dorcas4meadowes

[dorcas4meadowes]

Hindsight

you'll see me in hindsight tangled up with you all night burning it down

pairing: spencer reid x gn!bau!reader

words: 2.5k summary: spencer's hindsight is screaming at him that he made the wrong decision by ending your relationship warnings: angst but like in a hot way, happy ending besties <3 spencer's kind of a dick in this for a little bit (he means well, he's just confused), language, allusions to smut, making out, fluff (?) towards the very end but like you gotta really squint

Spencer fucked up.

He's gripping the sink with both hands, water running down his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. The previous week has been hell, almost, and Spencer knows a thing or two about hell. It was the right thing to do, he thinks to himself, but he can't help the part of him that wonders if that's even true in the slightest. His mind flashes back to that fateful night.

"Spencer, what do you mean 'we can't do this anymore?'"

"Us. This!" he said, wildly gesturing to the space between you.

You stared at him, mouth parted like the words were there, ready to go, but stuck behind disbelief.

"Why?" you asked, quiet. Measured. Already bracing for an answer that would hurt. He hesitated. That was all the confirmation you needed— he didn’t want this either.

"I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”

“What part of this isn’t okay? The part where we care about each other? Or the part where we’re actually happy for once?”

“You don’t get it—”

“No,” you cut in, sharper now. “No, I don’t get it. Please enlighten me.”

Spencer ran both hands through his hair like he was trying to yank the thoughts out by force. “People I care about get hurt. That's just how it goes. You’ve seen what we deal with. You know how dangerous it gets. I can’t— I won’t be the reason something happens to you.”

You blinked. “Spencer, we work the same job.”

“That’s not— it’s different.”

“How?” You're beyond exasperated at this point.

“Because I—" he broke off, breathing hard. “Because I really care about you.”

You laughed, humorless. “Bang-up job of showing it, then. Also, wh— you think I don't care? Spencer, what—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost a whisper. “I just… I can’t live with myself if something happens to you. I cannot do this knowing I am actively putting you at risk.”

“Look. I care about you too. You’re the smartest person I know, and I trust your judgment. But if you’re going to sit here and break us apart, then you better have a legitimate reason.” You stepped closer. “Because what you’re giving me right now? It’s bullshit, Spencer. YOu know that. And I’m not going to let you overthink your way into a breakup.”

He looked at you like he wanted so badly to believe you. Like you were the rope dangling over the cliff, and he didn’t trust himself to grab it.

“Yes, we deal with hell on a daily basis,” you continued, softer now, “but we also come home to each other. It's tedious, and awful, and exhausting, but we have each other, Spence. And I—”

You paused. Swallowed hard. Didn’t realize you’d said it until it was already out.

“I love you.”

Silence.

Something cracked in his expression. He looked at you like that was the one thing he wasn’t prepared for. The one thing that might’ve saved him— if he let it. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

Destroy it.

“I don’t,” he said, voice flat.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stutter. Just said it. Like ripping the pin from a grenade and waiting for it to blow.

“I don’t think I love you.”

It didn’t matter what he meant. It didn’t matter if he was lying through his teeth. Because the second you believed him, the second you stepped back and nodded— something broke. The damage was done.

Now he’s gripping the sink like it’s the only thing holding him upright, staring at a reflection that doesn’t look like him anymore.

“I am an idiot,” he mutters to no one. The mirror doesn’t disagree.

He sees you everywhere. On his couch in your pajamas, eating cereal straight from the box. He sees you on the jet, asleep on his shoulder, warm and close and real. He sees the last time you laughed at something he had said. How your head tipped back, how your nose scrunched. He sees your face the first time he kissed you, how your smile made him feel like he was bathing in sunlight.

He sees you and him tangled together in the back seat of his car, your eyes closed and head tilted back as his name falls out of your lips like a prayer. He sees your pile of clothes next to his on his bedroom floor, half forgotten in the haste of needing each other.

He sees you in the faint lipstick smudge still clinging to the collar of his favourite shirt. In the barely-there marks scattered along his neck and chest, fading now but not forgotten. His fingers brush over them without thinking, retracing each one like muscle memory, each a timestamp of a moment he’d give anything to relive. He wonders if you're thinking of him too.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and laughs— bitter, breathless.

Yeah. Spencer fucked up big time.

You always thought that even if by some horrible twist of fate, your relationship with Spencer were to end, at the very least it would be amicable. You'd be able to work together, be friends, and still stand to be around each other. You were wrong.

Immediately after the fight last week, you were called to Detroit for a case. There was barely enough time to pack, let alone recover. So, you didn't say anything. Neither did he. To the team, or to each other. It’s easier that way, you thought. The team thinks everything is fine. Business as usual. You’re partnered up for interviews like always. Briefing side by side. Riding in the same car. Sharing a room.

But it's not all okay. It's not all fine, and you know that. He’s quieter than usual. You catch him zoning out in the middle of victim statements. His hands tremble when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s unravelling. And yet, every time you brush past him, he flinches like you’re the one that left.

He still looks at you the same sometimes. Like you’re his. Like you matter. Like nothing’s changed. And that, more than anything, is what hurts. You’re not angry. You’re wrecked. Because you can survive heartbreak. But what he did? That was reckless abandonment. You don’t show someone heaven and then blind them.

Neither of you has had a wink of sleep since then. Even familiar places feel foreign when you're not with each other. What makes it worse is that you're so used to being with and needing each other that it's second nature to you by now. There are absent-minded touches, kisses, lingering hands and eyes that none of you mention.

There’s a moment— small, forgettable to anyone else— when his fingers graze yours as he hands you a case file. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You both freeze. Just for a second. He doesn't look up. Doesn’t say a word. Just retracts his hand like it burned him.

And that’s how it’s been. Every second of this trip. A minefield of almosts. Close calls. Words left unsaid and looks held too long. Lying awake all night in the bed as far away from each other as possible. It's driving you insane. Damn Detroit's winter that makes you crave his warmth. And damn this forced proximity bullshit that the universe has punished you with.

You’re sharing a room, which is objectively a horrible idea, but it would’ve been suspicious to change it last minute. You'd mentally agreed not to bring it up now, so you had to soldier through. At least that’s the excuse you told yourself when you didn't protest. And so now, you’re both here, end of a long day, door shut behind you, silence thick enough to suffocate.

You're sitting on opposite ends of the bed like strangers in a waiting room. You hear him sigh behind you. A long, pained sound. And for the first time since the break, he says your name. It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But it’s enough.

You turn, slowly. Not because you’re calm, but because you’re not sure what will come out if you speak too fast. He’s standing now, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he doesn’t know what to do with you. His shoulders rise with a breath he never quite finishes.

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I haven’t. Since that night.”

You stare at him. “Okay.”

"Okay? That's it?"

"What do you want me to do, Spencer? Sing you a lullaby?"

"You know what, forget I said anything."

"Believe me, I'm trying," you say, your voice dripping with contempt. Spencer's face contorts like he's confused.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

“It means,” you say, finally standing too, “that you don’t get to say things like that and expect comfort. You don’t get to crack open this— this door like we’re still something and then slam it shut the second it scares you.”

He flinches.

“You think I’ve been sleeping?” you continue, voice shaking now. “You think I’ve been fine? Because I’ve been trying to be. I’ve been trying to hold it together. But it’s really fucking hard when the person I love tells me he doesn’t love me back and then acts like that never happened.”

He's trying to find the words, he really is, but he can't choose between the part of him that's mad at himself for being an idiot, and the part of him that's mad at you for believing him in the first place. He makes the wrong choice.

“You don't get to say that. You walked away. You believed me when I said I didn’t love you.”

Your laugh is sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, you major fucking hypocrite. I’m sorry— its my fault now? Was I supposed to not believe the man I loved when he looked me dead in the eyes and ripped my heart out?”

He throws his hands up. “I had to! You wouldn’t have walked away otherwise!”

“Yeah? And whose fucking fault is that?”

“Mine! Obviously mine!” he snaps, voice rising. “Is that what you want to hear? That I made a mistake? That I wake up every goddamn day hating myself for it?”

“Oh, poor you!” you shout back. “Waking up alone by choice. Because you couldn’t handle the idea of someone loving you. Spencer Reid— genius, coward, commitment phobe.”

He moves closer, eyes blazing. “Don’t twist this into me being scared of you. I was trying to keep you safe.”

You step forward to match him, nose to nose now. “Did I ask? Did I ask you to keep me safe, Spencer? You don’t get to protect me by abandoning me.”

“Oh, get over yourself—”

“Me? I need to get over myself? Jesus, you're so full of yourself. I can't even believe that I'm entertaining this right now."

"Nobody's making you stay. Door's right there."

"You know what, Spencer? Fuck you,” you snap.

“Fuck you.”

You let out a bitter laugh and shove his shoulder. “Bold words from someone who doesn’t even have the balls to tell his girlfriend that he fucking hates her!”

“WHEN did I say that I hated you?” he roars, hands shaking now. “I never said that. I love you! Jesus Christ, of course I love you!”

You stare at him, heart pounding in your throat.

“Then do something about it, you moron.”

And he does.

He grabs your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth and kisses you so hard it knocks the air out of your lungs. It’s angry and desperate and messy, like trying to glue a shattered heart back together with nothing but skin and breath. Your hands fist into his shirt like you’re trying to tear it off or hold him closer, maybe both. Neither of you knows how to be gentle about it.

"You're an idiot," you mumble between kisses.

"Good, we're on the same page."

Your back hits the dresser with a dull thud, and neither of you flinch. His hands are everywhere— on your waist, your hips, sliding under the hem of your shirt like he can’t get close enough fast enough. His mouth moves from yours to your jaw, down your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your knees threaten betrayal.

