from the suspect. "It's okay to let go, you know," a nail lightly grazes up his arm. He shivers. "You've lost control already, haven't you?"

The last question comes out as a whisper. The suspect jolts away from her, the legs of his chair scraping the floor.

"I didn't mean for it to go this far, okay?" the suspect exclaims. Spencer stands fully upright now, moving to stand in-between Hotch and Morgan.

"She's got him," Morgan mumbles, and Spencer's chest swells with pride.

"But it did go that far, didn’t it? And now you’re here. You can’t run anymore. What happened that night? I’m right here. You can tell me," she's batting her eyelashes, yet venom laces her tone.

"It was just supposed to be money laundering. They told me I'd be making seven figures if I did. That's all I wanted. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," he groans, head falling back.

Spencer, Hotch, and Morgan all exchange weary looks, brows raised in surprise. Pride blossoms in his chest like an early spring flower, his cheeks warming at the sight of his best friend. He's so, so proud of her. He was such an ass earlier. He'll spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

Her head tilts to the side, a faux pout painting her lips. She pats his shoulder definitively before standing.

"Thanks, babe," her tone is sarcastic now, and she winks before leaving the room.

She's caught off guard to see Spencer there, stopping in the doorway just briefly before closing it behind her. The pride swelling in his chest dissipates to that boiling guilt from before, bubbling deep in his stomach.

"Good work," Hotch nods at her, a prideful smile on her lips, "Morgan, have Garcia research any connections to our unsub. He said 'they', we may be looking for a team."

Hotch follows Morgan out, and he's left alone with her now. It dawns on him that he's never been speechless with her before. She's always made him feel comfortable expressing whatever's on his mind. Now, as her eyes gleam with hurt, he doesn't think he's earned that right.

"You did it," he breathes. He gets a heavy scoff in response.

"I knew I would, since it comes so naturally, I thought why not lean into it?" her venomous tone pierces through his heart as she walks past him. She pats his shoulder the same way she did with the unsub, is skin aflame at the contact, even though she's mad at him.

A wine glass is perched between your fingers as you curl up on the jet. It's a celebratory drink, insisted by Morgan for your involvement in solving the case. You look out the window to the setting sun over the coast, the sparkling water. You take a deep breath before taking a long sip.

It's not soon after you take off that night falls, your teammates falling asleep in waves. One certain member hasn't, though. You feel Spencer's eyes on you as you make your way to the back of the jet, spilling out the remaining contents of your glass in the small sink at the bar.

You relent on your way back, the blaring anger you felt earlier dulled to a hum of frustration. He looks tired, vulnerable in his current state, curled up on the couch of the jet. You crouch in front of him, a delicate hand perched on his shoulder. His eyes meet yours in record time, regret flashing through them almost immediately.

Your heart aches, as if two large hands are squeezing as hard as they can. You've missed him. It doesn't feel right to celebrate your win without him. You push back a strand of hair that's fallen in front of his eye, and they gleam at your touch. You can't help but smile at his softness.

"Spence..." you start, but he cuts you off.

"I'm so, so sorry, honey," the words burst out of him. Your heart clutches at the pet name.

"It's okay," you smile meekly, but your acceptance is sincere all the same.

"No. No, it's not," he says as he sits up, facing you properly now. "I should have never said what I did, it was-it was awful of me. I never want to make you feel like that again."

"Why did you say it, Spencer?" you inquire, the breath robbed from your lungs, "it was so unlike you. It hurt, but it caught me by surprise more than anything."

His eyes squeeze shut at the confirmation that he'd hurt you, and you rest a delicate palm on his forearm. A sincere gesture now, compared to the hollow touches you'd doled out earlier.

"Spencer, I want you to talk to me," you whisper, and he shudders at the softness in your voice. You know he thinks he doesn't deserve your forgiveness.

"That guy, the way he looked at you, he looks nothing like me..." he trails off, and it clicks in your brain.

He wasn't mad at you for flirting, he was scared you were leading him on. That he wasn't as important as a guy who looked like that.

"Oh, Spence..." you can't help yourself, you plop right in his lap. You pull his neck into your shoulder, a deep hug as he breathes shakily.

"You're just so beautiful, any guy like that could have you. Yet you pay attention to me. Why?" he pulls back and looks up at you, eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

"Spencer, for one, that guy is being charged with fraud and murder in the first degree. Don't compare yourself to him," a teasing lilt laces your tone, and he groans playfully into your neck.

You cradle him for a moment, and can't help but notice how normal this feels, how right it is to be with him in this way. You're so in love with him. You have been ever since you first met him, and you need him to know.

"Spencer, you don't give yourself enough credit for how hot you really are," you smirk. He scoffs at that, an involuntary noise that almost wakes up the whole jet.

"Shhh!" you giggle, nails scraping the back of his scalp. You watch the way he shudders at the action, you give him another little scratch before continuing.

"You're so beautiful, Spencer," you cup his cheeks, pressing your forehead into his. "I'm sorry you don't see it."

"Do you see it?" he asks, and you know what he really means. Do you really love me? Or are you just being kind?

"Of course I do, Spencer. I see your kind eyes, your full lips, your hands..." you trail off, finding his hand splayed on your back. You grab it, putting your palm flat against his.

"My-my hands?" he laughs out in disbelief. His cheeks are tinted pink, and you don't think you've ever wanted anyone this bad in your entire life.

You nod. "Yeah, your hands, Spence. They're huge," you lace your fingers together then, and he shudders at the touch.

"But it's not only what's on the outside, though I do enjoy it so very much," he blushes even more profusely. You never want him to stop. "Your heart, Spence. It's so kind, and loving, and forgiving, I'm sorry you don't see yourself as enough. I'll spend as much time as you'll let me proving you wrong."

He looks you in the eye, then. His brows furrowed, lips pouted. The air between you thickens in the silence, your chests move up and down in time together.

"I love you," you whisper, and the shuddering breath that leaves Spencer's lips makes you want to cry.

He buries his face in your neck once more, the heat from his still-red cheeks radiating off of him.

"Oh, angel. I love you, too. I'm so sorry. I love you, I don't deserve you-"

You cut his rambling off with the sweetest kiss to his lips. He groans into it, pulling you closer into him with his hands.

"This dress, honey. I haven't been able to keep my eyes off you all day," he whispers in between kisses.

You let out the smallest whimper at that, the thought of driving him crazy just from your outfit giving you a confidence boost for the ages.

"Yeah?" you ask playfully, moving his hand to rest against a bare spot on your thigh. He looks up at you, submission gleaming in his eye as he nods.

You could just destroy him.

"If you guys start to hook up on this jet, I'm snitching," you and Spencer both jump at the voice coming from behind.

It's Morgan, sitting awake amongst the rest of the sleeping team. Your heart pounds from the shock, though a smile still splays across your face. Spencer looks the same, flushed but content, his cheeks bunching up around his eyes.

"It is about time. We've had a running pool throughout the whole office over who was gonna cave first. Looks like I'm getting a cut, thanks, pretty girl," Derek ruffles your hair as he walks past, going to make himself a coffee at the bar.

"Morgan!" Spencer whines, his head falling back against the couch.

You giggle, too in love to care that you were caught. You snake your arms around his neck, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"We'll finish what we started when we get home," you're seductive in your tone, and you can tell you're successful from the goosebumps rising on his flesh.

He shivers as you move off his lap, settling into his side as you begin to descend on Quantico. A flight home has never felt so long.

2K notes · View notes

dearlenore · 5 months ago

Text

THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID • PT2

SUMMARY: after revealing the shocking truth of Spencer Reid’s first, first love, the team does as the unsub instructs, retracing his steps all the way to Las Vegas.

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc

a/n: i finally wrote part two please don’t hurt me

w/c: 4.8K

PT1

TAGLIST: @miyah-kaulitz @celestial-dome @lqu91s @ningeology @anthropsych @kore-of-the-underworld (sorry if I couldn’t tag u angels🥹💋)

The BAU’s jet touched down in New York just past noon, the sky a dull, unbroken sheet of grey. Heavy clouds clung to the tips of the city’s steel giants, muting the sunlight and casting a somber haze over the skyline. The low hum of the engines faded, but Spencer’s mind continued to race — fast and relentless — like a needle skipping on a broken record.

He sat rigid in his seat, shoulders tight and posture stiff. While the others moved with calm efficiency, gathering their bags and briefing one another quietly, Spencer remained frozen. His fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against his knee, each tap betraying the nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin.

She’s out there somewhere.

The thought looped through his mind like a mantra — or a curse. Every worst-case scenario unraveled in his head, each one more suffocating than the last. His last memory of you played over and over, taunting him. Your bright smile had been framed by golden sunlight, hair tousled by a lazy breeze as you lounged on a park bench with a book balanced in your lap. He remembered the way you’d tucked your hair behind your ear without looking up, too engrossed in the pages to notice him watching.

She’s safe like this, he had thought at the time. Happy. Warm. Free.

But now? Now you were somewhere in the heart of a city too vast, too unpredictable — a place that swallowed people whole. And Spencer had no idea where you were or what the unsub’s next move would be. That uncertainty clawed at him, tightening his chest until breathing felt like a conscious effort.

“Reid.”

Hotch’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts — calm yet commanding. Spencer blinked, suddenly aware that the others were standing near the exit, waiting for him.

“JJ and I will handle this,” Hotch said firmly. “You stay here and go through the evidence again.”

“I should be there,” Spencer shot back, his voice too sharp, too fast. His breath hitched. “If he contacts her, if there’s a pattern I missed—”

“You’re too close to this,” Hotch interrupted, tone steady but unyielding. “We need her calm when we find her, not terrified because you’re pacing like you are now.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. Hotch was right — Spencer knew that — yet the logic did nothing to quiet the gnawing panic threatening to consume him. His mind refused to slow down, cycling through probabilities and variables, imagining scenarios he couldn’t control.

“We’ll bring her back safe,” JJ added softly. Her hand squeezed his arm — brief, warm, and grounding. “I promise.”

Spencer swallowed hard and nodded, but the tension coiling in his chest refused to loosen. As Hotch and JJ disembarked, Spencer stayed behind, staring blankly at the clutter of files spread across the table.

His gaze fell to the photograph at the top of the stack — your face, mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with warmth. The memory of that moment blurred with his anxiety, twisting the image in his mind. What if this unsub had already—

No.

Spencer inhaled deeply, shakily, and forced himself to refocus. He grabbed a pen, determined to find something — anything — that could lead them to you before it was too late.

The law firm’s reception area was sleek and imposing — marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, towering glass walls that seemed to stretch endlessly upward, and a front desk staffed by a sharp-looking receptionist whose tailored blazer was as precise as her clipped tone. She barely flicked her gaze up when Hotch and JJ approached.

“We’re here to see Y/N L/N,” Hotch said firmly, flashing his badge with practiced ease.

The receptionist’s eyes barely lifted from her computer screen. “She’s assisting Mr. Connelly in a meeting,” she replied flatly. “I can leave her a message.”

“It’s urgent,” JJ pressed, her voice calm yet underscored with quiet insistence. “It’s a matter of her safety.”

The receptionist’s cool façade faltered, her gaze flicking from JJ to Hotch and back again. For a moment, she hesitated, clearly debating whether to push back or comply. Finally, her professional demeanor gave way to uncertainty. “I… let me get her.”

Moments later, you appeared from the hallway — heels clicking crisply on the marble, posture sharp and poised. A sleek blazer framed your figure, lending you an air of effortless confidence. Yet despite your composed appearance, warmth still lingered in your eyes — a warmth that flickered brighter the moment you recognized JJ. She was Spencer’s co worker, the one you were convinced he would be with once you were gone.

“JJ?” you greeted, surprise softening your features. “What are you doing here?”

JJ’s smile was brief, weighed down by something heavier. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

The concern in her voice dimmed your initial excitement, and you nodded, gesturing for them to follow you into a quiet office down the hall. The room was simple — modern furnishings, a tidy desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. As soon as the door clicked shut, JJ’s warm expression shifted to something more serious.

“We believe someone’s been following you,” Hotch said, his voice low and firm. “We have reason to believe your life is in danger.”

Your smile faltered, confusion knitting your brows. “What? Why?”

“We think it’s connected to Spencer,” JJ added gently. “He didn’t want to scare you, but… we need to get you somewhere safe.”

“Spencer?” His name felt foreign on your tongue — distant yet familiar all at once. Your expression softened for a brief moment before unease crept in. “I haven’t seen him in… God, years.” You paused, your mind scrambling to piece things together. “Wait… is this about those weird letters I’ve been getting?”

JJ’s gaze sharpened. “Letters?”

You nodded, moving to your desk and retrieving your purse. “I thought they were just from some weird admirer, but… yeah. They’d show up in my mailbox — poems, quotes about angels and music. It was sweet at first, but then they started mentioning things about my past.” Your fingers drifted to the delicate chain around your neck, absently toying with the pendant — a nervous habit you hadn’t shaken. “I figured it was just someone from high school who remembered me.”

Hotch’s expression darkened. He exchanged a grim look with JJ, and the silent weight of their concern settled over you like a cold shadow.

“Those letters are likely from the person targeting you,” Hotch said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

You blinked, the air suddenly feeling too thin. “This has something to do with Spencer?”

“We believe the unsub’s fixation started with him,” JJ explained carefully. “But somewhere along the way, they became obsessed with you.”

The weight of her words pressed heavily on your chest. Memories of Spencer stirred — late-night conversations whispered across shared coffees, the warmth of his hand on yours when he thought no one was looking, the way his gaze softened when you laughed. He had always been cautious with you — overly protective in a way you didn’t fully understand at the time.

Maybe now you did.

“I need to get my things,” you said quietly, your voice thinner than you intended. You reached for your purse, suddenly aware of how exposed you felt — the glass walls, the polished floors, the endless corridors all seemed too open, too vulnerable.

“We’ll walk you out,” Hotch said firmly, his stance shifting slightly as if preparing for the worst.

JJ offered you a small smile — one meant to reassure — but there was no hiding the tension that hung in the air.

The moment you stepped back into the reception area, the city’s distant noise seemed louder — sirens wailing faintly in the background, muffled conversations humming just outside the glass walls. As you walked between Hotch and JJ, their presence was comforting yet unsettling — a constant reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching.

And you had no idea what they were planning next.

Spencer barely looked up when Hotch and JJ returned to the station with you. He was pacing near Garcia’s workstation, phone in hand, scrolling through messages for any missed calls. His fingers trembled slightly against the device, his mind spinning in frantic loops.