He finds that spot just behind your ear, the one he knows drives you crazy, and lingers there like a punishment. No, like an apology. You gasp, hand tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

He is whispering apologies, begging for your forgiveness as he unravels you, his breath warm against your skin.

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” you whisper, voice already unsteady as you pull him back to your mouth. “You need to make it up to me.”

“I will,” he promises, between kisses that are more like confessions than contact. “I will. I swear to God, I will.”

And he did. Multiple times that night. For the first time in a long time, both of you slept. Not just passed out from exhaustion, but real, peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. The kind that only comes when the weight has finally lifted.

You woke up tangled in each other, your head tucked under his chin, his arm tight around your waist like he still didn’t quite believe you were there. He kissed your forehead before either of you said a word.

The case wrapped itself up faster than expected after that. Something about sleep and not repressing your feelings— radical concepts, really. You and Spencer cracked the final piece during the afternoon briefing, and the rest of the team rallied around the lead like clockwork. It felt good to feel like yourselves again. Felt even better not to pretend anymore.

You’re on the jet heading home, fingers loosely intertwined beneath a shared blanket when Emily strolls past and pauses in front of your seat. Her smirk is practiced. Lethal. Oh, this can't be good.

“I was in the room next to yours,” she says, casually. “I heard screaming. Was gonna knock, actually, see if everything was okay.”

Spencer tenses beside you.

Emily raises a brow. “But then the screaming turned into a, uh, different kind of screaming.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands.

“Anyway,” she grins, completely unbothered. “Glad you two worked it out.”

She pats Spencer on the back as she leaves. You and Spencer look at each other, mortified and emotionally prepared to change your identities and leave the country. He leans in to whisper something.

"Worth it."

a/n: wildest dreams og version does something to me man istg, song of all time <3 also I have been sitting on this fic for a while not knowing how to end it so I apologize if it's ass, I've been trying to experiment with writing different POVs and gender neutral reader, I'm tagging this as gn!reader, but I'm so sorry if I've accidentally implied that the reader is female 🫂

[dorcas4meadowes]

died.dead.

The Vest Stays On -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | secret relationship |

The first time you saw Spencer Reid in the tactical vest, it short-circuited your entire nervous system.

It happened during a joint task force case with SWAT, just outside of Portland. You were half-caffeinated, bloodied from crawling through brambles to get a GPS fix on a suspect’s last drop point, and very much not expecting to be visually assaulted at seven-thirty in the morning. But then he stepped out of the SUV, FBI gear snug around his narrow chest, the black straps cinching in just right, the embroidered letters bright against the navy blue. Hair tousled. Glock holstered.

And you? Useless. Every neuron in your brain screamed: climb him.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Morgan had laughed when you choked on your water. JJ had side-eyed you when you pretended to stare at the street signs just to avoid looking at Spencer’s chest. “That’s the fifth time you’ve looked,” Emily mutters under her breath beside you, handing over her report.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh please,” she snorts. “You’ve been ogling Reid like he’s the last glass of water in the desert.”

And Hotch—of course Hotch—was the only one oblivious, laser-focused on briefing SWAT while the rest of the team collectively ignored how suddenly, unfairly hot Dr. Spencer Reid looked in tactical gear.

Which brings you to now. Because apparently the BAU’s got a knack for hotel fuck-ups. There’s only one room left tonight, and surprise—it's yours and Spencer's. Two twin beds, one broken thermostat, and five days into a case that’s frayed both of your nerves to ribbons.

And Reid? He’s still wearing the damn vest.

It’s past midnight. You’re in a tank top and boyshorts, pacing in front of the single working AC unit like it’s your job. Spencer’s sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed, hands on his knees, posture impeccable—like he’s trying not to look at you. Like the thought of you in so little isn’t killing him. It’s mutual.

“I can take the floor if you want,” he offers.

You raise a brow. “Why? Scared I’ll kick in my sleep?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I just—I figured you’d be more comfortable. With space.”

You stop in front of him. Your eyes drift to the vest. It’s still zipped up, snug over his chest, the collar slightly popped against the base of his throat. “You gonna sleep in that thing?” you ask, stepping into his space. “Or is it permanently fused to your body now?”

He swallows. “I was—I didn’t want to—I didn’t think—”

“I don’t think I ever told you,” you interrupt, running your hand through his hair, “how unfairly hot this vest is.”

“I-I got that impression.”

You grin. “You know what I want?”

His breath hitches. “What?”

You lean in close, your mouth brushing his jaw as your fingers trail over the vest’s chest straps. “I want you to fuck me in it.”

With a firm hand, you shove him backward onto the mattress. He goes willingly, vest thudding softly against the cheap polyester sheets. You climb over him, knees straddling his hips, your fingers curling around the edge of the vest to anchor yourself. You roll your hips down, slow and deliberate, grinding against him. He groans.

“Tell me something, Doctor,” you murmur, tugging at one of the black buckles. “Statistically speaking, how many times can someone come in a single night?”

He chokes on a laugh—half arousal, half disbelief. “I—uh—five to six, depending on... variables.”

You smirk. “Let’s test that hypothesis, shall we?” He grips your hips tight. You grind against the hard line of him through his slacks and he groans—a soft, helpless sound that goes straight to your core.

Spencer kisses you again—slower this time, purposeful—then pulls your arms above your head. He grabs his belt from where it hangs on the bedpost and uses it to bind your wrists, leather tight but not painful.

“You move,” he murmurs, “and you don’t come.”

Your thighs squeeze together, aching. “What if I beg?”

“You can beg all you want.” He leans down, lips brushing your collarbone. “I like the sound of it.”

He trails kisses down your chest, nips at the waistband of your shorts. His hands skim your thighs, teasing, torturously slow. He drops his gaze to your boyshorts, now pushed aside, and hums softly under his breath like he’s filing away the image for later. You arch involuntarily when he strokes a thumb across your clit, featherlight. Just enough to make you crave more.

“You’re already so wet,” he murmurs. “Is it the vest?”

You whimper. “Spencer…”

He tilts his head, mock-serious. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes. God. Yes.”

“Noted.” He leans down and kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and indulgent. You twitch in his hold, desperate for friction, but he tuts. “I said don’t move.”

You nearly whine. “You’re torturing me.”

“I’m teasing you,” he corrects, licking another maddening stripe up your center. “Big difference. Trust me—I’ve done the research.”

You buck your hips before you can stop yourself. Spencer freezes. You feel his breath against your skin, just before he pulls away entirely. “No,” you plead, straining against the belt.

He raises a brow, expression cool behind the heat in his eyes. “I warned you.”

“Spencer, please—”

He slides back up your body until he’s straddling your hips and fuck, he’s so hard. The fabric catches on the outline of his cock as he pushes them down just enough to free himself. He doesn’t bother undressing further. The vest stays on, snug against his frame, and you can see his chest rising with each breath.

He fists himself once, twice—lining himself up with you—and then pauses, cock pressed at your entrance. Sliding it up and through your wet slick before slowly pushing in. You moan—loud, wrecked, your head tipping back against the pillow. He’s big and slow about it, pushing in deep and staying there, letting you feel every inch of him.

You whine under him, tugging instinctively at the belt binding your wrists. “Spence baby please—”

He groans deep in his chest and leans down, the hard ridge of his vest pressing tight against your nipples, the friction causing you to whimper.

“Yeah?” He thrusts harder. “You like the vest?”

You nod wildly. “God, yes.”

“I’ll wear it every day if you want.” You laugh—breathy, desperate—then cry out as he hits just the right spot.

The headboard slams into the wall. You both freeze. From the hallway, a door slams. Spencer presses his forehead to yours, panting. “We’re gonna get caught,” you whisper. He thrusts again. Hard. “Not if you stay quiet.”

You bite your lip. He watches, transfixed. “Be good for me,” he whispers. “Stay quiet. Let me fuck you like this.”

Your eyes roll back. You’re going to come, and he knows it—knows by the way your hips stutter, how your fingers curl into the Velcro on his chest.

“God, you feel good,” he groans against your jaw. Spencer doesn't stop—grinds you through it, cock buried deep, watching you like you're unraveling every scientific principle he’s ever believed in.

“Fuck,” he pants, low and harsh. “You’re so—God—”

You feel him start to lose rhythm, hips jerking erratically. “Inside,” you manage to gasp. “Come in me. Please.”

He groans your name, deep and broken, and spills into you, hips stuttering through the aftershocks as his head drops to your shoulder. You feel it—hot and thick and endless.

When he finally lifts his head, you’re still trying to catch your breath. He brushes damp hair from your forehead and presses a kiss there, soft and startlingly tender.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You tug weakly at your wrists. “Untie me before I find a way to punish you.”

Spencer grins—actually grins—as he reaches for the belt. “Promise?”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a dangerous game, Doctor.”

He drops the belt to the floor and pulls you into his chest, arms winding around you, vest rough and warm against your cheek. You settle there, content and fucked-out, and sigh.

“You know,” he says, absently running a thumb over your thigh, “in the Victorian era, women were diagnosed with ‘hysteria’ when they experienced… symptoms like yours.”

You lift your head. “Symptoms like what? Being feral for their boyfriend in tactical gear?”

He nods earnestly. “Exactly. Increased heart rate, flushing, rapid breathing, erratic behavior. The prescription was often—well, manual stimulation. Administered by physicians. It’s where the invention of the vibrator comes from.”

You gape at him. “Spencer.”

He shrugs, still tracing nonsense patterns on your thigh. “Just a historical fun fact.”

“You are the weirdest, hottest person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive, you know,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Intelligence and arousal activate adjacent neural circuits in the limbic system. That’s why people find brains sexy. It’s science.”

“You’re science,” you mumble, tilting your head. “So. Statistically, how long is the average refractory period for men your age?”

He flushes, then smiles like he’s being challenged. “Well, the median is about fifteen minutes. But there’s a huge variation depending on stimulation, emotional connection, hormone levels—”

“So we could test the upper limits of that, is what I’m hearing.”

He pauses, eyes darkening. “Do you want to?”

You lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, your voice honey-sweet and dangerous. “Only if you keep the vest on.”

He practically groans. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

And it’s only round two.

a/n: raw raw rawwww

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[dorcas4meadowes]

READ MY LOVELY ANGELS FIC

(Oddly hyper specific era core)

Larry Durrell x reader

——————

The sea is muttering again, folding itself into the bones of the house through its salt - soaked tongue. Sliding through the shutters in lazy waves, mingling with the scent of citrus and uncorked wine. Everything felt a little intoxicated.

You walked barefoot down the tiled corridor, the soles of your feet absently nearing the indolent movements of a tortoise. Various colanders and makeshift boxes were littered against the floor, probably repurposed by Gerry, and led you to Larry’s room. 

The door was ajar, just enough to imitate solitude. His slumped posture was poured over his desk, cluttered with notebooks, leaky pens and disregarded manuscripts. His sleeves were rolled at the elbows, forearms taut and his hair habitually emulating the tempest.

He didn’t look up when you pressed at his door, but you watched the flex of his tendon beneath the pale skin of his forearm. His knuckles poised mid thought on the typewriter, as if trying to coax meaning from metal or Navokov chasing a butterfly. His hands were arrested in thought.

You lingered at the threshold and rolled your eyes at his sigh. 

“You’re distracting”.

“I haven’t done anything yet” you exclaimed, a smile pulling at your lips as you leant over his chair and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “You’re breathing, that’s enough”.

Your breath fanned his cheek in a soft laugh, “poor tortured artist” you whispered.

He let out another sigh, part protest, mostly despair. “I had something good, brilliant”.

“Compared a woman’s thigh to the Ionian sea again?”

He rolled his eyes, while you reached past the wooden arms of his chair and with a casual, practised ease, slung yourself across his lap. His hands automatically caught you. One settled beneath your thigh and the other splayed across your lower back. 

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, despite the subtle lift of the lips.

“Mm,” you hummed, your fingers settling against his cheek. “And yet the door never closes”.

“Against my will. Entirely,” he claimed.

“You poor baby,” you said, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

He shifted beneath you, his mouth opened. But he never got to disagree since a soft kiss was pressed to his lips. 

He met you with a hum, the kind that vibrated somewhere low in his chest. His hand slid up your spine, splaying between your shoulder blades and the other scaled under your shirt and traced circles into your skin. 

You smiled against his lips and breathed out, letting him pepper kisses along your skin, before a throttle of tumult from the first floor erupted. 

“Baby, we should get that,” you whispered, your hand reaching for his hand that is resting underneath your bra.

“Mm,” he groaned, letting his head drop the juncture of your neck as various sounds echoed from the kitchen.

You blindly sought for his hands and kissed his knuckles, “come on,” you encouraged, tugging at your linked hands and pulling his exasperated body towards the jarred door.

[dorcas4meadowes]

@diyasgarden

all i wanted to say is that this man, no doubt in my mind, has had gay sex

[dorcas4meadowes]

hii, i’ve been reading ur fics for a while now, and i totally love them <3

i have a humble request of my own: bau!reader who has a tramp stamp and a bellybutton piercing, and Spencer is absolutely totally obsessed with them. and then one night, the team gets called in, and reader appears in like a crop top and low-rise jeans (or idk something that reveals them), because she was at a friend’s party or something. and Spencer is trying so hard not to get visibly turned on, and keep it in his pants, cuz they’re at work. but he ultimately pulls her into a storage closet for a quickie or something, before they have to leave for the case.

you can just ignore this though, if this isn’t something you’d be interested in writing, of course :)) have a great day <3

oh how cutie i want a tramp stamp and a belly button piercing now

cw: established relationship, secret relationship, jet sex, bellybutton piercing, tramp stamp kink, low-rise jeans, crop top, desperation, slight dom!Spencer, barely contained lust, unprofessional behavior, fast & dirty smut

REQUESTS OPEN!

You were off-duty when the call came in.

Midway through a Friday night, drink in hand, laughing on a rooftop patio with some old college friends — your crop top riding up, your low-rise jeans barely holding on, and the metal gleam of your bellybutton piercing catching every bit of moonlight.

Your phone buzzed once. Then again. Hotch. Case. Jet in 45.

You groaned and grabbed your stuff, muttering apologies as you slipped out — no time to change. You figured it was fine. You had your go-bag on the plane. Worst case, you’d be underdressed until takeoff.

You did not expect Spencer Reid to completely malfunction when you walked into the hangar.

He was halfway through reciting some case file numbers when he turned and saw you.

The crop top sat like a second skin, hugging your chest, riding high enough to show a dangerous peek of underboob. Your low-rise jeans hugged your hips like a prayer, dipping just enough to reveal the dark ink of your tramp stamp — a design he’d only seen once, in low light, when you’d had too much wine and dared to pull your pants down just far enough to show him in the privacy of his apartment.

And that piercing — the one at your bellybutton, silver and glinting — flashed at him with every step you took.

He forgot how to breathe.

His mouth opened. Closed.

Hotch kept talking. Morgan glanced at Spencer, then at you — and smirked.

“Ohhh, hell,” Morgan muttered under his breath.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Y-you uh—you didn’t go home first?”

“No time,” you said breezily, shouldering your go-bag. “Hope no one minds if I flash some midriff. I’ll change on the jet.”

You winked at him.

He nearly dropped the case file.

You sat across from him on the plane. The table between you might as well have been made of glass. Spencer was twitchy — leg bouncing, lip caught between his teeth, eyes flickering from your waistline to your mouth and back down again.

You leaned back slowly in your seat and stretched your arms overhead.

The crop top lifted. The waistband dipped.

Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.

Morgan made a noise from behind his file that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Emily muttered, “Oh my god, someone just fuck already.”

You turned your head, caught Spencer staring, and smiled slow.

“So, Doctor,” you murmured. “See something you like?”

He snapped the file shut.

“Bathroom. Now.”

The moment the door clicked shut, Spencer pounced.

His mouth was on yours, hot and needy, hands already dragging your top up to expose your tits — palms rough and shaking as he groaned into your neck.

“You can’t just show up like that,” he hissed, rocking his hips into yours. “Wearing that, with your fucking piercing showing, your tattoo right there—” He yanked your waistband down just enough to trace the tramp stamp with his fingers. “You knew what you were doing.”

You bit your lip. “I really didn’t—”

“Liar.”

His hand slid down, cupping your heat through your jeans, and you whimpered.

“You’ve been driving me crazy with this thing,” he muttered, brushing his thumb against your navel ring. “Since the first time I saw it, I can’t stop thinking about it. Wanting to taste it.”

You gasped as he popped the button on your jeans and shoved them halfway down your thighs.

“Spence—there’s no time—”

“There’s just enough.”

He pulled his cock out — hard and flushed and already leaking — then spun you to face the sink.

“Hands,” he ordered, voice hoarse. “Brace yourself.”

You obeyed instantly.

He yanked your panties aside, ran two fingers through your folds, and hissed.

“So fucking wet already,” he groaned. “You love riling me up, don’t you?”

Then he sank into you with one sharp thrust, and you cried out, biting your fist to muffle the sound.

The mirror fogged. The walls rocked. Spencer fucked you like the plane might disappear beneath you — hard, fast, hips slamming into yours while one hand gripped your hip and the other reached around to rub your clit.

“Gonna come,” you panted. “Spencer—”

“That’s it,” he murmured into your neck. “Be good for me. Come all over my cock.”

You did — gasping, legs trembling — and he followed with a stuttered moan, buried deep, hands gripping your waist so hard you knew you’d bruise.

You both stood there after, panting, flushed, clothes a mess.

He looked at you in the mirror.

“You’re still changing before the briefing,” he said, eyes flicking down to the piercing.

You smirked. “Why? Can’t focus?”

His mouth twitched. “Not unless you want me to drag you back in here mid-case.”

You leaned in close, lips to his ear.

“Maybe I do.”

[dorcas4meadowes]

Thin Walls - S.R

There were three things you learned after this case:

1. Motel walls are basically paper, 2. Spencer Reid has no concept of volume control and 3. Morgan has perfect comedic timing.

It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out—two days, three max. A serial abductor in a small town outside Phoenix. No real profile to build, just lots of legwork. Everyone was exhausted, sweaty, and sleep-deprived by the end of it.

Which is exactly why, the second the team checked into a dusty roadside motel, you pulled Spencer into your room by the collar of his vest and locked the door behind you.

“You sure?” he mumbled into your mouth, even as his hands were already sliding up your shirt, already massaging your breasts. You nod, moaning into him, “I’ve been thinking about this for three days. If anyone knocks, we’re not answering.” He got you on your back, lips mapping their way down your body and when he finally slid into you, deep and perfect, you couldn’t quiet your moans.

The rhythm he set was relentless, thighs wrapped tight around his waist, each thrust pulling moans from your lips. He wasn’t quiet either, “You feel so good—so tight—fuck, I missed this—”

The only sound in the room the slap of skin, the wet drag of his mouth on your neck, and your whimpers between gasps of “don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck, Spencer—” as he thrusted harder the bed creaked louder and the headboard slammed the wall. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you weren’t alone on this floor. But then Spencer reached between you and rubbed fast, tight circles against your clit—you came with a choked whimper, back arching, nails raking down his back.