When he finally noticed you walking in, relief flooded his face — but the tension in his body didn’t ease. His anxiety kept him rooted in place, shoulders rigid and breath uneven.

“Spencer…” Your voice was soft, almost hesitant, yet it broke through the buzzing noise in his head.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Thank God.”

You crossed the room quietly, your steps measured. Your hand found his arm — gentle, barely a touch — yet steady enough to pull him from his spiral.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” you said softly, your fingers curling slightly against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said, his eyes flicking between yours like he was trying to memorize your face all over again. “I should’ve told you sooner — I should’ve kept in touch. I—”

“You’re here now,” you interrupted quietly, your voice steady but tender. “That’s enough.”

Before Spencer could say more, Penelope’s voice broke the moment.

“Spence… you need to see this.”

Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, her usual brightness dimmed beneath a layer of unease. The screen displayed a new email — subject line: “For My Angel.”

With shaky hands, Spencer clicked the message open.

The letter was written in the same looping script as the others:

She saved my life once, your angel did.

Her music was like light — soft and warm — and she never knew I was listening.

She’s everything pure in this world, and you’re tainting her.

I’ll take her away, away from you, and give her the peace she deserves.

She won’t need to suffer anymore.

Attached were two video files. Spencer clicked the first.The screen filled with a sunlit beach — the camera shaky and handheld. You stood near the water’s edge, the breeze teasing strands of your hair loose from their pins. The fabric of your bikini clung to you as you laughed, warm and carefree, before playfully splashing Spencer.

“I’m serious!” Spencer’s voice laughed from behind the camera. “You’re gonna get cold.”

“The water is nice, come on!,” you teased, your smile softer than your words. The sound of your voice — light and fond — was enough to hollow out Spencer’s chest.

The video cut off.

The second file played — a dimly lit restaurant this time. You sat across from Spencer, your fingers slowly tracing the rim of your cocktail glass. Your gaze flicked downward as you stirred the straw absentmindedly, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without lifting your eyes.“Like what?” Spencer’s voice countered.

“Like you’re profiling me,” you said quietly, finally glancing up.

“I can’t help it,” Spencer’s voice returned, quiet and certain. The look on his face — the love in his eyes — was undeniable.

The video ended.

“That’s enough,” Spencer muttered, stepping back from the screen. His chest felt painfully tight, like he couldn’t draw in a full breath.

“Why would they send this?” you asked softly. Your voice didn’t tremble — it barely rose above a whisper — but the unease was clear in your eyes.

“He’s fixated,” JJ said carefully. “Not just on Spencer — on you. He’s convinced that somehow… you saved him.”

“Saved him?” you repeated, your brows knitting together.

“In high school,” Spencer murmured, piecing it together. “The music, the kindness — you must’ve done something that he clung to.”

You lowered your gaze to your hands, your fingers loosely fidgeting with the chain of your necklace. “I used to play my flute in the park,” you said quietly. “There was this boy… I didn’t know his name, but he was always sitting alone. I played because… I don’t know, I thought maybe it’d help.”

“That’s it,” Hotch said grimly. “You gave him something to hold onto.”

“And now,” JJ added, “he thinks he’s saving you in return.”

For a long moment, you were silent — your fingers still absently twisting the necklace chain.

“We need to find him before he gets that chance,” Spencer said firmly. His voice was low, but the urgency behind it was unmistakable.

You gave a small nod, your fingers tightening around the delicate chain. The air in the room felt heavier than before — thick with unspoken fear — but when Spencer’s hand found yours, you let him hold on.

Quietly, you let yourself believe that somehow, despite everything, you’d be safe.

The morning air was cold — the kind that clung to your skin and sank into your bones — and it carried with it a weight that pressed heavily on Spencer’s chest. He stood beside Hotch and JJ, his fingers twitching restlessly against his side, the unease winding tighter with every breath.

The plan had seemed secure — two officers stationed with you, experienced and reliable. Spencer had reviewed their backgrounds twice, grilling Hotch on their credentials as if he could force some kind of guarantee. But it hadn’t been enough to quiet the gnawing panic in his chest.

He’d argued. Begged, even.

“She should stay here,” Spencer had insisted, voice rising despite himself. “Or— or somewhere safer. A hotel, one with security, or maybe—”

“I just want to go home,” you’d interrupted, your voice quiet but unwavering. “I can’t breathe in here. I need to feel normal again.”

Spencer’s protests had faltered. He’d hated that he understood.

He knew that suffocating feeling — that desperate need to reclaim some semblance of control after fear had robbed you of it. He knew what it felt like to want your space back, to convince yourself that normalcy could be enough to keep you safe.

So he’d let you go — but not without hesitation.

He remembered standing by the station doors, fingers clenched at his sides, feeling like there was something more he should’ve said — something that might’ve changed your mind. When you turned back for him, your gaze softened, and suddenly he couldn’t hold himself back.

He’d closed the distance in an instant, arms wrapping tightly around you. His fingers curled into the fabric of your coat like he could anchor you there with him.

“Please be safe,” he whispered into your hair. His voice had wavered, barely audible even to himself.

“You’ll see me tomorrow,” you promised, voice soft yet certain. “Bright and early.”

But Spencer had held on just a little longer, as if he knew that promise might be one you wouldn’t get the chance to keep.

The apartment felt foreign — like someone else’s home disguised in your own familiar comforts. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the air, and the pastel throw blankets you’d folded just the night before lay neatly across the armchair. Yet none of it felt real. It was like you were standing in a stage set, where everything looked familiar but nothing felt safe.

You’d brewed a cup of tea — something warm and calming — but your fingers barely touched the mug. It sat untouched on the counter, steam curling lazily upward.

Detective Alvarez and Officer Greene moved with quiet diligence, checking the locks for the fifth time that morning. Their presence should have been reassuring, but instead, it only deepened the unease gnawing at your chest.

“We’ve got this,” Alvarez said, flashing you a confident smile. “No one’s getting in.”

You tried to smile back, but it felt thin, forced. The words didn’t stick.

Your gaze kept drifting to the windows. Each shadow seemed to stretch too far, each silhouette in the corner of your eye felt like someone lurking just out of sight.

You turned on the TV, letting the dull hum of the morning news fill the silence. The voices blurred together — static, muffled — but you kept the volume high, hoping to drown out the noise in your head.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Miss L/N?” Greene’s voice called. “It’s me.”

You frowned, setting your tea down. “Didn’t you just check in?”

“Just want to update you,” he answered. “Everything’s clear outside.”

Something felt off — the words too casual, too light. You hesitated, fingers curling around the door handle. Still, you turned the lock and opened the door just a crack — enough to see Greene’s face.

He smiled, but something was wrong. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes — too tight, too forced.

And then you saw it — the smear of blood just beneath his collar.

Your breath caught.

Before you could react, he shoved the door open. The impact sent you sprawling backward, your shoulder striking the wall and your head slamming against the sharp corner of your bookshelf.

“W-What…?” Your voice barely broke the air, slurred and thin as dizziness clouded your vision. The room spun, shadows warping and shifting.

The man standing above you wasn’t Greene. His uniform hung loose on his frame, and the dark glint in his eyes twisted your stomach with dread.

“Im sorry it had to be this way,” he murmured, voice low and venomous.

The street was a blur of flashing lights and frantic voices when the BAU arrived. Spencer shoved past the officers crowding the sidewalk, ignoring the calls for him to slow down. His breath hitched when he reached the threshold of the building.

Two bodies.

Detective Alvarez lay crumpled in the stairwell, his chest dark with blood. Officer Greene’s body was slumped near the front door — his badge still clutched tightly in his hand. Blood smeared the floor like a cruel map of what had unfolded, but none of it mattered.

You weren’t there.

“She’s gone,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely holding together. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. “He took her…”

“We’ll find her,” Hotch said firmly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.

“He has her right now!” Spencer snapped, his voice breaking as he turned sharply toward him. His breath stuttered again — this time more ragged, more desperate. “Right now…”

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer as she approached. “We found something inside.”

Spencer barely heard her. His gaze remained fixed on the bloodstains, the smeared footprints leading away from the doorway. His mind kept looping back to the last thing you’d said to him.

“You’ll see me tomorrow. Bright and early.”

But tomorrow had arrived — and you were nowhere to be found.

The living room was a wreck — papers strewn across the floor, cushions gutted and tossed aside, the coffee table shoved halfway across the room. The scent of overturned candles and stale air clung to the space. Yet none of it mattered — not the mess, not the chaos.

What stole Spencer’s breath was the envelope on the coffee table.

His name was scrawled across the front in jagged, uneven letters — the ink pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, dread coiling tightly in his chest.

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was soft, but it barely registered.

With shaky hands, he tore the envelope open. The paper inside was rough beneath his fingertips — thin and cheap, like something torn from a notebook.

“I trusted you to keep her safe. How could you let her suffer like this?

She’s perfect — but she’s broken.

You never even noticed. While you smiled and held her hand, she was starving herself just to stay small enough for you to love her.

She’s an angel… my angel.

I’ll fix her now. I’ll save her from you.”

Spencer’s breath faltered, his fingers tightening around the paper until it crumpled in his grip. His vision blurred as the words seared themselves into his mind.

“What… what does he mean?” Spencer rasped, his voice thin and uneven.

JJ stepped closer, her expression carefully composed yet unmistakably concerned. “Spencer… did she ever mention struggling with food?”

“Yes.” His voice broke on the word. “She’s… she’s always smiling, always full of life…she got better…”

But even as the words left his mouth, memories began to surface — disjointed and sharp.

The quiet way you’d push food around your plate, always insisting you weren’t that hungry.

The faint tremor in your fingers when you were tired — or when you thought no one was looking.

The way your dresses sometimes seemed a little too loose, like they didn’t quite fit the way they once had.

Moments he’d brushed off as nothing — little things that felt insignificant at the time but now twisted painfully in his mind.

You were hurting… and he hadn’t seen it.

“Oh God…” Spencer’s breath hitched, and his knees buckled. He sank onto the edge of the couch, the crumpled letter still clenched in his fist. “I didn’t see it.” His voice broke, raw and strained.

“It’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly, stepping into his line of sight. “This unsub is projecting his own obsession — twisting it to blame you.”

“No,” Spencer choked out, shaking his head. His voice faltered, barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve known… I should’ve noticed.”

JJ knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm. “Spence… you love her. That’s what matters right now.”

But Spencer barely heard her. His mind spiraled, looping back to the last time he’d seen you — the softness in your smile when you’d promised him “bright and early.”

He thought about the way you’d hugged him a little longer than usual — how fragile you’d felt in his arms.

You needed him… and he hadn’t seen it.

“I can’t lose her,” Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”

“We’re going to find her,” Hotch said firmly. “But we need you with us — thinking clearly.”

Spencer forced a shaky breath and wiped a trembling hand across his face. He clung to the only thing that mattered now — the promise he silently made to himself as he stared at the crumpled letter in his hand.

He would find you.

He wouldn’t fail you again.

The room was silent except for the furious rhythm of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard. Spencer hovered beside her, too restless to sit. His breath came in shallow bursts, his mind cycling through worst-case scenarios on a relentless loop.

“Come on…” Garcia muttered. “Come on, you sick freak… give me something…”

The seconds dragged painfully on — each one tightening the coil of panic in Spencer’s chest.

Then — ping.

“Got him!” Garcia cried. “A security camera caught him heading toward an abandoned warehouse five miles outside the city.”

Hotch was already barking orders, agents scrambling for their gear. Spencer didn’t wait — he was out the door, heart racing.

The warehouse reeked of mold and rust, the air heavy with dust that clung to Spencer’s throat. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps, each creak splintering the silence. His pulse pounded in his ears — too loud, too fast.

Then he heard it.

A faint sound — soft, stifled sobs.

His chest tightened.

“Y/N…”

He followed the sound, moving faster now. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you — slumped against a metal pole, wrists raw and bruised from the rope that bit into your skin. Your hair clung to your face, damp with sweat, and your breathing was shallow.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice broke on your name.

Your head lifted weakly. “Spence…”

Before he could reach you, a figure emerged from the shadows.

The unsub.

He was wiry, face gaunt and eyes wild. The knife in his hand gleamed under the dim light.

“You didn’t deserve her,” the man spat, his voice shaking with rage. His glare locked onto Spencer, burning with venom. “You let her suffer, and you didn’t even notice.”

“Please…” Spencer raised his hands, voice tight but steady. “You don’t have to hurt her.”

“I would never! She’s not safe with you,” the man snapped. “She’s too kind — too good — and you didn’t even see how much she was hurting.” His voice wavered. “But I did.”

Spencer’s heart twisted painfully. “I know you believe that,” he said carefully. “But you’re not helping her this way.”

“I can fix her!” the man barked, his hand tightening around the blade.

“By starving her?” Spencer’s voice rose, breaking with emotion. “By scaring her like this?”

The unsub flinched as if Spencer’s words had struck him. His grip faltered, the knife dipping slightly.

“I wouldn’t starve her! I- I’m not like you.” The unsub held his head with his free hand, waving the knife about. It went quiet for a moment.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“Hey…”

Both men froze as you lifted your head. Your voice was soft — weak yet unwavering.

“Hey,” you tried again, a little stronger this time — gentle, soothing, like you were speaking to a frightened child.

The unsub’s gaze flicked to you. His face twisted with confusion. “You… you don’t have to be scared,” he stammered. “I’m saving you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know you think you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught. He wanted to move — to reach you — but he knew better than to push.

“I remember you,” you said, your voice steady. “From high school… you used to sit on the far bench by the fountain.”

The unsub blinked rapidly. “You remember?”

“Of course I do,” you said with a faint smile. “I used to play my flute there… and you’d always listen.”

“You… you played beautifully,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t know what that meant to me. I was… I was going to kill myself that day. But then I heard you playing, and I thought… maybe there’s still something good in the world. You were that something.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “I’m so glad you didn’t,” you said softly. “You deserved to find peace… to heal. But this isn’t the way.”

The knife wavered in his hand.

“I know you think I’m broken,” you continued gently. “But I promise… I’m okay now. I’m trying to be.”

The unsub shook his head fiercely. “No, no… you’re not okay. I saw you — barely eating, wasting away. He let you hurt yourself.” His eyes flicked back to Spencer, sharp with blame.

“I know,” you said carefully. “But that wasn’t his fault.”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I was sick,” you explained gently. “The weight loss… it wasn’t my eating disorder. It was my medication.” Your gaze shifted to Spencer, soft and unwavering. “He’s always been there for me. And right now… I need him.”

The unsub’s face crumbled. His fingers slackened around the knife.

“You’ve been carrying this pain for so long,” you said softly. “But you don’t have to anymore. Let me help you now, the way you once helped me.”

The blade clattered to the floor.

“I just wanted to protect you,” the man whispered brokenly.

“I know,” you murmured, eyes kind. “But it’s over now. You protected me.”

The team rushed in, Morgan and Hotch seizing the unsub before he could react. The man barely resisted — his gaze stayed locked on you, his expression crumpling as tears streaked down his face.

“You saved me,” he mumbled as they dragged him away. “You saved me back then… and you saved me now…”

“And you saved me,” you responded.

Later, after you’d been checked over by paramedics, you found Spencer sitting quietly outside the ambulance. His head hung low, wrists encircled by handcuffs — protocol after crossing into the scene without waiting for backup. His fingers twisted anxiously, his breathing uneven.

“Hey…”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. When he looked up and saw you standing there — bruised but smiling — his chest caved with relief.

“You’re okay…” His voice broke, and he blinked rapidly.

“I’m okay,” you promised. “Thanks to you.”

“I… I should’ve known,” Spencer stammered. “About the medication… about everything. He was right — I didn’t see it.”

“You couldn’t have,” you soothed. “But you’ve always been there when it mattered.”

Spencer swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to think about that.” Gently, you reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his.

Spencer exhaled shakily, eyes flicking downward.

“Do you remember…” You paused, smiling softly. “When I used to play for you?”

His gaze lifted, brow furrowing slightly.

“I’d still play for you someday,” you offered. “If you want.”

Spencer let out a breath — a faint, tired laugh — and nodded.

“I’d like that.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #x reader #spencer reid x reader #fanfic #criminal minds fluff #cm #fluff #request #criminal minds angst

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hoe4hotchner · 8 months ago

Note

I have an idea for a Hotch story. What about its Hotch x wife!reader where jack is about 6 months old but she’s still constantly checking his breathing at naps and bedtime and waking up all the time she check him and is super conscious. Hotch thought at first it’s just a new mom thing but now you’re losing sleep and worried all the time so he brings it up one night and she just breaks down and says “I never know if you’re coming home to me so I need to make sure jack is ok so I always have a piece of you with me”

Safe and Sound | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x wife!Reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Could probably be qualified as post partum, anxiety, lack of sleep.

A/N: I tried my hardest to write this with Jack as the baby, but ultimately I had to make it into a new baby unrelated to Jack, cause my brain couldn't wrap around reader having given birth to Jack. Otherwise it follows the prompt…. Hope it's okay <3

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the nursery in a warm amber hue as you hovered over the crib. The rhythmic sound of the baby monitor buzzed faintly in the background, but it wasn’t enough to ease your mind. Your hand rested lightly on your son’s tiny chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall from his breathing. Six months in, and every nap, every bedtime, still filled you with a quiet kind of dread.

What if the monitor failed? What if something happened while you weren’t watching? The what-ifs buzzed louder than the monitor, it was a relentless echo that kept you tethered to the edge of fear no matter how safe or serene he looked in his sleep.

The creak of the nursery door broke your focus, pulling your gaze away from your son’s chest. Aaron’s silhouette filled the doorway, his broad shoulders casting a shadow into the softly lit room. He was only wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxers, the casualness of his attire contrasting with his usual suit and tie. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, and his dark eyes softened as they took you in, concern etching faint lines across his face. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, not in irritation but in worry.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, careful not to wake the baby. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, brushing your fingertips over your son’s soft, silky hair. You lingered, reluctant to leave. “I just needed to check.”

Aaron stepped into the room, his feet silent against the carpet. “You’ve checked three times in the past hour,” he said gently, his hand finding the small of your back. “Come back to bed.”

You sighed, looking down at your baby boy one last time before letting Aaron guide you out of the nursery. The two of you walked in silence to your bedroom, his hand never leaving you as if to anchor you to him so you wouldn't run back to the nursery. When you climbed into bed, Aaron slid in beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you.

“This isn’t just a new mom thing, is it?” he asked, his voice low and careful, treading lightly as he spoke. “You’ve barely been sleeping. You’re running yourself into the ground.”

You froze, staring at the ceiling as tears burned behind your eyes. He was right — he always was. But admitting it felt like opening a floodgate you weren’t sure you could close.

“I just…” Your voice cracked, and Aaron shifted closer. “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

“He is okay,” Aaron said, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “He’s perfect. And you’re an amazing mom.”

The dam broke. The tears spilled over as a sob escaped your lips. “I never know if you’re coming home to me,” you choked out, your hands gripping his t-shirt as though he might disappear. “So I need to make sure the baby is okay. I need to know I’ll always have a piece of you with me.”

Aaron’s breath hitched, his face falling as your words sank in. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as he kissed the top of your head. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m so sorry you feel like that.”

You clung to him, his steady heartbeat soothing some of the ache in your chest. “I can’t lose you, Aaron. Or him. I wouldn’t survive it.”

“You won’t lose us,” he promised, his lips brushing your temple. “I’ll do everything I can to come home to you, every time. And I’ll make sure you’re never carrying this alone.”

For a long time, he just held you. As your sobs quieted, he eased you back down onto the pillows, still holding your hand.

“Tomorrow, we’ll figure this out,” Aaron said softly. “We’ll talk to someone and find ways to help you rest. But tonight, let me watch over him so you can sleep. Okay?”

You nodded, your exhaustion finally catching up to you as his words and touch began to pull you under. “Okay,” you whispered.

And as you drifted off in Aaron’s arms, for the first time in months, you felt the weight begin to lift — getting help was not such a bad idea after all.

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alana-reid-2005 · 1 year ago

Text

they really told us to trust the process

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punkssavior · 6 months ago

Text

tired of you.

| cm punk x fem!reader

my wwe fic tumblr debut. feeling chaotic.

title is a foo fighters song!

“regret, anger, and a pair of gym shorts.”

content warnings: post breakup. smut. angst. pet-names. choking. mentions of blood/semi-blood play. pain kink. pnv, riding.

i definitely went off the rails and lost the plot along the way.

**installment ONE of the ‘ACE OF SPADES’ series.

SERIES MASTERLIST <- linked here! **

wordcount: 8.3k

There was something wrong with you.

Maybe, the problem was the pounding headache. The one that’s lasted three days so far and felt like a doldrum banging in your skull.

Maybe, it was the streaks of eyeliner that stained your lower lashes and wouldn’t wipe off no matter how hard you tried.

Or maybe, just maybe, the problem was the urge to reach for your phone and dial up the number of a man who you know wouldn’t right his wrongs.

Yeah, something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

It was a Saturday night— alone in your one bedroom apartment. A quiet, dreary week that led right into a hellscape of a weekend. You were always told that breakups were hard, but never this hard.

The stubborn heart that beats inside you almost took hold of the reins when the thought of calling Punk crossed your mind. But the more logical part of your body, your brain, ultimately decided that— maybe that wasn’t the best idea.

The breakup was far from mutual. If anything, it was completely one sided. The last thing you remember from that night a few weeks ago was standing in your apartment door with angry tears in your eyes as Punk drove away from your duplex in a torn down Chevy Malibu.

Like nothing even happened.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could stare at your TV in boredom, watching the same rerun of action movies that played every Saturday night around the same time.

It was getting late.

Maybe you should get some sleep.

But God knows your mind wouldn’t allow it.

As you stand up to gather the growing pile of blankets that collected in the midst of your ‘breakup-self-loathing’, you begin to fight that intrusive urge once more.

You couldn’t call. It was way too late. He was probably asleep, or out somewhere training like he’d do when he couldn’t.

You didn’t want to bother.

Because that’s the last thing you ever wanted to be.

Bang, bang.

Your head whips around; two loud knocks at your door almost rattled it right off its hinges.

Bang, bang.

With a cautious air, you walk to the door and rest your hand on the knob. Before you could even begin to twist it, there it was again.

Bang, bang.

Soon enough your heartbeat matched up with the rhythm of the pounding door— making you anxious enough to look through the peephole.

Low and behold, as if he could read your mind from the miles that separated your apartment from his, there Punk stood. Leaning on the bannister that held up your rickety old porch with his arms crossed tightly to his chest.

It was cold, about 30°, yet there he was in a t-shirt, long dark hair slicked back, like he’d just walked through the rain. You freeze in your tracks, hand shaky over the brass doorknob as you debate opening the door.

Would you let him inside? Would you banish him out to the cold and make him talk to you from behind the threshold? Would you finally stick up for yourself and act like you were asleep? Hoping maybe, just maybe, he’d fuck off and take a hint?

You didn’t want either of those things. You didn’t want him to stand out in the cold, or turn around and leave.

You’d been secretly waiting for the moment where he wouldn’t care about the consequences of his actions.

Nor did you want him to “take a hint”.

You swing the door open, acting completely on instinct. But your breath is caught somewhere in your larynx when you realize that he is actually standing there.

“Nice jammies, player.”

“What do you want?”

Your heart stops. The words you spoke were completely off rip, seeing him in person for the first time in weeks must’ve carried a lot more weight to it than you anticipated.

Punk’s straight face morphs into a smile, his eyes darting down your figure and back up again.

“Came here for the gym shorts you stole. I did my laundry this morning and realized they were pretty much all gone.”

“So— why didn’t you come this morning? Instead of trying to break my door down at midnight?”

You cross your arms over your chest, the black and pink heart pajama set that he had gifted you for Valentine’s Day this past year seemed to be the star of the show. The draft from the outside was cold enough to send chills up your spine, as Punk stood there and just looked at you.

Come to think about it, maybe it wasn’t the wind.

“I was busy. Surely you were too, no?”

“I‘ve been here all day. Maybe if you called and asked, you would’ve known that.”

As you stand slightly elevated before him in your bunny slippers, you can’t help but notice the way he keeps inching closer.

“Well, maybe if you’d answered my calls from last week, we wouldn’t be standing here in the cold. Face to face. At midnight.”

You freeze, as he rattles off, your hands moving to your hips.

He called you last week?

“You called me last week?”

“Mhm. Sure did.”

A puff of air leaves your chest, noticing the now rising goosebumps across his sleeves of tattoos, and feeling slightly guilty about keeping him out in the cold.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you call me?”

Punk chuckles, brushing a lock of that slick dark hair behind his ear. He looked amused, to say the least— maybe he just wasn’t grasping onto the concept of breaking your heart and smashing it all to pieces. Maybe he thought that reaching out to you would be the good little ego boost he needed to carry on his week in the training gym.

“I called because I wanted to check in. Y’know— see how you were doing.”

Your brow furrows, in an attempt not to show him your hand of cards. Truthfully, your heart skipped about seven beats at the way his voice softened, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“You’re joking, right?”

“And why would I joke about that?”

Punk leans on the doorframe, his eyes darting behind your shoulder at the living room that the two of you used to cuddle up and watch movies in. Maybe the sight of it after the breakup was finally cracking that iron-clad cage around his heart.

You never understood Punk. Not fully, at least.

Despite a three year long relationship that ended abruptly on a random Wednesday night— there were so many layers to his character that you just begged and pleaded to understand. He was caring, but sarcastic. An open book, yet somehow there were pages stuck together by an immeasurable amount of glue.

You wanted to learn more, your only wish was to be able to speak in a language that the both of you understood.

You figured that maybe, three years just wasn’t enough time.

“Wanna come inside?” you ask softly, breaking the silence, your voice barely reaching the surface of the now whipping wind.

“Only if you’ll have me.”

As you step back and let him in, you just— watch.

You watch how he kicks his sneakers off in the same exact spot he always did whenever he’d get home from the gym. You watch him anchor himself onto the wall, as if he were about to dig into his pocket and hang up his car keys on the hook that’s remained vacant since he left.

Must’ve been a repeated habit, or muscle memory. But your chest tightened at the thought either way.

“Your shorts are in my dresser,” you hum, still fighting the feeling of heartburn as he moves fluidly through your living room, “I could go get ‘em if you want.”

“Like I don’t know where your bedroom is. You think I’ve got amnesia or somethin’?”

Looking at Punk felt like a slap in the face. A hard one, at that.

His tight, perfectly fitted t-shirt molded to his cut body, contrasted to the loose gym shorts that hung just above his knees made you want to scream at him for being so visually appealing. But instead, you just smiled warmly, and bit your tongue.

There’s a brooding cloud of silence looming over both of your heads. An unspoken tension thick enough to cut with a butcher knife. Punk was acting casual, a bit too casual for your liking. I guess he figured that those stupid, sea green eyes searing into your forehead were enough to let you forget about what happened in this very room.

“Look, maybe you hit your head on the way here because last I checked, you dumped me. And now— here you are, standing in my living room.”

A catty smile flashes across Punk’s face, his lip ring catching in the light above your kitchen island as he leaned on it with that familiar sense of cockiness.

The one you knew, the one that you unfortunately loved.

“Shit, okay— we’re taking a bit of a leap here, aren’t we?”

“Tell me the real reason why you’re here. And don’t fucking bullshit me.”

The jumble of hurt words you’d been pushing down your throat for weeks— finally had a target. Your voice betrays you at the end of your sentence, fleeting off into a much weaker tone than you anticipated.

“I already told you why. I’m here for my shorts.” His posture straightens as he speaks, putting up his guard as the tension rises.

“Bullshit. You know I fuckin’ hate when you lie, dude. What is this, a wellness check? Did you feel so inclined to check up on my sorry-ass to the point where it kept you up at night?”

Punks hands come up in defense as you move an inch closer, wagging a helpless, beaten down finger at him. Yet that smug smile painted on his cheeks remained, only making you more enraged.

“Wellness check? What the fuck is your problem?” his laughter is indignant, as if he were pitying you, “You really think I’d drive down here in the middle of the night to smile in your face and laugh at you?”

“Newsflash, dickhead. You’ve been doing that this whole time.”

In seconds, Punk’s face switches back to a blank slate. He seemed visibly taken aback by your words. His hand, still dawned in a piece of old wrist tape, clung to his chest.

“Wow. Well, I’m sorry— for trying to keep the mood light— and greet you at your door with a fuckin’ smile when I know damn well that I’m the last person you want to see right now… But have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re not the only half of this mess suffering? Maybe you’re not the only one who stays up way later than they should, thinking about where everything went wrong?”

As he grows more animated, he nears closer, to the point where you could still smell the remnants of his cologne and see the drops of frustrated sweat beading on his forehead. You wanted to keep screaming, but your voice was caged behind gritted teeth. You guarded yourself with your arms, mimicking his posture as you crossed them over your chest.