“Fuck—Spence—harder, please—” God, your moans were not indoor volume. Which is probably the exact moment someone on the other side of the wall started pounding. You didn’t even hear the first knock.

But the second one? A bang echoed from the wall beside the bed. A hard, angry thump-thump-thump.

“SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!” Morgan’s voice barked through the drywall, unmistakable.

You froze. Spencer froze. You stared at each other, naked, sweaty, still connected—and then he bit back a laugh that burst out of him in a breathless, mortified wheeze.

“Was that—” you gasped, “—was that Morgan?”

Spencer covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”

There’s a long pause. No more knocking. Just silence. And then—because you’re both horny, impulsive, and apparently incapable of shame—he starts moving again.

The next morning, you walked into the breakfast diner holding Spencer’s hand like a lifeline. Rossi didn’t even look up from his paper. “I told you kids those walls were thin.”

Morgan had the biggest shit-eating grin. “Sleep well, lovebirds?” You choked on your orange juice. JJ raised an eyebrow. “You guys really couldn’t wait until after we checked out?”

Emily leaned over and stage-whispered, “Those walls are not soundproof, sweetheart.”

Rossi finally looked up from his paper. “I’ve been a profiler for over thirty years. That is the first time I’ve ever been woken up by live sex commentary. Thank you for that.”

“Sounded like a headboard homicide,” Morgan muttered.

You put your face in your hands. “Can we not?”

Hotch didn’t say anything, just sipped his coffee and raised a single eyebrow. You were pretty sure he was quietly judging your stamina.“Next time,” Rossi said casually, folding his paper, “book a suite.”“So,” you say, voice an octave too high, “when’s wheels up?”

Morgan grins. “Not soon enough.”

You catch Spencer’s eye. He turns a shade of red you didn’t know was possible. You mouth: oops. He mouths back: worth it.

a/n: letting my intrusive thoughts win

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[dorcas4meadowes]

THIS IS ABSOLUTELY PURE PERFECTION

I DIDNT KNOW I NEEDED THIS

in love and war - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? district 3 spencer reid x cold district 7 fem!reader

category: slow burn, star-crossed lovers, ANGST!!!

content warnings: typical hunger games violence and gore. reader is basically johanna mason. suicide. major character death!!!

word count: around 7k

a/n: second post! please please please leave a comment, or send me some asks. i love feedback!!

The Capitol’s anthem blared over the dusty square of District 7, its piercing, triumphant notes slicing through the oppressive silence that had settled over the crowd. The sound was sharp and artificial, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s control over every aspect of their lives. The crowd, a sea of tired faces etched with lines of hard labor, stood motionless. Not even the wind dared to stir the suffocating stillness.

You stood in the center of it all, your chin high, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Your hands were curled into fists at your sides, the nails biting into your palms, but you welcomed the sting—it was a tether, a reminder to hold your ground. Fear churned in your chest like a storm, but you refused to let it show. Not here, where the Capitol’s eyes bore into every detail. Not now, when weakness could feel like surrender.

The escort—a garish figure swathed in layers of shimmering emerald fabric that glimmered like scales—stepped forward. Her unnaturally bright smile stretched wide, her too-pale face powdered to an unsettling perfection. She carried an air of frivolous delight that clashed violently with the grim reality of the moment.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl filled with slips of paper, each one carrying a name, a fate. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as she unfolded the slip, the paper crackling like thunder in the silence.

“Y/N L/N.” She called, her voice almost sing-song, as though your name were a punchline in some grotesque joke.

Your stomach dropped. It was as if the ground beneath you had vanished, and for one dizzying second, you felt weightless. Around you, the crowd shifted, parting like a tide. The faces you’d known all your life turned down, their gazes fixed on the ground. No one met your eyes—not out of malice, but out of helplessness. They couldn’t bear to see the fear that mirrored their own.

Your body moved on its own, each step measured and deliberate, a march toward your fate. You straightened your spine, forcing a calm you didn’t feel, willing yourself not to stumble. Not here, not in front of them. The Capitol would take your life, but you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

The stage loomed closer, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh afternoon sun. The escort’s sugary smile widened as you ascended the steps, her eyes glittering with a disturbing mix of glee and detachment. The weight of her gaze, coupled with the cameras trained on you, made your skin crawl. The icy dread clawing up your spine felt almost unbearable, but you pushed it down, burying it beneath a mask of resolve.

You took your place beside the male tribute. A boy your age, his face pale and drawn, with eyes that darted nervously over the crowd before finally settling on the ground. You’d seen him before—briefly, in passing. Maybe at the lumberyard or the market. You tried to recall his name, but your mind, heavy with the gravity of your fate, couldn’t hold onto the thought.

The Capitol had chosen its players, and now the game would begin.

The train to the Capitol hurtled forward through a blur of dense forests and barren plains, but inside, it was eerily silent. The only sound was the relentless chatter of the escort, her voice a cloying melody of superficial pleasantries and Capitol propaganda. She spoke of fashion, of glory, of the grand spectacle awaiting you, her words as empty as the smiles she had worn during the reaping. You ignored her, your gaze fixed on the window.

Outside, the world rushed by in muted greens and browns, a stark contrast to the gleaming metallic interior of the train. The plush seats and gilded fixtures exuded a nauseating opulence that mocked everything you had ever known. The Capitol’s promise of luxury was a cruel jest, a reminder of their excess against the backdrop of your district’s suffering.

Yet, when the meals came, you ate. The richly spiced meats, the delicate pastries that melted on your tongue, the sparkling drinks that fizzed against your lips—it all tasted of betrayal, but you swallowed it anyway. Every bite, every sip, felt like succumbing to the Capitol’s siren call. It was a grotesque imitation of comfort, designed to dull the edge of fear, to make you forget, even for a moment, what awaited you.

But the arena loomed in your mind, a shadowy specter that refused to be ignored. The thought of it gnawed at you, relentless and unyielding, like a ravenous beast caged just beneath your consciousness. Blood. Death. Survival. The knowledge of what you would have to do, of the lives you would have to take, coiled around your thoughts like barbed wire.

You forced yourself to push it all down—the guilt, the sorrow, the horror. You had no choice. Survival demanded that you bury your humanity, and the Capitol was counting on it.

At the front of the carriage, a small holographic display flickered to life, its cool blue glow casting faint shadows on the polished walls. The screen showed the reaping ceremonies from the other districts, each one a carefully orchestrated tableau of misery.

Districts 1 and 2 were first. Volunteers stepped forward with practiced bravado, their faces alight with the twisted pride of those who saw the Games as an honor. Their confidence, their hunger for glory, was a stark contrast to the quiet dread that settled over you like a shroud.

Then the broadcast shifted to District 3. The boy’s name was announced, and the camera panned to him.

“Spencer Reid.”

He was tall and lanky, his frame awkwardly angular as he stepped forward. The camera lingered on him, capturing every flicker of unease. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand, his movements hesitant, as if he could somehow shrink himself into nothingness. His face was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights, his lips pressed into a tight, uncertain line.

He climbed the stage slowly, his shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for the weight of the Capitol’s gaze. Among the other reaped tributes—many of them brimming with bravado or resignation—he looked out of place, a fragile figure thrust into a world of brutality.

But when the camera zoomed in on his face, you saw something unexpected. Beneath the surface of his fear, hidden in the depths of his wide, intelligent eyes, was a spark of defiance. It wasn’t loud or overt—it wasn’t a rebel’s roar or a warrior’s fury. It was quiet, subtle, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself to exist.

You stared at the hologram, transfixed. Spencer Reid didn’t look like a fighter. He didn’t look like a killer. But there was something about him—a quiet resolve that made your chest tighten.

The hologram flickered to the next district, but his image lingered in your mind, a puzzle piece that didn’t yet fit. In the Capitol’s cruel game, you knew better than to hope. But for the first time since your name had been called, you felt the faintest stirrings of something you couldn’t quite name.

The training center was a swirling chaos of noise and motion, a cacophony of clashing weapons, shouted instructions, and the low hum of tributes murmuring strategies. Each station buzzed with activity as tributes from every district worked with single-minded determination, their eyes sharp, scanning the room for threats and opportunities alike. The air was charged with tension, a palpable reminder that everyone here was both a potential ally and a likely enemy.

You gravitated toward the weapons station, your steps purposeful despite the oppressive atmosphere. Your fingers closed around the handle of an axe, the smooth wood familiar against your calloused palms. The weight of it settled in your grip, solid and unyielding. It was a grim comfort, a connection to the forests of District 7, where axes were tools before they were weapons. Here, though, it was a tool for survival, one you knew you would have to wield with deadly precision.

Across the room, Spencer stood at the survival skills station, a stark contrast to the hardened tributes around him. He lingered near a trainer demonstrating knot-tying techniques, his posture slightly hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. His slight frame and nervous energy drew attention, a handful of tributes sparing amused or derisive glances in his direction.

Yet, he absorbed everything with a quiet intensity. His eyes flickered over the trainer’s hands, cataloging each movement, every knot and technique. His sharp mind seemed to analyze and store every detail, not missing a beat. But he wasn’t just watching the trainer—he was studying the other tributes, too. The arrogance in their stances, the overconfidence in their eyes, the way they dismissed him without a second thought. Spencer noted it all, filing it away, hoping that these observations would one day give him the edge he so desperately needed.