“Well maybe you should cut some slack for the girl you left crying in the doorway, Punk.”

His stage name shoots off your tongue like poison, now in a heated face-off with the man you once loved.

And maybe still did, beneath the scratched up, broken down surface. That was the reason why this all seemed so complicated.

“Do you want your fucking shorts, or not?—”

“—Keep the damn’ shorts, Y/N!” He cuts you off before you could even dream of continuing.

Another silence falls over the room after all the shouting, only the TV in the background filling only half of the void that was your brain right now. Despite getting those harsh words off of your chest, a part of you felt inclined to say no more. You figured you’d done enough irreparable damage to both yourself and Punk. It was in your best interest to leave it be.

“Sorry for yelling,” you mumble, a bit sheepishly.

Punk still stood against your kitchen island, his hand now rubbing his temples between middle finger and thumb.

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Awkward. That was the word to describe it. After airing out grievances, finding out that you weren’t the only party in this sick and twisted dance with a lingering feeling that tugged on your heartstrings, everything else surrounding you was just awkward.

You stare at Punk intently, letting him shake his head and mutter curse words under his breath.

“I’m sorry for coming here unannounced. But what I said was true.”

“Hm?” you hum, worried that if you said too much, his vulnerability would be guised as a momentary lapse of judgement.

“I still think about what happened.”

A deep breath catches in your throat the moment his eyes meet yours. It was hard to look at him in general after all that you’d been through, but it was even more difficult to pull yourself away from the defeated, sorrowful expression on his face.

Being so openly honest and true to his inner monologue was a rarity for Punk. You could tell how much he hated the fact that he was admitting this to you, let alone standing once again in your living room after already breaking your heart.

“Seriously,” you begin to say, bridging the gap between your bodies with a sharp tug on his wrist, “Tell me why you came here. If it wasn’t for those two pairs of stupid shorts that you haven’t asked me about in two and a half years, then what was it?”

Punk grimaces, still beaten down by his own honesty, “You just don’t let up, do you?”

“Answer me, asshole.”

You were still aggravated, and the quickly tightening hold you had on his arm was proof of that.

“I came here because I missed you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” A wave of something much more dreadful than relief washes over you— it seemed more existential and off putting than anything. “I missed your face. Your voice. The scent of your perfume. The way you bitch me out to get off and have a good time fuckin’ doing it.”

“I— I genuinely do not believe you,” you mutter, tripping over your words, slightly twisting the skin on his arm in pure, unbridled frustration, “There’s gotta’ be some other excuse.”

Punk’s face comes to a pinch, mulling over your words while simultaneously experiencing the burn from your untamed grip on him.

“There’s no other excuse,” he blurts, bordering a whine, “What? You want me to admit that I’ve been up for days? Unable to sleep, to eat, to wrestle, to fuckin’ unwind and jerk off without the thought of you crossing my mind? Is that what you want?”

Your jaw clenches at the rise you’re getting out of him, wanting nothing more than to smack him across the face.

“Maybe you should’ve said this all to me, what, a month ago? Instead of trying to pop by on a Saturday night like I’m one of your idiot friends?”

It was getting to a point where your nails were surely leaving marks, his arm fully surrendered to you as you took out your pent up anger on one of his innocent limbs.

Punk’s face tightens, the gap in his teeth visible as he writhes in discomfort, “Jesus fuck, you’re hurting me—”

“Touché.”

Having almost completely given up on trying to fight your cat-like grip on his arm, Punk does the unthinkable. With a crooked, masochistic smile, he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you straight into his chest.

“You wanna fight dirty?” he asks, his voice a low, rigid grumble.

Rather than replying, due to the sheer shock running through your spine, you just nod your head meekly.

“We can fight dirty,” a wry chuckle leaves his lips as he leans into your angry face, “Baby, those eyes of yours are quite telling.”

“I’m sick of your shit, Punk,” you spit, still tangled in his sultry words, “it’s too hot and cold with you.”

“Really? Tell me more. I saw how you froze up when I said that I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Tell me that my words didn’t leave a mark in that pretty head of yours.”

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck

This was getting to be too much.

You wanted to pull away; but the thought of tasting his lips again after you were forced away from them for so long just seemed intoxicating.

“I don’t have to answer you,” you mumble, trying your hand at defending yourself whilst simultaneously breaking your neck to ignore your desires.

“But I bet you really want to.”

You swallow hard at the feeling of his blistered palm trailing across your side. And your nails continued etching marks into his flesh; the closer he got, the harder you tugged .

“We’re not together anymore. I have nothing to fucking say to you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with speaking your mind though, right? That’s what you used to tell me…”

That burning feeling in your chest was back again— like hot lava rising up your throat. You wanted to retort, but couldn’t help but notice how he was completely ignoring the small pooling of blood from the gashes on his forearm.

“…Remember what you used to say to me, Bunny? ‘Don’t be afraid to show a little bit of that heart, Punker. Acting like you care won’t kill you.’ Man, if only you could see yourself right now. Being a damn hypocrite…”

“Stop it.”

The nickname he’d revived from the dead felt like a karate chop to the throat, all while he was still holding you tightly to his chest. His body language read passion, but his words oozed anguish.

He glanced down to your lips, eyeing them with a crooked smile.

“What? Stop what? Stop trying to get you to break down those stubborn walls of yours and be honest with me? I know I hurt you baby, but you can’t keep it all bottled up forever.”

You grabbed him tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Until his face came to a pinch and he was yanking his arm from between your bodies.

He hisses at the sight of trickling blood running down his colorful tattoos, eyeing you shamefully like you were a dog that just crapped in the house.

But rather than letting that anger carry over into another screaming match, he takes the hand that you’d held hostage, and runs it through your hair.

“Bet you needed to let that out, didn’t you?” Punk coos, a complete 180 switch in his demeanor, that same hand trailing down your cheek towards your neck.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Ditto, player.”

SMACK.

Your palm lays flat across the side of his cheek, his head whips to the side. A surge of searing anger seemed to free itself the moment your hand connected with his skin, a small splatter of his blood from your fingertips painting across his jawbone.

He shakes his head, and looks at you, that grip he had on your hip tightening as his eyes narrow, and bore into yours.

“You asked if I wanted to fight dirty, didn’t you?” your voice is weakened by the sheer force of that smack. But Punk just nods like a pompous asshole, a slow and desperate smile sliding across his face with the corners of his mouth coming to a Cheshire-cat-like point.

In moments like these, you had to remind yourself of a few things. Punk knew you better than anyone else— your friends, most of your immediate family, even the people you’ve met in passing and spilled your guts to on a whim. You and Punk would spend hours just talking. About anything. About nothing. There was something about his demeanor that drew out the most vulnerable, tucked away parts of your person.

He also had the ability to use what he knew against you. And from the facial expression he made, and from what you could tell from knowing him, he knew that smack held a lot more weight than just pure anger.

He was into it. You were into it.

With a low, practically inaudible growl, Punks hand slides up the front of your body. You could feel the roughness of his palms and the cool touch of his fingertips lingering from standing out in the cold, as he makes his way past the little plastic buttons of your pajama top.

“I love it when we fight, Bunny,” he grumbles, that hand making its way to your throat, “You wanna show me how angry I make you? How much of an asshole I am for breaking your heart?”

Your breath sputters when he clamps his hand down, gently squeezing the sides of your throat. You could only imagine how you looked to him right now— still a bit ticked off, but now a whole lot more desperate.

“I want— an apology.”

“Really? That’s all you want from me right now?”

As you open your mouth to squeeze out an answer, he presses the pads of his fingers into your neck, hitting that blissful pressure point and instantly relieving your three-day-long headache.

“Yes. That’s it,” you breathe, finding it hard to concentrate on only one feature of his face.

The hand of his that stayed stagnant on your hip began to travel downwards, following the curve of your ass all the way down to where it met your thigh. You swallowed, feeling the pressure from his hand fighting the building, anxious saliva from going down.

“Are you sure about that? You don’t seem very confident—”

“—Yes. Yes. For the love of God, please just—”

Your sentence becomes more and more incoherent as Punk slowly spins you around. Your body replaces his, leaned against the kitchen island, still feeling cowardly beneath his over 6-foot stature.

“Just what? Wanna hit me again?” his eyes narrow with challenge, the grip on your throat still in charge of this dance, “Do it. Hit me again. Show me that you’re not afraid to show me what’s on your mind.”

SMACK.

The sheer power from the second slap loosened Punk’s grip on your throat— you breathed out shakily at the loss of the contact, feeling the delayed sting that shot through your palm the moment your knuckle cracked his jaw.

He eventually frees your neck from his hold to aid his wounded cheek, rubbing it softly as those viridian eyes ask you for a favor that his words had yet to reach.

“Jesus Christ baby. You sure know how to lay a good one don’t ya?”

“Fuck you.”

Your palm began to throb in time with the beating of your heart, the surface skin now tender from two measly slaps to a man who gets hurt for a living.

“Fuck me? Alright. If that’s all you have to say then—”

SMACK.

“I hate you! God, I fucking hate you!”

That dry, fervid rage suddenly morphed into a mess of soggy tears— your words biting violently as they fanned across his now helpless face.

You couldn’t help yourself from crying. As if you hadn’t done enough. But now, in the same vein of feelings you felt the moment you saw his silhouette through the peephole, crying was really the only thing you could do.

“I—I am so fucking sick of you! Who the fuck do you think you are? Coming to my apartment, standing there with that stupid, shit-eating smile. Acting like you didn’t have any part whatsoever in ruining my goddamn life!”

“Y/N, I—”

As much as you wanted this to be a civil conversation, there was no turning back as the tears rolled down your face and onto the floor.

“I’ve been crying over you for weeks. Weeks. You left me. After telling me our relationship was practically meaningless. After dumping me with zero fucking explanation! I’m tired of you, Punk. So. Fucking. Tired.”

Silence.

The tears just kept on coming, there was nothing you could do to stop them from searing hot streaks down your face.

Nothing you could do to stop you from yelling now, either.

“Fuck you! Fuck your stupid hair. That stupid shit box car you drive. Your stupid piercings— and stupid tattoos that you refuse to get touched up because I said I liked them the way they were!”

Punk’s face was a blank slate. All it took was for you to start barking out your qualms with him, and suddenly he was at ease like a soldier.

In the heat of your tirade, you slither out of his arms, angrily marching over to the couch and picking up a throw pillow.

“I can’t fucking believe you. You would think three years meant something, right?! But noooo. Not for Mr. CM Punk. You got to carry on life as usual after you left my house that night. You got to parade around your ring, hearing a crowd of people chant your name like you’re the second coming of Christ! All while I was at home sobbing over gym shorts! Fucking gym shorts!”

The pillow you’d been smacking against your hand was perfect ammo to toss at his head; you grunt as you throw it, listening to the pitiful thud as it slams against the wall behind him.

“You want the shorts? I’ll give you the fucking shorts. The same way I gave you the hours it took me to sew your fucking name onto the tags like you asked me to!”

Your throat felt like sandpaper, your heart racing at 90mph and fluttering with every honest truth you spoke.

“I bet a selfish part of you missed having me around, didn’t you? Because without me, who makes you breakfast in the morning? Who else sits through your God-awful, mean jokes when nobody else is around to hear them?”

It was getting harder to stay away from him now, the adrenaline rush that came with smacking him across the face was the last little push you needed for your penultimate sentence.

“Who else is there, Punk?” the volume of your voice lowers when you take a hurried step closer to him.

SMACK.

“Who else fucks you like I do?”

For a split second, you see the glass in Punk’s eyes shatter. You see all of his rugged features soften and he searches your face for something, anything to say.

But just when you think he’s about to pull away, and curse you out for berating him with your spiteful tongue, his lips crash against yours in a bruising kiss.

You melt into him instantly, all of the pieces of your scrambled up puzzle falling back into place the moment his hands hold you against his body.

His cheek was tender, hot to the touch, and your hand was still lingering from that one final smack, yet he encouraged you to cup his face as it hovered in the aftermath.

The initial kiss grows more primal, a twisted dance of heavy breathing and knocking teeth brings Punk’s hands to travel.

Suddenly your mind is back where it started, an unshakable feeling of wavering uncertainty as he lifts your leg to rest on his hip.

“You— you don’t get to do this,” you stammer, not making any attempt to regain your composure, “you don’t get to just— walk in here and destroy everything I’ve been working so hard to rebuild.”

Your noses knock against each other as your breathing becomes one, Punk pulls away with a tug at your bottom lip.

“Then tell me to leave. Push me away. Kick me out.”

As you open your mouth to retort, his body rolls against yours, leaving your head to spin and freeze up like it always did whenever he turns you on.

“Go on, Bunny,” he continues his torturous drawl, bending down to nip at the sensitive skin behind your ear as he whispers, “Tell me to leave.”

A quiet whimper takes over whatever else you’d planned on saying. Any and all remnants of anger from your rant had suddenly disappeared.

“You—”

Your sentence is cut short by your other leg being picked up off the ground. You gasp, clinging yourself to his hips as he spins you, holding you between the wall and the rising warmth of his body.

“You know I can’t do that, you fuckin’ asshole.”

Another searing kiss, one that made stars pass behind your eyelids as his hands held you tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Surely the pads of his fingers would leave bruises in only the places he could see— he loved to know that he was the only one to touch you in the places that get hidden beneath layers of cotton and lace.

He always did. He always will.

A gasp flies past your lips, and his, as he adjusts his grip on you, nailing you higher to the wall with the sheer weight and force of his lips. His own twisted form of crucifixion.

“God, you’re addicting,” he mumbles into your cheek, his line of kisses getting sloppier as he can’t decide where to pay attention to, “You slapped me ‘till my face went raw… You scratched me ‘till I bled…”

A groan of his own interrupts his string of lustful sweet nothings, only for you to take it as your opportunity to grab his chin in your hand.

You look him in the eye, still feeling the burning sensation in your chest— but this time, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness. It was fighting that feeling that you could never quit.

As you look at him, you take your thumb, still stained with blood from before, and trail it across his bottom lip. His lips and chin are defiled with that perfect shade of scarlet — his eyes glittering as you paint him red.

“…And you cursed me out like a fuckin’ bitch,” he chuckles wryly, his tongue flicking out to catch the blood you’d left.

“And yet—” You cock your head to the side, your features fully softening for the first time since he arrived at your door, “—you’re still here with me.”