You first noticed him during a combat demonstration. The trainer had called for volunteers, and to your surprise, Spencer stepped forward, his thin fingers hesitantly wrapping around a wooden staff. The moment was over almost as soon as it began. A career tribute from District 2—a towering boy with broad shoulders and a predator’s grin—disarmed him with ease, knocking Spencer to the ground with a swift, calculated strike.

Spencer scrambled to his feet, his glasses askew, his hands fumbling to adjust them. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the careers’ laughter. Their mocking echoes rang through the training hall, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s engineered hierarchy.

Yet, he didn’t slink away. Instead, he stepped back, watching the careers’ movements closely. He reached for the notebook tucked under his arm, flipping it open and furiously scribbling notes, his brow furrowed in thought. Each failure seemed to fuel his focus, his mind dissecting every detail, breaking down what went wrong and how he could do better next time.

Something about him caught your attention. Maybe it was his stubborn determination to keep trying despite the odds stacked against him. Maybe it was the way his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote, but his gaze stayed steady, as if he could out-think the inevitability of the Games. Or maybe it was because he reminded you of someone—a faint, long-buried memory of someone who had needed protecting once, and how it had torn at you when you couldn’t.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” you said bluntly, stepping into his path as he left the station.

Spencer startled, nearly dropping his notebook. His knuckles turned white as he clutched it tighter, holding it like a lifeline. “I… I know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet but remarkably steady. His hazel eyes met yours, nervous but resolute. “But there’s not much I can do about that… Unless you have a suggestion?”

You raised an eyebrow, studying him for a beat. He wasn’t cocky like the careers or resigned like so many others. He was clever, you could see that, and he had a spark of something most tributes didn’t: hope, no matter how faint.

“Stick with me in the arena,” you said, your tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “You focus on keeping us alive. I’ll handle the killing.”

He hesitated, his sharp mind clearly running calculations, weighing the risk and reward of your offer. “Why?” he asked finally, his gaze searching yours.

“Because you’re going to be dead weight otherwise,” you said bluntly, crossing your arms. “And I don’t want to fight your ghost on top of everyone else’s.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. “Fair point,” he said softly, nodding.

You turned away, heading back toward the weapons station. Over your shoulder, you added, “Don’t make me regret it, Reid.”

He didn’t reply, but when you glanced back, you saw him adjust his glasses, straighten his posture, and follow.

The arena was a sprawling expanse of forest, its towering trees stretching endlessly toward the sky, their gnarled branches intertwining to form a suffocating canopy. The dense undergrowth was a labyrinth of roots and thorns, each step a gamble against the hidden dangers lurking beneath. The air was heavy, saturated with the earthy scent of pine, damp moss, and the faint metallic tang of decay. Overhead, the sky was a hazy gray, muted and ominous, as though even the sun refused to bear witness to the bloodshed below.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant boom of a cannon—a haunting reminder that lives were being snuffed out one by one. The eerie stillness of the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if the very land recoiled from the Capitol’s violence.

You and Spencer had been separated during the chaos of the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Amid the screams and the clash of weapons, you had fought your way to an axe, its familiar weight a small comfort in the madness. Spencer, ever the strategist, had snatched a small pack and disappeared into the tree line, avoiding direct confrontation. It wasn’t until hours later, when the initial slaughter had subsided and the forest had swallowed the remaining tributes, that you found him.

He was crouched low among the undergrowth, his shoulders hunched as he worked with trembling hands to set a rudimentary snare. The cord slipped in his grip, and he muttered a quiet curse under his breath, his frustration evident. Despite the tension in his frame, there was an odd focus in his movements, a determination to make himself useful even here, where everything was designed to kill.

“You’re terrible at hiding,” you said, stepping into view. Your voice broke the stillness like a crack of lightning, and he flinched violently, his hand jerking the snare out of place. His wide eyes darted to you, and for a split second, you saw fear flash across his face. But then recognition settled in, and his body relaxed just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he exhaled shakily.

Even so, you could see the doubt lingering in his expression, the silent question of whether you would keep your word. Whether you would protect him—or if the promise was as fragile as the alliances so many others had already shattered.

“I’m better at traps,” he said defensively, gesturing to the mangled snare. His voice wavered, but there was a thread of defiance woven through his words. “Not much use if I’m dead, though.”

You sighed, letting your gaze sweep over the dense forest. Every shadow felt like a threat, every rustle of leaves a prelude to attack. The arena’s oppressive atmosphere bore down on you, the Capitol’s eyes undoubtedly watching, waiting for a misstep.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost resigned. “Let’s find somewhere safer.”

He hesitated, glancing at the ruined snare before looking back at you. For a moment, you thought he might protest, insist on finishing what he’d started. But then he nodded, pushing himself to his feet and clutching the pack tightly.

As the two of you moved deeper into the forest, the unspoken understanding between you solidified. The arena was no place for trust, but in that moment, you both understood what was necessary. Spencer’s sharp mind and your strength would keep you alive—for now. Together, you were a tenuous partnership, forged in the fire of desperation, bound by the fragile hope of survival.

Days passed in a blur of relentless survival, the forest around you becoming both your sanctuary and your prison. Spencer’s quick thinking kept you ahead of the others, his mind proving sharper than any blade. He devised traps with a precision that belied the trembling of his hands. One night, a tripwire he rigged sent a sharpened branch hurtling toward a career tribute, the impact punctuated by the sharp, deafening boom of a cannon. You froze, listening as the sound echoed through the trees, a grim acknowledgment of another life taken.

But for all his brilliance, Spencer’s lack of combat skills was glaringly obvious. The fragility of your alliance was brutally highlighted when a career tribute ambushed your camp at dawn. You had been sharpening your axe when the attack came—a blur of movement and the glint of a blade in the weak morning light. Spencer had scrambled back, his hands flying up in instinctive defense, but it was you who stood between him and death.

The fight was savage and merciless. Your axe cleaved through the air with deadly precision, each swing driven by adrenaline and the primal need to survive. Blood sprayed across your face, warm and sticky, as you buried the blade deep into the career’s chest. The sickening crunch of bone gave way to silence, broken only by your ragged breathing.

You stood over the lifeless body, the axe slipping from your trembling hands, its handle slick with blood that dripped in slow, viscous trails down your arms. The metallic scent was overpowering, mingling with the damp earth beneath your feet. Spencer emerged from behind a tree, his face ashen and his glasses askew. He stared at the carnage with wide eyes, his expression a mixture of shock and guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice trembling, pitched higher than usual.

You wiped a streak of blood from your eyes with the back of your hand, spitting a glob of your own onto the ground. “Fine,” you said shortly, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. “Let’s keep moving.”

The nights were the worst. The Capitol’s mutts prowled the forest, their distorted howls piercing the stillness and sending chills racing down your spine. The Gamemakers seemed to delight in tormenting the tributes, their traps and horrors pushing all of you to the brink. Spencer stayed close during those long, restless hours, his sharp mind constantly working to outthink the Capitol’s cruelty. But the strain of it all was evident. The sleepless nights, the gnawing hunger, the constant threat of death—it wore on both of you.

Sleep came in fleeting moments, and when it did, it brought no peace. Nightmares plagued you, images of blood-soaked battlefields and the cold, lifeless faces of those you had killed. You would wake with a start, your hand instinctively reaching for the axe by your side. Spencer, ever vigilant, would glance up from his notebook, offering a weak, wordless reassurance.

One night, as the oppressive silence stretched between you, he broke it. “You don’t have to stay,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant rustle of leaves. He was hunched over his notebook again, the pen in his hand tapping rhythmically against its edge. “I know I’m just a liability. If you leave… you’d have a better chance.”

His words hit you harder than they should have, stirring an ache in your chest that you didn’t want to acknowledge. You scoffed, forcing a veneer of indifference. “Don’t be stupid,” you said, glancing down at the axe lying between your legs. The wood was stained a deep crimson, a grim testament to your survival. “You’d be dead in a minute.”

“Probably,” he admitted, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he seemed impossibly fragile. “But that doesn’t mean it’s fair to you—to have to carry my weight.”

You leaned forward, your eyes locking with his. His vulnerability was laid bare, and for a fleeting moment, you saw past the fear to the resolve underneath. “Fair doesn’t matter here,” you said, your voice firm. “Survival does. And you’re not dying on my watch, Reid.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, unspoken promises threading through the tension. Spencer didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered on you, a quiet gratitude shining in his eyes. In the brutal reality of the arena, fairness was a luxury no one could afford. But in that moment, you knew you’d fight to keep him alive, even if it meant sacrificing a part of yourself.

The Gamemakers were growing impatient, their orchestrations more desperate and cruel. Walls of fire erupted in the forest, their heat searing and relentless, driving you and Spencer forward. Rivers swelled and burst their banks, churning torrents swallowing the land and leaving no room for retreat. The Capitol’s games were designed for spectacle, and now, they demanded a climactic confrontation.

It came in a clearing, a barren stretch of earth encircled by the towering trees that had once been your refuge. You and Spencer stood in the center, backs pressed together, the forest closing in around you. The air was electric with tension, heavy with the anticipation of violence. Your axe was clenched tightly in your hands, its familiar weight a lifeline in the chaos. Across the clearing, the last remaining tributes emerged from the shadows, their faces hard and eyes gleaming with a deadly determination.

The careers were relentless. Their movements were precise, their strikes calculated, honed by years of brutal training. They were predators, and you were their prey—but you refused to be cornered.

The first blow came from the left, a flash of steel aimed at your head. You ducked, swinging your axe upward in a wide arc that sent the attacker sprawling. Before you could strike again, another career was upon you, their weapon slashing toward your side. Spencer’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

“Y/N, duck!”