Before you could even think, Punk is grabbing at the buttons on your pajama shirt and anchoring you to the wall with his hips. His actions are frenzied, popping open the first, second, and third button.

“Fuck this,” he grumbles in frustration, fully surrendering, tugging at the bottom hem and lifting that black and pink heart printed pajama top over your head in one full swoop. You can’t help but chuckle as he tosses it behind his head, and gets straight to work on worshipping the valley of your breasts with open-mouthed kisses.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, Bunny,” he breathes out between each time his lips press against you, “I wanna slap my damn’ self for breaking your heart.”

As he caters to you, you find your hands lacing through his hair, pushing it back to reveal a slit in his eyebrow. The same one he refused to shave back in no matter how many times you asked.

Maybe he thought that you seeing it tonight would help him get lucky.

And judging by the position you were in right now, it clearly worked its magic.

“All these sweet nothings aren’t gonna change the fact that you’re an asshole,” you state plainly, but finding it harder to speak due to him pinning you against the wall.

“You can call me— whatever the hell you want,” says Punk, tucking a strand of your frizzed up hair behind your ear.

The heated encounter had blindly begun to move towards the couch. You found yourself going limp in his arms the moment there wasn’t a sheet of drywall holding you up like a puppet on strings. Punk had you completely at his mercy— although fast-paced, steamy, extremely desperate sex was a staple in your repertoire.

“Is this how you planned on apologizing to me?” you ask, tailing off your sentence with a squeak as he tips you back to lay on the couch.

Punk crawls his way up your topless body, licking a stripe from your belly button all the way to the start of your jaw.

“Wasn’t planned, no. But I suppose that fucking it out to the point of forgiveness is better than a healthy conversation, right?”

Although forgiveness wasn’t a thing that crossed your mind until now, the events that had unfolded within the past thirty minutes had your head in knots. How could a man who you’d sworn off ‘till death come back into your life, simply with a bat of his pretty eyelashes and a flash of the gap in his teeth?

Maybe Punk’s visit was the universe telling you that you’d met your match. You simply couldn’t stay away.

After any and all clothes that barred access to the places he needed you most were removed, you found yourself swimming in a pool of dizzy, love-drunk thoughts. Punk took his time with you, yet still seemed as though he was rushing to get to where you needed him most.

“Fuckin’ Christ, I missed you. I missed you so much,”

Punk groans, taking a moment to stare into your soul before dipping down to bite at your bottom lip with his teeth.

You sigh in bliss, having not felt the touch of him, or anyone else for that matter, since the last time you saw him. As fucked up as it was, you missed this feeling.

You really missed him, too.

“Can I?” you begin to say, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt after another pick up of that steamy makeout session.

“Of course. Anything you want. Have me topless, have me naked, fully clothed, I don’t fuckin’ care.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, he helps you in taking off his tee, and your mind freezes up when you notice the beginning of a tattoo on his chest.

“Is this new?”

You trace the outline of ink with your manicured finger, following its shape all the way to the curve of his shoulder.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Been thinkin’ about a chest piece for a while.”

“Mmmh, yeah?” you hum, a fluttering feeling rumbling through your stomach the moment you realize that his hand had travelled to the waistband of your panties. “Chest tattoos are fucking sexy.”

Punk smirks, inching that wandering hand down past the waistband of your underwear towards your throbbing core. He bites his lip, that silver lip ring getting caught in the crossfire.

“Glad you think so, Bunny.”

An immediate wave of pleasure crashes over your senses the moment you feel his finger tease at your dripping slit. He always took the time to make sure you were fully ready— but you were afraid that your screaming match from earlier had you more hot and bothered than you’d like to admit.

“Punk, c’mon—” you whine indignantly, writhing beneath him as he slowly starts to spread your own wetness across your folds, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Impatient now, are we?” he bites back, making it a point to slowly, tauntingly dip in and out of your entrance with his slender finger.

You can’t help but moan out in purse frustration— impatience, as he called it.

“If you don’t hurry this along and fuck me already, I’ll send you home with blue balls and no gym shorts.”

As he opens his mouth to retort, you shoot your hand down to catch his wrist, shaking your head at him disapprovingly.

“Don’t remember you ever being this desperate to get fucked, Bunny,” he chuckles lowly, keeping you and your stamina on its toes as he flips your position to have you straddling his lap, “And here I was thinking you were a fan of the slow, sappy shit.”

“People change, y’know,” you shrug, finding a comfortable position to grind your hips down onto his bulge as you slide your hands up his chest towards his throat, “I think you may have ruined me for good.”

Punk was an athlete. He was quick on his feet, and even quicker to get into the minds of anyone he deemed a worthy opponent. When it came to you, the most worthy of them all, he read you like a book. Cover to cover.

“Ruined you?” he asks, watching your hands climb his chest towards his throat, “Is that why you felt so inclined to almost kill me earlier?”

You clasp your hands around his throat, pushing out a shaky sigh from his chest. A smile spreads across your face like wildfire, your hips now wielding a mind of their own against the hard-on in his shorts.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic— Are you going soft on me, Punker? I thought you liked it a little— rough.”

When you looked back down at his face, what you didn’t expect to see was an airy grin. Punk must’ve done a lot of thinking in the time you were apart— because the Punk you knew a month ago wouldn’t stand for a second of this role reversal. But now, it seemed as though he was basking in the art of submission.

Safe to say, you had him whipped once again.

Fucking finally.

A low rumble from Punk floats to your ears, the first sign of his bleeding impatience. His eyebrows furrowed, the tip of his nose twitched, all while your hands were still wrapped around his neck and gently squeezing the pressure points on either side.

“I really meant it when I said you ruined my life, y’know,” you coo to him quietly, rolling your hips down past his crotch in order for your mouth to be level with the new ink traced on his chest, “Because now, I can’t think of anyone else who makes me feel the way you do.”

“Bunny…” Your nickname sounds like prayer in his gravelly voice, as you take your time and nip at the sensitive skin above his peck. Your teeth leave bruises in their traces, but you knew he didn’t mind.

“I really did try to forget about you. It’s true— but I just couldn’t help myself… Thinking about those big, sad, green eyes every time I slid my hand between my thighs t’ try and get myself off.”

A trail of bruises adds on to the weight of your words— all of which were true. You thought you’d had it all under control the moment your relationship with Punk ended. But the harder you tried to forget about those aforementioned eyes or the spiteful, sarcastic bite of his tongue, the more you really fucking missed it.

“You’re fucking evil, you know that?” Punk gasps, a broad hand flying to brush rogue hair from your forehead.

“What about me is so evil? The fact that you loved me so good and fucked me so hard that you stained my conscience?”

In a lingering spike of anger, you dig your nails into his abdomen, watching his muscles flex beneath the grapple you held. Punk winces, returning the favor with a tug at your hair.

“I don’t think it’s evil. I’d say you left your mark,” you add onto the torture, dragging your nails past the tattoo on his stomach towards the waistband of his shorts, “And now, I think it’s only fair that I leave mine.”

The speed in which your lips reattached to his should've been a worthy competitor to the speed of sound; moans catching between heaving, desperate breaths as Punk held you like you were the last thing he’d ever touch.

“Take your fuckin’ shorts off—” you demand, a lightning bolt of confidence shocking through your spine as he follows your orders without question. All while your lips were still entwined.

You blindly reach down past where the hem of his shorts were, a sloppy frenzy of movement as you feel his cock free itself and spring up from the confines of his briefs.

A moan is caught in your larynx as your hand finds his thick shaft, locking eyes with him the second that skin touches skin.

“I— I bet you’ve been dreaming of this shit. Beatin’ the hell outta’ me, bossing me around—”

“—Oh please. I could do this in my sleep. I was always just worried about bruising that big, dumb ego of yours.”

You bite your lip, and Punk just sighs, his head hitting the throw pillow that you didn’t choose to launch at him while he stood against the wall.

“The biggest and dumbest. Yet you loved me more than anything. Isn’t that strange?”

Your eyes narrow at his smug expression. Despite being on the short end of the stick, he sure did have a mouth for the ages.

“But I’m not the one that came here all mopey, trying to put on a fuckin’ show because I missed incredible sex and the smell of vanilla perfume.”

“You didn’t deny that you love me.”

Your lip twitches at his smug expression. You’re almost tempted to rear that same hand back and slap him once more.

“Bite me.”

In a haze of rough, needy kisses and enough love bites to kill a man, you’d finally felt that your teasing quota was met. One final peck to the tip of his nose had Punk gasping for air, as you slithered your hand between your bodies and palmed his cock. You lift your hips, his pupils blown like he’d just seen the center of the universe.

“Missed seeing you on top of me—” Punk blurts out, looking shocked at the delicacy of his own words.

You flash him a wicked smile, not wasting any time in pushing your panties to the side and teasing his tip at your entrance.

“Bet you missed this pussy too, hm?”

Your condescension only adds to the fire raging in those evergreen eyes. Punk can only nod into submission as you lower yourself onto him, stretching out your walls around his cock and reinstating your title as the perfect fit.

Collective sighs fill the air, but there was still a small amount of unspoken tension that lingered above your heads like a storm cloud. There was only one way to release that tension— and it was the best way that you knew how.

Before you know it, the pace of your rocking hips picks up in speed, and the trembling breaths leaving Punk’s parted lips sounded like church bells ringing in your ears.

“Oh my God, fuck— Bunny—” he grunts, his hands grabbing tightly onto to your waist like clothespins as he guides you up and down his cock.

“Say my name. My— real name.”

Now that demand was something you knew he hated to do.

Although never showing any distaste for your real name, he had an aversion to using it. Only allowing himself to use it was of the utmost importance.

For himself, he preferred you just call him Punk, simply because ‘Phil’ just felt too mundane for his eclectic, brooding tastes.

The same went for you. The phenomenon of a ring name was something that got him more hot than bothered— and since you weren’t a wrestler, nor were you planning to be, he was left to his own devices to give you one. That was when ‘Bunny’ came about.

He may have chosen ‘Bunny’ for a multitude of reasons—it could have been for the fuzzy boots you wore on the winter night you’d met him outside of an indie show, or the way your nose crinkled up every time he said something that made you wince. For a while, you’d assumed that he’d forgotten your real name.

But you never really questioned his logic. Hell, you rarely questioned any of his idiosyncrasies at all.

If Bunny was what he liked to call you, then Bunny it was.

“Say my name, Phil. Fucking— say it.”

An impetuous moan breaks you out of your reminiscing, feeling that rage inside of you bubble back up into the desire to cause him more than just emotional pain. You take your hand and cup his jaw, fiercely pulling his spaced out eyes back into yours.

“Ah, fuck— fuckin’ Christ, you’re a lunatic.”

Your grip on his jaw grows tighter, watching him fight a smile with the ruminating thought of his masochistic ways in the back of your mind.

“You love this shit,” you pant, still rocking your hips with an utmost force that eventually brought the coffee table beside you to rattle, “Admit it. Tell me you love it and say my fucking name.”

An array of sloppy sounds fills the room once again, you can see, and feel, Punk’s shoddy attempts to fight back your ruthless aggression with his hips.

He slams into you upwards, a ping-pong of changing power dynamics, your entire body somehow feels like it weighs a ton.

“Kiss me. Bite me. Do it— do it ‘till it hurts.”

Suddenly, you’re crying out, loosening your hold on his jaw to run your nails down the front of his chest. He winces in pure, unbridled lust at the feeling of that brief sharp pain, and snaps his hips up even faster.

“Say my name first,” you barely squeeze out the words.

“Shit— Y/N— I fucking love you.”

Your wish was his command.

As you continue to bounce on his cock with enough force to drive you off the rails, you duck down, and slam your lips against his.

It was almost as if that final kiss was what he needed to send him to the brink of climax— his rhythm suddenly sloppy and his hands now crawling across your back to keep you pinned to his chest. You almost go weak in his arms when he bites at your neck, running his hand through the back of your hair and holding you closer— as if closer than you were right now was even humanly possible.

“Punk, oh my God— just like that, yeah. Right— right fuckin’ there—”

The rhythm of his hips was hitting every single mark— your walls tensing around his thick shaft with each snap of his hips and every glance into his needy eyes. He groaned for you, that poor, beaten up face of his looking as though you had him under a spell.

“Nobody fucks me like you do,” you breathe out, hoping your words were everything he needed and more to push him to the edge, “I love you. I still love you— so fucking much.”

A symphony of moans breaks you out of your bouts of praise, his hips snapping upwards with utmost force and bringing your entire body to tremble above him.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, Y/N!”

And suddenly, as if you were whipped through space and time, stars and fireworks fluttering towards the pit of your stomach— his cock twitches inside of you with an unspeakable amount of desperation and desire, reaching his climax in tandem with yours.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, sinking down to lay your cheek atop the fresh ink on his chest.

Punk lets out a low whistle, one that sounds familiar, and oddly comforting to you. It is reminiscent of a sigh of relief, as if having you wholly again was the one thing that kept his sarcastic quips and shitty ego afloat. All of that tension that lingered in the doorway of your apartment disappeared in an instant, his hands wrapping around you tightly as you attempted to level your breathing.

“You really know how to wear a man out, don’t ya?” Punk comments, tracing hearts and stars across your shoulder blades.

“I feed off souls, it's how I stay young.”

A simultaneous, hearty chuckle shakes both of your bodies. There was a feeling brewing around in your head that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. Maybe it was regret, but it was far too early to tell.

Especially with him still being inside of you.

“A succubus of sorts, hm?” says Punk, picking up your chin.

“Maybe. Maybe my mystifying, witchy-woman powers are what brought you here.”

“Or maybe I’m the one who can sense sadness. Don’t think I didn’t see those kicked-puppy-dog eyes when you opened the door...”

There it was again. The Punk you knew and loved. Defensive, yet somehow still able to make you swoon.

“...Gotta admit, there is a bit of magic between us.”

After laying in Punk’s arms for a long while after, that overwhelming sense of impending doom had dissolved completely.

You watched Punk scramble up and down the stairs of your lofted apartment to grab you everything you needed. A warmed washcloth and a glass of water; the two staples in your aftercare routine.

“Need anythin’ else?” You hear his disembodied voice from the kitchen above the running water.

“Actually, I do,” you comment, sitting up fully on the couch after he’d re-dressed you in your pajamas, “I need you to admit that coming here at midnight to bother me about a pair of gym shorts was a stupid fuckin’ plan.”

Punk freezes in his tracks, a sly smile sneaking onto his lips as he reaches over to dramatically turn the faucet off, “Guess I didn’t really think it through. I was more focused on seeing you. I needed an excuse to cover my own ass— the shorts were the best I could do.”

“Do better,” you snarl, “Still want ‘em back?”

Before replying, Punk slides beside you on the couch, his arm ready to cradle your head into the crook of his neck. He presses his lips against the side of your head, keeping there as his breathing slows.

“You can keep the shorts, Bunny. Just as long as you take me with ‘em.”

#cm punk smut #cm punk fanfic #cm punk x reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe smut #cm punk angst #my debut post weeeeee

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pedriache · 9 months ago

Note

HI! I saw you write for Criminal Minds and I was wondering if you could write for Emily Prentiss where she and reader work alongside one another like majority of the times, and maybe one of them (doesn’t matter who) is particularly irritable where it makes the other want nothing more than to just comfort them and it’s slight angst to comfort? (They’re each others work crush!) 💚

Please be rude — Emily Prentiss.

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Fem!Reader

Summary: This case was getting to Emily. You could see it throughout the day, she was growing more and more agitated. So you take her aside and try to get her to relax.

Word count: 500

Disclaimer/s: Mentions of potential murder , abduction , all the average criminal minds stuff , light angst , comfort !

A/N: clearing out my drafts before my trip yipee !

Emily paced back and forth across the white tiles that lined the mall. A young girl had gone missing, potentially an abduction, and for some reason it was really getting to her. You stood a few feet away, leaning against one of the miscellaneous tables as you watched her with concern.

“Em..” You sigh out, pushing off the table. “Do you need a break?”

“No. No, i’m fine.” She snaps, her eyes widening as she realizes. “Sorry. That was rude. Something just feels off.” The raven haired woman shakes her head, running a hand over the back of her hair until she grasps the back of her neck to rub it lightly.

You nod in understanding, chewing on your bottom lip. “How about we go make coffee and you tell me about it? Hmm?”

Emily reluctantly agrees, dropping her hands to her side. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”

Leading the way, you find the cafeteria. One of the workers agrees to make you two a coffee free of charge. While you wait, the two of you stand back. “So, what’s bugging you?”

“I just…” She glances up at you, “I just have this gut feeling, and it won’t go away.” She shrugs it off, shaking her head. “It could be nothing.”

Frowning, you reach out to the woman, squeezing her shoulder. “Hey, if you feel something, there’s a reason why. Don’t ignore it.”

Emily smiles at the small act of affection. She lifts her hand to cover yours, “okay, okay. Once we get our coffee, i’ll find Hotch.”

You give her a quick smile, trying to ignore the lurch in your stomach at her touch. “Perfect. How are you adjusting to the team, by the way?” You ask as you reach for the coffee’s the barista handed you. “Thank you.” You nod at her before turning back to Emily and hand her one.

Emily blows at the hole in the lid to cool it down. “Good, this is very different from my last job, but still, i’m adjusting well.” She smiles up at you for a moment, “you’ve been a major help, of course.”

Chuckling, you take a small sip. “Glad to be of service.” You’d been watching her intently since she had started talking, noticing what made her relax. “Okay, let’s go find Hotch, and you tell me about this hunch of yours, yeah?”

Emily swallows, “yeah.”

“Come on newbie.” You grin, nudging your shoulder against hers as the two of you make your way to where you knew your boss would be.

“Oh, before we go in,” Emily stops you with a hand on your arm. You turn to her with a quirked eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. “Thank you, for that. I know you were trying to calm me down. I appreciate that, I appreciate you.”

A warm feeling grows in your chest. “Of course, Em. Any time, any place, i’m here to help.”

Emily’s eyes flickered across your face, a small smile on her lips. “Right back at you.”

Likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. Lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future posts.

DTS , @halfwayhearted @spidybaby !

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #sapphic #wlw #wlw yearning #blurb #hurt/comfort #angst to comfort #cm angst

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 1 year ago

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Safe In Your Dreams

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.3k

Warnings: angst, major character death, fluff

Summary: You don't know what you have until it's not there anymore.

Square Filled: drowning in their sorrows for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

“Come on, if we hurry, we might make it before the trailers are over,” you giggle.

“Are you sure we should be doing this? I have money.”

“And give it to those corporate assholes? You know barely any of the money goes to the theaters. They all go to the production company that makes the movies. I’ve done this once or twice. They don’t care if you sneak in. All they care about are their popcorn and food sales. That’s why they’re priced so high. That’s how they make their money.”

Spencer looks unsure about sneaking into a theater, and you yank open the back door with a smile.

“We’re gonna get caught.”

“Sure, with that attitude. Just tilt your chin up and pretend like you know where you’re going. Works every time.” Still, the unsure look doesn’t leave Spencer’s face. “If it really means that much to you, we can do it the normal way and go through the front.”

Spencer might be part of the FBI but who doesn't indulge in a little rebellious act every once in a while? Spencer takes your hand with a smile and steps toward you.

“Lead the way.”

“I knew you were a bit of a bad boy,” you joke and lead him inside the theater.

You lead Spencer inside the movie theater and away from anyone who might kick you out. There is a movie showing you’ve been wanting to see and happened to drag your boyfriend along with you for the ride. There is popcorn in your bag that you popped yourself so you don’t have to buy the theater’s popcorn.

You two walk into the theater you want and head to the very back so as not to bother anyone else. It’s a cheesy horror movie that has you laughing rather than screaming. Spencer isn’t a huge fan of horror but loves movies like these because it’s something you love to do.

Another thing you love to do with Spencer that he also enjoys is playing min-golf. You two clearly don’t know what you’re doing but it doesn’t matter because you’re having fun.

“Spencer, I think you’re doing it wrong,” you giggle.

He holds the golf club at an angle and hits the ball but it goes nowhere near the hole. It bounces off several walls and goes back to where he started.

“I suck at this game,” he smiles.

“Let me show you how it’s done.”

You walk to the front and set your ball down. You look at the hole on the other end of the course and bring your club back only to hit it super hard. The ball not only goes flying, it flies right into the set instead of on the grass. This course is a pirate’s theme so there are wooden pirates everywhere, and the ball nearly takes off one of their heads.

The couple behind you stares at you in judgment for acting like children. You two are giggling like school girls, but the couple doesn’t think it’s funny.

“Maybe you should play the right way,” the woman says.

“Maybe you should mind your fucking business,” you snap.

The woman is shocked you talked to her that way, and you turn to Spencer with a giggle. She storms off to presumably get security which means you and Spencer have to go before you get in trouble.

“It’s not good for an FBI agents to be caught with petty vandalism.”

“Then we better not get caught!”

Mini golf might not be the best date idea since you and Spencer can’t play for shit, but the kind of dates you love taking Spencer on are beach dates. The perfect time of day to go is when the sun is setting since the clouds are bright pink, orange, and purple, and the sun makes the water shimmer magically.

“Are you ready?” you grin at Spencer.

“As ready as you can be.”

“Don’t push me this time.”

The water crashes on the shore, and you and Spencer run from the water. You two look like little kids who don’t want to get wet but you don’t care. Once the water recedes back into the ocean, you and Spencer walk closer to water. The waves crash onto the shore again, and tyou and Spencer take off running away from it. The water splashes on the back of your ankles, and you squeal at how cold it is. The East Coast waters are a lot warmer than the West Coast, but it’s still winter.

Spencer scoops you up into his arms and walks closer to the water that has receded.

“Don’t drop me,” you giggle and hold onto him.

When the water crashes onto the shore, Spencer attempts to run from it but ends up slipping and falling. He turns so that you land on him instead of the ground, but the water washes over both of you. You scream playfully from how cold the water is and Spencer shivers from the temperature. You lean down and kiss him just as another wave washes upon you.

Though, the best date you’ve ever been on with Spencer is when he took you to a rooftop restaurant. He had to work late because of the BAU but managed to get a reservation a the restaurant since he was friends with the chef. Since it was past closing time, there was no one else on the roof but you two, and it overlooked the city which only added to how romantic it was.

“Damn, you can see everything up here,” you say. “It’s very beautiful.”

Spencer stares at you as you admire the city below. “Yeah, it is.”

Soft music is flowing through the speakers, and Spencer gets up and extends his hand to you. The chef has your orders so while you wait, Spencer wants to fill the time with dancing. You look away from the city and blush at his hand. When you grab his hand, he pulls you into him so that your head is resting on his cheat. You can hear his heartbeat underneath your ear which releases an abundance of endorphins in your head.

Your hand is so small compared to his, so he envelopes yours completely. Everything else in your life goes away because the only thing you can focus on is Spencer and this moment. You’re so in love with him that it’s overwhelming and consuming. You’ve never felt this way about another person before.

You’re not sure where you’d be without him in your life.

A few weeks after that rooftop date, you and Spencer are in the park near your shared apartment. It’s nearing midnight so there aren’t any kids playing around. It’s just you and Spencer which is all that you want. You two are swinging lightly on the swings, and you look up at the stars that twinkle for you.

“Do you still read the book I made for you?” he suddenly asks.

You look at him and slightly frown.

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too painful, I guess. It reminds me of you and I get really sad,” you sigh.

“I see,” he nods.

“I hope you’re not mad.”

“Mad at a cute little thing like you? Never.” He stops swinging and looks at you seriously. “I do have to go, though.”

“No, please stay,” you whimper.

“I can’t darling. I promise I’ll be back soon.”

He gets off the swing and approaches you from the front. He pulls you close and kisses your head. You close your eyes to savor this moment but when you open them, you’re in your bedroom. The room is dull in color and the curtains are drawn closed to prevent light from coming through.

The alarm clock reads seven AM. You should be at work. You should be with your team. Instead, you roll to the empty spot in bed and bring Spencer’s pillow closer to you. You stain the sheet with your tears as you force yourself to go to sleep.

Your dreams are the only place you get to see Spencer now.

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

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matt-murdockk · 3 months ago

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absolutely diabolical that a fic will have the most beautiful summary ever and have you think that you're going to read some really good fluff or angst and the first content warning is anal fisting

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petrichoravis · 4 months ago

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So professional. | s.r.

★ read PART TWO here.

summary: when the team finally has a break through in a case that seemed endless and you and Spencer are assigned to search an abandoned laboratory together, old feeling come to the surface.

word count: 7,3k (it got away from me, sorryyy)

what to expect: ex!spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, kinda like lovers to "enemies" to ??, a lot!! of banter, morgan calls r 'doll', 'princess' and 'sugar', criminal minds typical violence; torture, shooting, gunshot wound, parental/domestic abuse (abusive father/husband), hyporeflexia (the absence of reflexes), medical inaccuracies? I’m sure, English is not my first language.

a/n: aaaa this is so far out of my comfort zone!! I hope you’ll enjoy this while I’ll go into hiding🙈🙈

────── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

This case was endless until it wasn't. Until everything happened so quickly, all at once.

All of the victims had been burned to the point that the ME couldn't figure out the cause of death, until Eleven year old Amilie Porter was found on the side of the road by a passerby.

She had been cold and traumatised and wouldn't speak to anyone, so they brought her to the hospital, who alerted the police that then called you. The BAU.

Now, Spencer and JJ were crouching next to her hospital bed to seem less intimidating. Everything was going great, she wasn't speaking, but engaged in the conversation by nodding or shaking her head to their questions.

Until Amilie accidentally grabbed the mug of hot tea JJ handed her by the burning hot part, but instead of flinching she just held it there, as if it wasn't burning her fingers.

"Woah, hey hey hey!" Spencer took the cup from her before any more damage could be done. "Careful, that's still hot."

But his squeaked comment only made Amilie retreated into herself.

"Sorry, I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Did—" he frowned, he wasn't been sure how to ask her what he wanted to ask, given that she was eleven and still in shock.

"Did you not feel how hot that was?" He asked gently.

Amilie only nodded.

"Yes, you didn't feel how hot it was?"

She shook her head.

"So…you felt it, but didn't pull back?" He was trying his best not to come across as too impatient, keeping his voice low and soft.

He went on as she agreed to the question, "Let me ask you this, Amilie. Did—did the bad man do this?"

When Amilie nodded her head in answer to his question, Spencer glanced up at JJ, nodding as well. He could tell Amilie was exhausted and needed rest, his questions were probably not helping much.

He didn't blame her for being unresponsive, what happened to her must have been enough to traumatise a person with a fully developed brain. He could only calculate what damage it had done and will do to her life.

JJ's voice brought him back into the glaringly white hospital room. "Thank you, Amilie, you helped us very much. We're going to call the nice nurse back in, okay?"

She took Amilie's turning away from them as a yes and they made their way to the reception desk. After they were sure that the nurse was on her way, they walked back to the car.

"What did you see?" She asked him as they walked out of the hospital, onto the parking lot. Sirens were coming from every direction, so they had to speak a little louder.

"Wait—can you drive? I'll call the team." Spencer said, already pulling out his phone and dialling the first contact.

Which, unfortunately, was you.

"Reid? What did she say?" Your voice was usually distant, as if you were scared that letting any emotion into you voice would break the dam.

He pressed a hand over his ear to hear you better.

You see, when you and Spencer got together, you had to promise Hotch that you would stay professional when you would break up. A great prophecy for the rest of your relationship, right? Having to talk about your hypothetical breakup on the first official day of your relationship.

Both of you really tried to stay professional, but working with an ex was hard enough, working with an ex you haven't really talked it out with was harder.

"I think he might be torturing the victims until they loose their reflexes." He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder as he unlocked the car door, holding it open for JJ, handing her the keys and getting into the passenger seat after she was securely in the car.

"Hyporeflexia? Do you—wait let me put you on speaker." There was shuffling on the other side of the phone. "You have Hotch and I. Do you know how he does it?"

"No. I have theories, but nothing concrete. There are a few ways to accomplish the absence of reflexes, drugs like K779 or Leuprorelin, for example. But I doubt he is using a drug, it would have shown up on the toxicology report and the chances of these drugs causing Hyporeflexia are too slim."

"What's your guess?" Hotch piped up.

"Well I think he might be damaging their nervous system. You see, motor neutrons send messages between the spinal cord and brain. Collectively they send messages to the rest of your body to control muscle movements. It's possible that the UnSub is damaging the sensory nerves, spinal cord or motor nerves to cause hyporeflexia." He rambled off the facts and you could practically see the wild gesturing of his hands.

"How is the girl?" You asked.

"She's quiet, but in good hands," he reassured you. "She'll be okay in no time."

"Are you on your way back?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms.

"Yes. We're driving to you now."

"Drive safely." You said, purely for performance purposes.

"I'm not driving." He replied dryly.

"That's why it was meant for JJ."