You dropped to the ground just as a handful of crushed leaves sailed over your head. The air ignited in a blinding flash, the chemical reaction disorienting your attackers. Spencer had discovered the trick earlier, his sharp mind identifying the properties of the plants scattered through the arena. It bought you precious seconds, enough to regain your footing and strike.

Your axe moved with ruthless efficiency, the weight of it an extension of your will to survive. It cleaved through the air, connecting with flesh and bone in a sickening symphony of destruction. Blood sprayed across the clearing, warm and sticky, coating your hands and arms as you fought with everything you had.

Spencer, though less skilled in combat, was no less vital. His quick thinking and unorthodox tactics kept you alive, each small advantage tipping the scales in your favor. He ducked and dodged, his movements frantic but purposeful, throwing dirt in an attacker’s eyes or tripping them with a hastily arranged snare.

The clearing became a battlefield, the ground slick with blood and churned by desperate footsteps. The coppery scent hung thick in the air, mingling with the earth’s damp tang and the acrid smoke from the Gamemakers’ fires. The cacophony of screams, grunts, and clashing steel reverberated through the forest, a grotesque chorus that seemed to echo endlessly.

Finally, the chaos began to subside. One by one, the careers fell, their arrogance and brutality no match for your combined determination. The last tribute standing faced you with defiance in their eyes, but their movements were sluggish, their strength waning. Your axe swung in a final, decisive arc, and the cannon’s resounding boom signaled the end.

As the clearing fell silent, you turned to Spencer. He stood hunched, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, his glasses smeared with dirt. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, his eyes met yours with a flicker of relief. For a fleeting moment, the two of you simply stood there, surrounded by the carnage, the enormity of what you’d just survived sinking in.

But you knew this wasn’t the end.

The forest loomed like a living nightmare, shadows twisting and stretching as if they sought to devour what little light dared to filter through the canopy. Every sound, every faint rustle of leaves, clawed at Spencer’s already frayed nerves. His breaths came shallow and ragged, his legs protesting with searing pain as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Branches lashed at his arms and face, leaving thin, stinging cuts, but none of it registered.

All he could think about was you.

“Y/N!” he screamed again, his voice a raw echo of his mounting panic. The name reverberated through the forest only to be swallowed by the oppressive silence. His heart pounded erratically, a frantic rhythm that matched the wild thrum of his thoughts.

You were out there. Alone.

And then, like a cruel omen, he saw it—a trail of blood.

Spencer’s breath hitched, his body locking in place as he stared at the crimson streaks spattered across the dirt. His mind involuntarily cataloged the details: arterial spray, not a steady drip—suggesting deep, possibly fatal wounds. The sight rooted him with dread, but the desperate need to find you propelled him forward.

“Please,” he whispered under his breath, a fragile prayer to an indifferent world. “Please, not you.”

The blood led him deeper into the forest, the undergrowth thickening as the trail veered toward a small clearing. Sunlight filtered hesitantly through the branches above, dappling the ground in patches of gold that felt out of place against the grim tableau ahead. At first, the clearing seemed empty, just another cruel trick of the arena.

Then he saw you.

Spencer stumbled forward, the sight of your crumpled body hitting him like a physical blow. You were slumped against a tree, your form unnaturally still, streaked with dirt and blood. The once vibrant color of your skin was replaced by a deathly pallor, your chest rising and falling so faintly that he nearly missed it.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked, and he fell to his knees beside you, his trembling hands hovering over your battered frame as if afraid his touch might make things worse.

Your injuries were horrifying. Deep, angry gashes carved into your side, your clothes soaked with drying blood. Bruises bloomed across your face, dark and angry, nearly obscuring your features. Your lips were cracked and dry, the faintest tremble the only sign of life.

“Please, no,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he pressed his fingers against your neck, searching for a pulse. The moment he felt the faint, fragile beat beneath his fingertips, a sob broke free from his chest.

“You’re alive,” he murmured, tears spilling freely down his face. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

But the relief was fleeting. The blood around you was too much, the wounds too deep. A surge of helplessness clawed at him, and his hands hovered, unsure where to start. His mind, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish, drowned in panic and fear.

“Y/N, wake up,” he pleaded, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His thumb brushed against the streaks of blood and dirt marring your skin. “Please, I need you to wake up.”

A faint groan escaped your lips, the soft sound pulling him from the edge of despair. Your eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of exhaustion and pain. Finally, your eyes opened, glassy and unfocused, but alive.

“Spencer?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and weak, but it was enough.

“I’m here,” he choked out, his tears falling unchecked. “I’m here, Y/N. I thought I’d lost you.”

Your gaze slowly sharpened, focusing on him through the haze of pain. “What… happened?”

“You were attacked,” he said, his voice breaking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I failed you.”

You weakly lifted a hand, your fingers brushing against his. He caught it immediately, holding it tightly as though letting go would mean losing you again. “You couldn’t have known,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

“Don’t say that,” he snapped, his fear spilling out as frustration. “Don’t act like it’s okay. It’s not—I can’t—” His voice faltered, cracking under the weight of his emotions. He looked away, his shoulders trembling.

“Spencer.” Your voice, though faint, cut through the storm inside him.

He turned back to you, his tear-filled eyes meeting yours. Even in your battered state, there was a flicker of strength in your gaze, a reminder of why he couldn’t fall apart.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’re the only thing that’s kept me going, Y/N. You’re the only thing that matters.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, mingling with the blood and grime. Despite the pain, you managed a faint smile. “You’re not going to lose me,” you said softly.

Spencer leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, careful of your injuries. “Promise me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I promise,” you whispered back, though your voice wavered with exhaustion.

For a moment, the horrors of the arena receded, leaving only the two of you in the fragile stillness of the clearing. Spencer clung to that moment, to the fragile hope that it could last. But deep down, he knew the arena’s cruelty wouldn’t allow it.

Spencer cradled you against him, his arms encircling your fragile, battered body like a shield against the arena’s relentless cruelty. Each of your shallow breaths, brushing faintly against his neck, felt like a fragile thread tethering him to hope. The world around you seemed to pause, the usual cacophony of the arena muted to nothing but the gentle rustle of leaves and the haunting, distant growls of the Capitol’s muttations.

His heart pounded as he finally pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. The dim light filtering through the trees illuminated the anguish and resolve in his expression. His eyes, filled with a fierce determination, searched yours as though he could absorb your pain and bear it for you.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and trembling with conviction. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever again.”

One of his hands cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the grime and blood streaked across your skin. Despite the searing pain coursing through your injuries, you leaned into his touch, craving the connection and comfort he offered. The way he looked at you, with a mix of tenderness and desperation, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just survival that drove him—it was you.

“Spencer,” you murmured, your voice raw but steady enough to convey the depth of your feelings. “You saved me.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was tinged with sadness. “You saved me first,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you.

For a moment, time itself seemed to stop. The horrors of the arena melted away, leaving only the two of you in a fragile bubble of shared understanding. Without hesitation, Spencer leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, a promise, and a plea all at once. Every unspoken word of fear, gratitude, and love found its voice in that fleeting moment.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, the quiet mingling of your breaths grounding you both. Spencer’s voice was raw when he spoke again, the vulnerability in his words laying his heart bare. “I love you,” he whispered, the confession slipping free like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

Your hand found his, your fingers intertwining with his as though they were meant to fit together. “I love you too,” you replied, the sincerity in your voice making the moment feel almost sacred.

Though the kiss and the confession hung between you like a protective shield, reality pressed back in. Spencer glanced around, his sharp mind already assessing the next steps. He helped you to your feet with painstaking care, his touch gentle but firm as he ensured you wouldn’t collapse. “We need to find shelter,” he said, his tone decisive. “You need rest, and I need to make sure you’re safe.”

Together, you stumbled through the dense underbrush, Spencer’s arm steadying you every step of the way. He moved with deliberate caution, his every thought focused on your survival. After what felt like an eternity, you came upon a hollow nestled beneath the sprawling roots of a massive tree. It wasn’t much—a dark, cramped space hidden from sight—but in the arena, it was a sanctuary.

Spencer guided you inside, his every movement a careful balance between urgency and gentleness. Once he was sure you were settled, he set to work, his trembling hands tending to your wounds with an almost reverent care. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, his focus never wavered.

The night descended upon the arena with a heavy, oppressive silence, the darkness pressing in like a living thing. Inside the hollow, you both finally allowed yourselves to rest. Spencer pulled you close, his arms wrapping protectively around you as though sheer will alone could keep the horrors at bay.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “I’ll keep watch.”

Your hand clutched at the fabric of his shirt, a weak but determined gesture. “No,” you whispered, your voice resolute despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “We’ll keep watch together.”

But the adrenaline that had fuelled you both through the day ebbed away, replaced by an unbearable fatigue. Sleep claimed you both, drawing you into its embrace. In the warmth of Spencer’s arms, the terror of the arena faded, leaving behind the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the fragile hope that, for at least a few precious hours, you were safe.

The cannon echoed in the distance, signaling the death of the second-to-last tribute. Spencer’s heart sank as the reality settled over him. It was just the two of you now.

You turned to him, bloodied and exhausted, your eyes wide with the same realization. “Spencer…”

“There can only be one,” he murmured, his voice hollow.

The Capitol’s anthem blared overhead, and the cold voice of the announcer filled the air. “Congratulations to our final two tributes! Only one may claim victory—who will it be?”

The unspoken command hung heavy between you, suffocating in its finality.

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t do it, Spencer. I won’t.”