"She always drives safely." You tried not to roll your eyes as Spencer just hung up.

Being professional when the person you used to plan your future with was now your worst enemy was hard. And while you might spite him a lot, you were sad about it more than you were angry.

But anger always came easier to you than admitting to yourself and him that the break up really hurt you, that you want nothing more than to be friends if you couldn't have him as a partner. You wanted to hold him in your arms again, to fall asleep to his heartbeat every night.

You couldn't tell anyone that, of course, your pride would be in shambles.

So you took a deep breath and turned back to Hotch.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

When Spencer and JJ got back to Quantico the team reassembled for the briefing. Everyone shared their thoughts and theories and Spencer explained what had happened at the hospital.

"Um…I know that there is a poison called curare, it's won from various plants and causes paralysis by binding to the acetylcholine receptor of the junction where two nerve cells dock together and therefore prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal muscles. Could it be something like that?" You asked into the room.

Spencer was quiet for a moment and you're unsure whether he was impressed by your knowledge or just thinking really hard about the possibilities. "Well, we obviously can't tell because the bodies are burnt. But it's unlikely that he is using curare, given that Amilie wasn't paralysed, but developed Hyporeflexia."

Never mind, he was just thinking of a polite way to say, you're so far from the point, stupid.

"Right. So what do you think?" You almost added oh almighty! but were able to stop yourself. Because you're professional.

"As I already said," he gave you a look, "he is probably damaging the nervous system."

"Right, sorry. I meant, how is he doing that?" You had been able to sound so unfazed until this moment.

"I don't know," he frowned at you, as if his answer was obvious (you would like to state that it was not), "or I would have shared it already."

The team was nice enough not to comment on your little dispute, but it's clear that it was getting on their nerves. Especially Hotch, who was looking more stoic than usual, Morgan was finding it more amusing than anything.

"I'll get Garcia to search for similar occurrences in the area." You said quickly, already hurrying out of the room and away from the pending lecture.

Spencer watched you scurry off with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He didn't know why he bitt like a wounded dog every time the two of you spoke. He would like to think that it was because he just genuinely didn't like you anymore, but he knew that wasn't true. Hating you would be easier than this.

On the other side of the office, you ripped open door of Penelope Garcia's office and slammed it closed behind you, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh.

Penelope startled upright, turning her swivel chair to look at you with wide eyes. "Well, hello. Are you alright?"

"No," you whined dramatically. "All of this is so incredibly fucking fucked."

"Oh, love," she patted the place next to her. "He, who shall not be named again?"

You nodded, slumping into the chair. "He's just so—I just feel so…ugh. All we do is spite each other. When will this get easier?"

She looks at you with so much pity, you can't stand it. "I'm not going to tell you that it will pass with time, because, well…" She gave you a look that said nothing less than because you're quite dramatic, over the rim of her glasses.

While you huffed in response, you couldn't quite find a good argument that spoke against her unspoken statement, so your mouth stayed closed. But you didn't refrain from sending her a glare.

"What?" She asked innocently, if anything about Penelope Garcia can ever be called innocent.

You gave her a look. "Constructive criticism? Didn't we just talk about that?"

"I didn't even say anything! It's not my fault that you interpreted something into my very lovely face."

You decided that this was totally fruitless, your fault for thinking that you had a friend in her. "Can you look into past histories of people with hyporeflexia? Anything you can find. People who have been diagnosed with it in the past…let's say fifteen years, suspicious reports of it, someone being especially interested in it, maybe a lot of it happening in one area. You know the drill."

"Yep, totally, ma chère. One sec." She turned her chair towards the computer screen and began working her magic.

After what feels like three seconds—thank God for Penelope's speed on the keyboard and swift fingers—she piped up, "Hyporeflexia is quite a rare official diagnosis, so I cross referenced it with torture or unnatural causes and I found," a few more mouse clicks. "…a Theodore Wilson, who has been in and out of the hospital for severe burns and bruises a lot when he was young."

Frowning, you lean over Penelope's shoulder to look at the screen. "And that's relevant because…?"

"That, my gorgeous girl," she booped your nose with her fluffy pen and you scrunched your nose. "Is because they look suspiciously similar to our victims and…" She paused for dramatic effect. "Theodore's father was a biochemist best known for his research on Hyporeflexia."

You frown deepened. "Is his father still alive?"

A few clicks later, Penelope replied, "Nope." She popped the p. "He died last month, but Theo's mother still lives in Virginia."

"If we consider Theodore a suspect, his father's passing could have been the stressor. Thank you, Pen. Could you—"

"The address is sent to your phone." She smiled up at you as you got up and walked towards the door. "But don't think our talk about you-know-who is over!" She sing-songs just before you could leave.

You rolled your eyes. The nicknames were getting excessive.

"I can't hear you!" You called back just before closing the door behind you.

You froze when you turned and saw the team gathered in the bullpen area. "Um," you glanced at Spencer for just a millisecond to see how much he has heard, but his face seemed impassive. Looking back at your unit chief, you continued, "Penelope found a lead."

Hotch nodded for you to continue and you made your way closer to the group. Recognition flickered across Spencer's face at the name Don Wilson, but he said nothing as you continued to explain what Penelope found.

"Penelope send the address of his mother to me already." You said as you finished.

"Do you think he might be the first victim or the UnSub?" Hotch asked.

"Possibly both. That's what I'd like to find out by talking to the mother." You replied, taking the last steps towards the team.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you accompany her."

Great, just what you needed. Relentless teasing from Derek Morgan, fun!

The devil grinned. "Let's do this, doll."

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

You ignored Morgan the whole drive.

No, seriously, you didn't say a word to him besides giving him the directions. Of course that only stroked the fire.

When you finally did arrive at the house of Theodore's mother, you felt like you had just taught a class of first graders.

Morgan was in the middle of something like, "—come on, we're all waiting to hear what happened between you and pretty boy—" when you got out of the car and slammed the door shut. You couldn't stand to listen to even one more second of it.

But of course he just continued after exiting the car, too. "That bad, huh?"

If you didn't know any better, you might have thought there was some pity in that comment. "It's fine. And also really none of your business."

"You and Reid are kind of making it everyones business, princess."

Rolling your eyes at his statement, you sped up your steps along the gravel path. The faster you got to the door, the faster Morgan had to get into work mode and could finally stop behaving like an assho—

The door opened unexpectedly.

"Oh," an elderly woman—she must have been in her late sixties—startled back at the sight of the both of you. She had shoulder length red-brown hair that was frizzy and clearly not washed for at least two weeks. Her hands were fiddling with a button of her worn down brown cardigan.

Undoubtedly the woman you saw on the picture on Penelope's computer.

You quickly pulled out your badge, animating Morgan to do so as well. "Mrs. Wilson? We're with the FBI. My apologies if we startled you."

"The FBI?" She frowned, clutching her cardigan tightly around herself like an armour. "Why would the FBI come to my house?"

"Ma'am, we have reason to believe that your son might be involved in the case we are investigating right now." You said carefully, not knowing how much she could handle before having a heart attack.

"What? No, that—that's ridiculous! He—he…" she seemed to have forgotten what she was saying, now studying the ground for dirt.

Morgan and you glanced at each other. This was going to be difficult.

"Ma'am?" Morgan tried again. "Could we come in?"

She frowned up at him. "Yes, yes, of course. How rude of me." She made a sound that could have been a laugh as much as it could have been a sob.

"Make yourselves at home, dears. Oh, my apologies it's a little messy." She hurried across the room, gathering scraps of fabric and dirty dishes.

"Uh," you weren't sure how to say this politely, but you were in a rush and sour mood.

Luckily, Morgan saved you from having to come up with something polite. "Mrs. Wilson, we'd like to ask you some questions about your son, Theodore, if that is alright with you?"

"Oh, Theo," he fingertips touched her lips and her eyes welled up a little. It was a nostalgia only a mother could feel. "We—we don't talk a lot anymore, now that he is at university."

You frowned. There had been no evidence of Theodore being at university. "What is he studying?"

The woman seemed frozen in her thoughts. "Physics. No, that's not right…Chemistry, yes. He is studying chemistry at Princeton. He told me that."

You gave Morgan a signal to fact check that with Penelope and he left the room, leaving you to talk to Mrs. Wilson alone.

"Did he always like chemistry?"

"Yes, yes. When he was young, he always used to…no, I think that was biology." She laughed almost hysterically. "Can't keep up with that boy. So many talents."

Bingo. Biochemistry. His father's influence, no doubt. And it fit the theory of Theodore taking on his father's murderous tendencies. Just a little more and you had him.

"Was there any particular niche he was particularly interested in?"

"Yes, but…but I don't remember. You see, Don, my husband—Theo's father, he would know. He—he was the one who always went to the laboratory with Theo."

Laboratory? You froze at the mention of a possible secondary location. Double bingo, a place to hide the victims and possibly burn them. A place where his father could have taught him his ways, pass the torture down like some families might pass down jewellery.

"This lab," you asked cautiously, not wanting to come across too pushy or desperate (which you very much were). "You don't happen to know where it is?"

"Oh, it's abandoned now, run down, I'm certain. They stopped going there after Don got sick…" she couldn't finish the sentence, her eyes fogging up with grief.

You doubted that he just stopped going, but she didn't need to know that. "Is it possible that you find out where it is located?"

She nodded, mumbling something about a postcard before disappearing into another room.

Morgan came back from the hallway.

"There is no record of him at Princeton. No pay checks, nothing." He whispered to you.

That was to be expected. You just nodded.

All of this left you with a horrible, nauseating feeling in the pit of your stomach. This woman had lost everything—her husband, her son, her sanity—but the hope she clung to was that her son was in university, building a life of his own, making a name for himself.

Now you were working on destroying that hope. It might ruin her entirely. Irrevocably.

She came back a second later, a postcard in her hands. "That's the address, I think." She held it out to you.

But as you went to grab it, fingers closing around it, she didn't let go, keeping a tight grip on it. Like a lifeline. Like a part of her knew, that if she let you have it, there was no going back to the normal she once knew.

"Mrs. Wilson…?" You tested carefully.

She startled. "Oh! I'm sorry." She let the paper go. "Here you go. I hope it helps with your…"

Her face creased up, thinking hard of a reason why two FBI agents could be in her house, asking for her perfect son who was studying chemistry in Princeton.

Morgan, ever the escape artist, waved politely, "You have been very helpful, Ma'am. We best be going then, have a nice day."

"Yes, yes, of course. You must be busy kids." But just as you stepped through the door, feet just hitting the gravel, she called after you. "Agents?"

Both of you turned. "Yes?" You asked politely.

"My son, when you visit him at Princeton, could—could you tell him I was sorry?"

"Of course, Ma'am." You let your voice trail off, hoping she would clarify what she was apologising for.

Mrs. Wilson leaned against the door with one hand, as if stabilising herself. "We had a fight, you see. The night before he left for Princeton. I never got to apologise to him."

You were tempted to ask what the fight was about, but you held back. It might be important for the case, but not enough to dig up the rotten bones. "Of course. We will tell him, Mrs."

"Thank you—thank you. Tell him I love him, too, would you be so kind?"

You nodded. "Of course."

Morgan and you walked away, then. Leaving the woman behind.

You didn't recall reaching the car, didn't recall Morgan unlocking it and even holding open the door for you to climb in. Too deep in the past, too caught up in the future.

The conversation with the mother affected you more than you'd like to admit. A fight could ruin so many relationships, it could make you go crazy, make you say things that caused you to drift further and further apart. Until you didn't know each other at all anymore, but you still clung to the past yous that you once were.

You only came to yourself when you felt the seat under you, when the engine started to hum.

"We had a fight." You mumbled as Morgan reversed out of the parking space.

"What?" He looked over at you shortly, confused. He couldn't recall having fought with you.

"Spencer and I. We fought. That's why we broke up."

Morgan felt a little like laughing. "You broke up because of a fight? Must have been one hell of a fight, then. The both of you were always so inseparable."

When you didn't laugh or react, Morgan glanced over at you again. You looked sad, in thought. With a big pout-slash-frown on your face, fingers fiddling with the sleeves if your button up.

"Hello? Earth to earthling?" He waved a hand in front of your face.

"Sorry." You glanced up at him. "I don't know why I brought it up, I don't like talking about it."

Bless him, Morgan's face softened a little. He wasn't heartless enough to keep teasing you when you clearly had a hard time. Well, okay, he had his moments.

"You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's okay. We—We fought a lot, leading up to the break up. Silly things like the dishes, different opinions on different things.…The real issue was this job, though." You swallowed around the urge to bolt.

"The job?"

You nodded. "We brought it home with us, made it the centre piece of our relationship."

Morgan winced. It was the mistake every agent was afraid to make when entering a relationship.

"Yeah," you breathed out. "I know. But you know us, we work, that's just who we are."

"Workaholics." Morgan coughed to lighten the mood.

In any other situation you would have dug your elbow into his side, scowled at him. But not in this one.

"It got too much in the end. The fear, the paranoia. We just…snapped. We talked it out, funnily enough that conversation was quite calm. Though we were naive enough to think we could stay friends." You sniffed.

It surprised him, to find out you were struggling so much in the past months leading up to your break up. "You always seemed so happy at work. Everyone agreed when I said you two were meant for each other."

"Yeah, well, things that are meant for each other aren't always the right thing."

"Do you really believe that? Or are you scared that it won't work out if you tried again and you opened yourself up for nothing?" He lifted one hand from the wheel to put air quotes around the word nothing.

You glared at his side profile. "Okay, Mr. Therapist."

"What?" He looked at you again, before focusing back on the road. "I'm just saying. Reid is so far gone for you, opening up to him would never be for nothing. If you want it to work you have to work for it."

"Since when are you an expert on relationships, Derek 'has a new girl every week' Morgan." You rolled your eyes. But you couldn't deny that his words stirred something inside you.

"Okay, you're just being mean now, sugar. I'm incredibly wise." He pretended to push glasses up his nose.

That got a laugh out of you. A real, stomach ache inducing laugh. Maybe you were hysterical now, too.

Morgan smiled at that. He was glad to hear that sound again, after months filled with frown lines and sharp tones.

After you calmed down, you got back into work mode, calling the team and telling them what you had discovered. You told Penelope to check the address and she confirmed that it was an abandoned laboratory.

Now everything happened quickly. Hotch ordered you to drive to the lab and wait for the team, to be on alert for anyone entering or leaving the building, but not to—under any circumstances—enter or separate from each other.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

Not even twenty minutes later, you and Morgan arrived at the laboratory and prepared by putting on your vests and checking your guns.

The other black SUVs lined up in front of the main entrance shortly after.

You caught Spencer's eyes as he got out of the car. He scanned you from head to toe for injuries. When he found none, the concern on his face melted away quickly enough for you to consider you had imagined it.

"No one has entered or left the front door in the time we were here." You said when the team reassembled.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you and Prentiss go in from behind and search the lower level. JJ, Rossi and I search the second floor."

"But that means—" Spencer started to protest but Hotch has already pointed at you.

"You and Reid, go to the upper level."

Because you were so focused on the case (totally not because you want to show Hotch you could be more professional than Spencer), you just nodded.

"Good. Let us not waste time we don't have." Hotch frowns and everyone goes their separate ways.

Spencer glanced at you and you glanced at him. This was the first time you had been alone together since the break up and you were both unsure what to do with each other.

"Is your vest secure?" Spencer asked after a short awkward pause. He took a step closer and you try your best not to flinch back. Professional, you remind yourself like a mantra.

"Yes." You retort steadily enough, but he was already reaching out to tug on the straps.

You frowned at the display of worry, but decided on letting him have his moment. Purely to save energy, of course.

"Fine, let's go up." He said as he was satisfied with your vest. Together you made your way up the stairwell onto the upper level.

As you sneaked through the eerily quiet lab, the only sound heard was the clacking of your heeled boots on the resin floor.

Spencer glared at you. "Couldn't have worn a worse shoe for this, could you?" He whispered.

"I could've hardly worn my crocks." You snapped back. "Focus."

Both of your guns were trained around the corners as you carefully assed the situation. So far there was nothing that seemed too out of the ordinary for an abandoned laboratory. Broken glass, dusty workstations, pipes…Nothing to accompany you and Spencer but silence.

Until a shot rang out. And you wince.

The bullet just barely grazed your upper arm but it was enough to make a crimson blotch bloom on your white button up.

Spencer pulled you behind a corner before you could get hurt even worse and presses his hand over your wound.

He wrapped a hand around your wrist to hold your arm still and assessed your arm. "Does it hurt badly?"

"It's fine. Focus on the UnSub." You scowled, pushing against his shoulders with your free hand. Spencer didn't budge. "Reid, I'm so serious—"

"No, I'm serious," he said your name sternly. "Answer my ques—"

Another shot rang out before he could finish repeating himself, but it thankfully didn't hit anyone.

You gave him a look that says see? I fucking told you so. and pushed him away to glance around the corner to fire some shots at the guy.

"The suspect is in the upper level." You said into the microphone. "He's wearing a black bomber. Brown hair. I can't tell much. He's armed and shooting." You listed off.

"Copy that." Answered JJ's voice back to you.

"Get," Spencer grumbled, "behind the wall."

"You almost sound worried." You grinned and taunted him by doing the direct opposite of his command, leaning further around the corner.

"That's because I am. It doesn't look great on my report if I just let you die." He bitt out, pulling you back by your wrist that he still hasn't let go of.

Unfortunately, he ended up slamming your back against the wall in the process.

You made a noise that could only be described as a grunt. "Oh, and manhandling does?"

Both of you were now pressed against the wall, with Spencer's arms caging you in so you couldn't make a run for it and do something even more reckless.

"I'll just put it down as keeping you from sabotaging the mission." He was panting, and for a moment the thought of just how attractive he was crossed your mind. Until you shook it off.

Just as you opened your mouth to taunt him some more, you ear piece crackles and Hotch's voice was heard saying yours and Spencer's names, "—what is your position?"

"We're still—fuck!" Another shot rang out before you could finish the sentence, hitting a pipe on the opposing wall and causing you to flinch. Steam hissed from the hole. Spencer shushed you and you were tempted to snap at him, but you lowered your voice instead. Staying quiet was in your best interest, to make the shooter believe you were hit and the danger passed.

"Still on the third floor. He's got us cornered." You continued quietly.

And because Spencer just couldn't leave it at that, he added into the mic, "She's hurt, we will need an ambulance when we're out of here."

Glaring, you retorted, "I'm fine, a bullet just grazed my arm."

"It's still important to get it checked out!" Spencer replied in a harsh whisper. He was really pushing your buttons now.

"We're on our way up. Try to get him into the stairwell." Is the only response you get from Hotch.

You breathe out. "Okay, let's try to get to the stairwell."

Spencer nods, gesturing for you to take the lead and finally stepped back to free you from the cage of his arms. (And the suffocating urge to kiss him.)

With your gun stretched out in front of of you, you carefully take step after step along the eerily quiet hallway.

"You go right," Spencer murmured, "I'll take the left."

"What? No—" But it was an impossible task, stopping Spencer Reid once he was set on doing something. He had already disappeared into another hallway.

"Does he learn nothing from his mistakes?" You mumbled to yourself, but do as he demanded nonetheless.

You placed one foot in front of the other with caution, rounding the corners not before listening into the silence.

Suddenly there was a noise. You didn't know if it was Spencer, your imagination or the UnSub, but all of your body was braced for battle.

Taking a deep breath, you rounded the corner. The hallway ended with a wall adorned with two doors. One lead to the stairwell, spiralling down into the second floor.

The other door was open. It looked like a lab to you, but you didn't have a good enough angle to see what was inside. The walls specked with dust and grime, mold forming in the crevices.

You caught movement in the room and walked slowly towards it. You had a half formed though to signal to Spencer through the mic, but before you could execute it, you had already entered the room.

A man stood with his back to you at one of the work stations. You took another step towards him, but your boot crushed a shard of glass under its heel. You froze.

Theodore spun around in panic, picking his gun up from the counter. "You—You should be—I shot you."

You breathed in deep to steady your voice. Theo's choice of words struck a match of hope in you. Maybe he didn't know that Spencer and the rest of the team were in the building, too. Maybe he just saw you.

"The bullet graced my arm." You confirmed, taking a step closer to him.

"Get back. Get back!" He screamed, forcing you to walk deeper into the room with his gun, so his back was to the door. "If you shoot, I'll go down pressing the trigger and you will go down, too."

His hand was shaking around the gun, he looked like he might drop it every moment. The room was dark, just a little sliver of light coming through the small window.

You watched it flicker and tried to come up with something to say, but your brain blanked on the profile.

Being a profiler had taught you a lot, but in this moment all you could focus on was that Spencer was somewhere in this building and you had no idea if he was safe.

"Theo, I know what your father did to you, how he would train you to take every hit without flinching, the burning." You said carefully.

"Don't—don't talk about my father like you know anything! Because you don't—you don't know anything!Lower you gun!" He spit out.

Just as you were trying to find a way to tell him that there was no way you would lower your gun, you saw Spencer through the doorframe behind Theo, gun pointed at him, too. You tried not to look at him as you continued.

"I won't shoot if you don't give me a reason to, Theo. I—I talked to your mother." You tried in a last desperate attempt to deescalate the situation.

That seemed to get his attention, he lowered his gun a little, before taking a step closer to you pointing it at you again. "Leave my mother out of this." He growled.

You continued anyway. "She told me that she was sorry, about your fight before you left. She is so, so proud of you, Theo. Told me to tell you that she loves you. Nothing could make her stay mad at you forever, she just wants you in her life again." You tried not to look at Spencer as you spoke the words to Theo that were really meant for him.

Tears formed in Theo's eyes. A sight that you had seen just forty minutes earlier, in his mother's. "Stop! It doesn't matter if she's proud. I lied to her! I lied."

"Of course it matters, if you put the weapon down and come back with us to the station, you could see her again. You could be her son again."

His laugh is hollow as he said, "Do you think I'm stupid? You're trying to get me to surrender. What do you called it? A talk down? Making false promises just to get me locked up. You never end up keeping them." His grip on the trigger tightened.

Another thing you learned as a profiler was not to get attached to victims or UnSubs. And while most of the team had failed at that, you had always considered yourself lucky—or heartless, for that matter.

But as you watched the pain on Theo's face, you understood. Maybe not everything he did, but you understood the cause. Understood that all of his life was set up for him to end here, in this lab, two guns pointed at him.

Behind him, Spencer nodded towards the stairs and you tried to signal to him that you didn't understand without exposing his location. He just gestured towards them again, frowning at you to just do as he said.

He took a few steps deeper into the room to clear the doorway, somehow managing not to get caught by Theo. It was a gamble he gladly took if it meant you were safe. "Theo, you don't have to do this."

Spencer's voice startled Theo and for a second you were terrified that he was going to shoot. But instead, he just turned around quickly, panicked pointing the gun at Spencer.

Your moment to run. Just to get help and come back to him. You sprinted out of the room, past Theo and Spencer. Theo shouted "No!" but it was too late, you were already half down the stairs.

You silently begged Spencer to hold on for a little longer. But just as you practically jumped of the last step in a hurry, you heard a gunshot.

Freezing on the bottom of the steps for the fraction of a second, you tried not to panic, but just as you turned to sprint back up the stairs, an arm wrapped around your middle, the other covering your mouth.

"Shh," came Rossi's voice from behind you. You struggled as he dragged you out of the building.

Fresh air hit your face as you were forced to exit, but all you could think about was the fact that Spencer's dead body might be lying on the third level of an abandoned laboratory.

You tried to pull back from him but he wouldn't let you. "No—Spencer. Spence is still—Spencer!" You struggled against his grip.

"You can't go back in there—" Rossi said your name. "The kid is smart, you know that. He—"

Before he could finish, there was another gunshot, this one closer. You almost sank to your knees as everyone around you prepared to take down the UnSub.

And were rebuild when Spencer emerged from the building a few seconds later, hands raised, "Don't shoot, he is injured, but breathing." He gestured behind him somewhere.

Rossi finally let you go when Spencer was far enough away from danger.

Not wasting a minute, you ran towards Spencer, almost crashing into him in the process.

Emily, JJ and an EMT passed you in a blur as they went into the laboratory to secure Theo. You barely registered them.

"What happened?" You didn't know whether to push him or to kiss him. You opted for the first, pushing against his shoulders. "Why would you tell me to leave? I—We had it handled. Together. I—I—You fucking scared me."

Spencer just pulled you to him by your good arm and wrapped you in a tight embrace. He didn't say anything for a while, just letting you process your feelings.

The fear of loosing Spencer for good, the pain of the break up, the conflicting feelings of having to work with your ex (that you're still very much in love with). You clung to him as your emotions overtake you. And, fuck, your arm hurt!

"Shh, it's okay. I'm okay. Here—" he pulled back with some difficulty, given that you had quite a firm grip on him, and took your hand in his, placing it on the side of his neck. "Can you feel that? I'm okay."

You nodded. "You're okay." You breathed out, looking from your hand on his pulse point, to his eyes. "Why would you do that?" Tears pricked at your eyes.

"I didn't think rationally. All I could think about was that there was a gun pointed at you and all my brain would come up with was stupid ideas to make him point it at me. Please forgive me."

He looked at you with his big, sad, brown puppy eyes, while his thumb brushed softly against the skin under your eye to catch your tears before they could fall.

You would have said something flirty like, you might have to make it up to me some more, if you weren't so terribly mad at him. "Maybe. I can't promise anything."

He smiled softly despite your answer. Maybe even because of it. It was a silly thought, you not forgiving him. "I can work with maybe."

An EMT whisked you away shortly after, but Spencer's hand stayed in yours until they slipped apart and his arm fell to his side.

He wasn't sure if he could just follow, he stayed away and watched you get checked out by the EMTs.

All of it—the story of you and him—reminded him of Cassandra witnessing the fall of Troy. It was stupid to compare two people who were so insignificant to history to two of histories most known tragedies, but it fit like he still did into the palm of your hand.

He had known that he would never be able to get over you. No one had believed him, telling him that time heals all wounds and that he couldn’t see the bigger picture yet, because he was still in it.

But he had known, and it still rang true. You were it for him and he would never find anyone that made him feel more like himself. It was foolish to think he could survive the break up, foolish to think he would get over it.

Hell, he had taken being on the receiving end of your spite over being your friend because it meant you'd look at him and feel something.

Taking all of his courage together, Spencer decided to approach you after the EMT finished patching you up.

"Hey," he said gently. This was the first time you talked without snarling at each other outside of work since the break up and it felt like finally breathing fresh air again after living purely off of carbon dioxide. "Doing good? How is your arm?"

You looked up at him from the steps on the back of the ambulance. You looked rough, exhausted. The sleeves of your shirt were rolled up to allow the EMT to bandage your wound.

It felt different now, talking to you. The moment of adrenaline had passed and he had no idea how to talk to you. The times of snarling seemed to be over, but the ones of kissing and I love you's were long gone, too.

"I'm okay. All patched up. I don't think I will ever take my reflexes for granted ever again." You tried to smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "How are you?"

He wanted to deflect, to twist it back to you, but he humoured you. "Exhausted, but I'm good. I'm just glad you're safe."

What he actually wanted to say was: I love you, I'm glad you're speaking to me again. Let's never split up again. Please. And: I miss you, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like everyone is running laps around me for the first time in my life.

Of course, he said none of it, this wasn't the time to dig that hole. Instead he just looked at you.

The blue of the sirens flickered on your face and even though you looked exhausted, he could't help but think you were the most beautiful thing Mother Earth has sculpted. The Grand Canyon was nothing in comparison to the frown lines on your face, the stars nothing compared to your freckles and birthmarks.

You looked back at him then, but thankfully didn't question the look on his face that without a doubt read, I love you.

Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder in a silent, I love you, too.

There was so much to talk about, so much to tell him, but when he insisted on taking you home, because he wouldn't let you drive home alone after the events of today, all you cared about was that he was there again. Fully. Without snapping, without pretend hate. Just the old you and the old him again.

You fell into your bed that night, the glaring blue light of your digital clock telling you that it was 3am. Earlier than a lot of other late nights at the BAU.

Spencer didn't hesitate to take off your work clothes, didn't ask where your pyjamas were, didn't stop to think what this all meant for you now. He didn't need to, all of this was an Obvious.

You didn't tell him to lay down next to you, to climb under the covers and flip the light off, to let you rest your head on his chest. He just did all of it. Because it was a routine, the known in all the unknown that was your relationship now. A Constant.

In the morning, you would talk about it. While he was changing your bandage with careful fingers. But right now, the sound of Spencer's heart beating your name lulled you to sleep.

In the end, fear and worry had been the best matchmakers.

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PART TWO

thank you so much for reading! please remember reblogging, commenting and liking if you enjoyed the fic. feedback is appreciated!! 𝜗𝜚

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