“And I won’t hurt you,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “But there’s no other way. They won’t let us both walk out of here.”

“Then we find a way to beat them!” you cried, desperation lacing your voice. “We’ll refuse. We’ll—”

Spencer grabbed your shoulders gently but firmly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Y/N, listen to me. We’ve been lucky to make it this far, but there’s no beating them. Not like this.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t falter. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, we can survive this together. We’ll figure it out. We—”

“Y/N.” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “You have to live. I need you to live.”

Your breath hitched, panic rising as you saw something in his expression—a quiet determination, a resolve that shattered your heart. “Spencer, no. Don’t you dare.”

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. “You are everything good in this world,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You deserve to live. You deserve to go home.”

“I can’t go home without you!” you cried, your hands clutching his shirt as if holding him could anchor him here, with you.

Spencer leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss filled with all the love and sorrow he couldn’t put into words. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Before you could react, he stepped back, his hands slipping from your grasp. Your heart dropped as he picked up the knife you’d discarded moments earlier.

“Spencer, don’t!” you screamed, scrambling toward him, but he shook his head.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I love you.”

And then, before you could stop him, he turned the blade on himself.

“NO!”

You caught him as he collapsed, cradling him in your arms. Blood soaked through your hands, and your sobs tore through the quiet of the arena. His breathing was shallow, his lips trembling as he tried to speak.

“I… couldn’t let it be you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You have to win. Promise me… promise me you’ll live.”

“Spencer, please,” you begged, clutching him tightly. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

But his eyes fluttered closed, and with one last ragged breath, the cannon boomed.

The hovercraft descended moments later, and you didn’t resist as they pried Spencer from your arms. His blood was on your hands, your clothes, and your soul, and yet you couldn’t muster the strength to fight them. The Capitol’s voice returned, dispassionate and final, declaring you the victor. The words echoed through the cold, metallic space around you, hollow and meaningless.

You were the last one standing. The survivor.

But at what cost?

The world blurred as the medical team swarmed you, their hands prodding and pulling, their antiseptic words promising you safety and care. None of it mattered. Your eyes stayed fixed on Spencer’s limp form as they wheeled him away, disappearing behind a sterile door. The emptiness he left behind was suffocating.

He had sacrificed himself so you could live.

The words repeated in your mind, a haunting mantra that clawed at your sanity. The memory of his final smile, soft and full of love even as his life slipped away, seared itself into your soul. You wanted to scream, to rage at the injustice of it all, but you felt hollow. Numb.

The hovercraft docked, and the transition from the arena’s horrors to the Capitol’s opulence was jarring. Lavish rooms, bright lights, and hollow congratulations assaulted your senses. The Capitol citizens cheered your name, their voices clashing in an orchestra of sickening delight. You barely heard them.

Snow himself greeted you, his snake-like smile as unnerving as ever. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice laced with a false warmth. “You’re a symbol of strength, of survival. The Capitol admires your resilience.”

Your response was a vacant stare.

Days blurred into nights as you went through the motions. The Victory Tour loomed, a macabre parade meant to celebrate your survival while parading the Capitol’s power. But all you could think about was Spencer—the way he had looked at you, the way his voice had trembled when he said goodbye.

In the privacy of your room, you allowed yourself to grieve. The tears came in silent waves, unstoppable and all-consuming. You clutched the token he’d worn—a simple bracelet made of knotted twine—now yours to carry. It was the only piece of him you had left.

They called you a hero, but you felt like a thief. You had stolen his chance to live, even if he’d willingly handed it over.

On the day of your first public appearance, you stood before a crowd of Capitol citizens, their faces painted with mock sympathy and admiration. The weight of your loss bore down on you, threatening to crush you beneath its enormity.

“I survived the arena,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “But survival isn’t victory. Not when it costs everything.”

The crowd applauded, oblivious to the truth in your words. But somewhere, deep within you, a spark ignited—a quiet, simmering rage.

Spencer had believed in you, even in his final moments. He had given you a chance to live, to fight for something more than just survival. And while the Capitol celebrated its spectacle, you made a promise to yourself.

You would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

You would remember him.

And one day, you would ensure that no one else would have to pay the price he had.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[dorcas4meadowes]

DIVA CHEMIST HAS MY HEART!!

𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which both of you take garcia's joke about kissing to ease the tension a bit too seriously

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader wearing a red lipstick, elevator taking an absurdly long timepurely for plot purposes (you'll thank me for this later, trust me) kissing purr

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.7k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

“Reid, seriously—”

“No, Morgan, listen, this actually makes a lot of sense...”

“This doesn’t fit our profile at all...”

“It changes it, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be true. The unsub could be a woman. I mean, look, just consider how clean the crime scenes were, and the fact that such precise, planned murders are more often the domain of women, just like revenge as a motive—revenge even for events from a very distant past...”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Morgan cut him off, turning his back to the kitchen counter, a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hand, steam still rising from it. He gave his drink a meaningful glance. “Right now, this is my well-deserved time to clear my head. Without that, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back to working on this case—none have drained me this much in a long time...”

He shook his head lightly, taking a sip of coffee. Reid rolled his eyes upward in irritation, but ultimately sighed, defeated. Fine. Morgan could have this fifteen minutes for his, as he called it, clearing of thoughts. But after that, nothing would stop him from giving a thorough explanation of why, in his opinion, the unsub was a woman…

“Well, what he said was actually very, very interesting,” someone spoke up.

They both shifted their gaze to the woman who had just entered the shared kitchen. Though her words expressed intrigue, there was also a certain wicked undertone suggesting a forthcoming sharp remark. Spencer had perfected sensing that by now, so he sighed heavily, clearly irritated, even before she could say anything more.

Morgan elbowed him so hard that Spencer had to grab his ribs.

“Behave,” he muttered, reaching for the second cup on the counter, which he handed toward the woman. “Good morning, prima donna. Your coffee.”

He handed her the drink he’d prepared earlier, which she took without breaking her meaningful gaze with Spencer.

“See? That’s the kind of greeting I expect”

Spencer simply snorted at the thought of him saying something like that upon seeing her. He’d probably rather spend an hour in a room with no doors or windows, forced to discuss things with a group of flat-earthers.

“Sure. Maybe everyone should just fall at your feet right away?” 

She shrugged.

“If that’s what turns you on, then why not.”

He rolled his eyes, and her smirk flashed in his face before she took a sip of the coffee made just for her. Involuntarily, he glanced toward the kitchen exit, wondering if this was the right moment to leave—things hadn’t been going too well between them lately. Okay, they’d never exactly had the best relationship, but every now and then they managed to have at least five minutes of relatively peaceful conversation. And that, he had to admit—even though it didn’t come easily to him—was actually quite enjoyable. The kind of conversation you want to continue, and when it’s prematurely interrupted, you take it with disappointment.

But that wasn’t the case anymore. After their last argument, a certain electrified wall had formed between them, making every word spoken feel like an electric shock. And well, after that, when one of her comments pricked him, he couldn’t just let it slide and let her bask in that quiet triumph. He had to strike back.

Something, however, held him back from just walking out, and it was the words that had accompanied her as she crossed the threshold into the kitchen.

“What did you mean by very, very interesting?” he asked.

While Morgan stood fully relaxed, leaning against the corner of the counter, Spencer kept a more rigid posture, one hand flat on the surface. She, in turn, stood right in front of them, with one hip slightly pushed out and her arms loosely crossed over her chest. She pouted her lower lip slightly, as if thinking about what he was referring to with his question. 

Spencer briefly dropped his gaze to her lips, but only because of the intense red color covering them. He focused on the edges of her mouth, setting an internal goal to find a spot where the lipstick had strayed beyond the surface, but before he could do so, she spoke again, causing his attention to shift to the rest of her face.

“Your earlier words. Planned murders are more often the domain of women, just like revenge as a motive—revenge even for events from a very distant past…” she recited with a precision that surprised him, because it meant she must have entered the kitchen before either he or Derek realized it, silently—or maybe she simply had an exceptionally good ear. After a moment of thought, both versions seemed equally likely. Meanwhile, she added, “I’m not saying you’re wrong. But I also think you’re underestimating how nasty men can be too. They can’t accept certain things. Not even from a very distant past.”

It wasn’t a bitter comment, but rather a bit mocking. And sometimes the mockery in her words could be so sharp that it forced him to retaliate, even if it wasn’t aimed directly at him.

“Sounds like you're speaking from some particularly sad experience.”

“Sort of. But not sad, more like funny.”

“You’re funny when you talk about things you know nothing about.”

“Oh, right, sorry. I forgot that now you need a doctorat to take part in a regular kitchen coffee break discussion” she scoffed sarcastically.

Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer noticed how Morgan tilted her head back with a heavy sigh. This was how his break to clear his mind was going—right in the middle of their verbal sparring.

However, that day, Spencer decided to abandon the role of a good friend and stubbornly pressed on.

“You’re right, you don’t need a doctorate for that,” he admitted with a nod. The woman raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for the second part of the sentence. “But considering your lack of experience in profiling, maybe you should think twice about whether it’s worth commenting.”

The corner of her mouth twitched oddly. She calmly took a sip of her coffee, leaving a faint red lipstick mark on the white cup, and looked at him again. That was when he saw it, something he’d been looking for. A slight, almost invisible smudge beyond the edges of her lips, noticeable only because she stepped closer to him to place the empty cup on the counter.

“Maybe, considering your lack of experience with women, you should also think twice about whether it’s worth commenting,” she said, her voice almost angelic.

This was the wall that was talked about earlier. And at that moment, its tension increased significantly, peaking when Spencer opened his mouth again, searching his mind for the nastiest comment he could come up with, now that he’d been warned.

“Come on, man, she’s just egging you on,” Morgan said, completely disengaged from the conversation up until that point.

She caught his glance.

“Maybe,” she replied flatly.

“First of all,” Spencer started, rolling his shoulders back, which unintentionally made him stand straighter, bringing them closer together. “I wasn’t talking about women, I was talking about an unsub who’s presumably a woman. And you should know, I have a lot of experience in this field, as evidenced by…”

“Oh my goodness,” someone interrupted loudly.

All three of them turned their heads toward the woman with a huge flower pinned in her blonde curls.

“What’s up with you two, huh? The tension is so thick, you could cut it with a knife,” Garcia muttered, glancing between Spencer and his conversation partner.

“Babygirl,” Morgan sighed with visible relief at her presence, as if her arrival was a saving grace. Well, apparently it was. She was saving him from remaining a passive participant in this heated discussion. “You should’ve said you were coming, I would’ve made you coffee…”

“Oh, I’m cutting back on caffeine. But that’s sweet of you,” she replied.

“For you, always.”

Penelope didn’t pay much attention to his words, still focusing her gaze on the two of them to the point where Spencer started to feel uncomfortable. A small smile appeared on her, funny, also red lips.

She slid a finger between them, giving her head a slight shake.

“You know, something just crossed my mind,” she said mysteriously. “Lately, it’s scary to get close to you two, the tension is that thick. You know what might help ease it?”

“A knife fight in medieval style,” the woman suggested without blinking an eye.

“If we’re talking about the Middle Ages, it would be more likely to be swords or spears,” Spencer automatically corrected her.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

He shrugged.

“Not that I’m endorsing it, personally my suggestion would be to change jobs…”

“Kiss.”

They looked at Penelope as if she had just revealed that she arrived at work today on a unicorn.

Even Morgan was staring at her.

"It really works, I'm telling you," she added with a convincing nod. "You know, the line between hatred and sexual tension is often thin. So if you want to ease the former, you should approach it in a different way. One kiss won't hurt you, and you'll immediately feel the difference. And most importantly, we’ll feel the difference. It'll finally be bearable to be around you."

Before either of them could say anything or react, applause rang out.

"That's genius," Morgan said with admiration, to which Penelope flashed him a grateful smile. "Beautiful, funny, and smart. Tell me, how do you do it?"

"Years of practice, my dear," she replied with a wink.

Spencer cut in between them with a loud sigh.

"There’s no psychological or scientific proof that something like that would work," he pointed out.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with Mr. Smartypants," she muttered under her breath, letting out a small snort. Her gaze fell on the clock hanging in the kitchen. "I have to go. This wasn’t exactly a pleasant coffee break. I mean, the coffee was excellent," she turned to Morgan, who was still clearly amused, before heading out.

Morgan gave her a polite bow. Before her figure had fully disappeared, Penelope snapped her fingers in Spencer's direction.

"Right, I forgot to tell you, JJ was looking for you to…"

And just like that, the two of them found themselves standing in front of the elevator doors, silently waiting for it to reach their floor. She was heading back to her lab, and he to wherever Jareau happened to be at the moment. Spencer’s gaze dropped uncertainly to her profile before he could stop himself.

Of course, she caught it and gave him a small nod.

“What’s up? Planning to yell at me for daring to question your expertise in profiling an unsub who’s presumably a woman?” she asked.

Spencer hated—truly hated—how often she managed to mock him using his own words. She didn’t even have to put in the effort of coming up with anything original.

He didn’t respond, so she added:

“Or maybe you’re actually considering that medieval knife duel idea?”

The absurdity of the conversation pulled a short huff of laughter from him.

“Well, you’re getting warmer,” he admitted.

“Warmer? Oh, so you have been thinking about what Penelope said.”

“What? No!”

At last, the elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside in one smooth motion, turning to face Spencer as she did. The bright light inside made the small space feel even tighter, forcing them into a proximity that gave him full view of every detail on her face.

Yes, including that tiny spot just beneath her lower lip where her lipstick had gone ever so slightly outside the lines. Probably the lighting was what made it stand out so much. So much that he found himself wanting to point it out.

Or, hell—just wipe it off himself.

Some kind of perfectionist urge had just hijacked his brain.

He stood turned slightly to the side, avoiding her gaze, and after a prolonged moment of silence—during which he felt the pressure to say something—he drew in a deeper breath.

"Or you know what, actually, I was thinking about it," he admitted. He admitted it truthfully, though not in the way she seemed to expect, judging by the sudden lift of her eyebrows.

"I was thinking about how completely ridiculous it is. How there's no way something like that could actually work."

She shrugged lightly.

"Well, I think she had a point."

He looked at her in disbelief, which made her roll her eyes and expand on what she meant.

"Tension is tension, whether it’s from hate or attraction. So if you think about it, a kiss could technically solve the problem."

Her voice was indifferent, even bored—like the idea of kissing him didn’t stir anything in her, not even mild discomfort. Spencer noticed that. And for some reason, it left him with a weird kind of feeling.

He shook his head, brushing it off—and making it clear he disagreed.

"Whether it's from hate or attraction?" he repeated, internally just a little satisfied that, for once, he could throw her own words back at her—something she usually had the upper hand in. "That’s absurd. Bullshit, actually. I hate every serial killer and worse person I come across at work. Would a kiss change that, too?"

She muttered something unintelligible under her breath. For a second, Reid thought he’d actually cornered her—brought her to that rare, mythical moment where she might admit she was wrong. That she’d made a mistake.

But instead, she tilted her head slightly, locking him in that sharp, unrelenting gaze of her—the kind he always found annoyingly hard to break away from.

“I think you’re missing one crucial difference,” she said, quieter now, almost in a purr. “I’m way more attractive than any of the serial killers you deal with on a daily basis.”

Spencer sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides. The structure of her sentence left him with no option but to agree with her. In fact, she wasn’t just more attractive than the serial killers he encountered on a daily basis. If he looked at it objectively, without any bias, she was one of the most attractive people he knew.

Which led him to an odd thought—was it even possible to measure attractiveness objectively, without any subjectivity involved?

It was a strange thought. And he had to say something to drown it out.

"Still, I think it wouldn’t change anything," he said, trying to sound convincing, as though he was absolutely sure of himself. Because after all, he was sure, right?

"Well, I think differently," she replied briefly. "One of us is wrong, and we can argue which, but there’s only one way to find out."

He looked at her with his eyebrows raised high.

"You're kidding me."

"No. If I'm right, then I’m right, and everyone around us will benefit. If you're right and nothing changes, then it won’t change anything. But maybe at least you’ll stop staring at my lips."

Spencer felt a wave of embarrassment flood over him, so surprising that he didn’t know what to say. He also didn’t know what to say because, well, he had been staring at her lips.

"Seriously, you thought I didn’t notice?"

"That...that's because you have...you have lipstick...I mean," he pointed at the corner of his own lips, trying to explain non-verbally what he meant, what he really meant by staring at her so blatantly.

Her slight smile, but surprisingly without mockery. Which didn’t make him feel any less embarrassed.

"If it bothers you that much, wipe it off," she said again in that damn irritating, indifferent tone.

He sighed heavily. He wondered if there was anything he could do to get rid of the nonchalance in her presence for at least once. Her words were so laced with a challenge. A certain certainty that he wouldn't do it. Certainty that they'd keep staring at each other in silence until the elevator stopped, and then she would slowly, almost lazily, turn her head and leave, imposing, from that moment on, a certain superiority, a certain triumph, a certain dominance over their future interactions.

He winced at the very thought of it.

A barely audible, delicate chuckle escaped her lips. A minimal tilt of her head, as if she was about to turn away. Was he really that slow, or was he perceiving this in such a strange, dazed way?

He sighed again, this time also closing his eyes.

And when he opened them, it was only for a brief moment, just to catch that confident look of hers one more time. Then he lowered himself slightly, just enough to gently connect their lips. And it wasn’t as light as it could have been. Well, it was a bit deeper than an innocent brush, but as soon as she increased her pressure, Spencer immediately pulled away, feeling an overwhelming urge to smack his head against something.

Well, he thought, he’d hoped it would give him some dignity in this situation, but that wasn’t the case.

For a moment, he avoided her gaze, but he knew sooner or later he'd have to face it. Honestly, he'd probably rather be in the middle of a knife fight.

Her face expressed...absolute disbelief?

"What the fuck was that supposed to be?" she asked loudly, throwing her hands up.

Spencer nearly took a step back, completely not expecting such a reaction. The shock made him forget his embarrassment for a moment.

"What’s your problem?" he asked, defensively.

She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head slightly. Still the same look of disbelief.

"Was that supposed to ease the tension?" she scoffed. "That? Who are you, a shy fourteen-year-old kissing a girl for the first time? Wait, never mind, a shy fourteen-year-old would probably do it in a more passionate way—"

The mockery in her voice was almost unbearable for Spencer, who was already feeling humiliated. So, he decided to silence her in the only way that came to his mind in the moment. He did so by suddenly crashing his lips into hers, eliciting a brief, surprised sound from her. However, it was immediately cut off, or rather, more accurately, drowned out.

In his mind, there weren't many logical thoughts, except for one very specific one. Despite his closed eyes, he vividly remembered where her lipstick had slightly smeared outside the edge of her lips, so he focused his attention entirely on that spot, on her lower lip.

Until now, he had been under the impression that lipstick had no taste. However, the one she wore had a sweet flavor, vaguely reminiscent of vanilla. But he quickly lost interest in the vanilla taste on his lips  when something entirely different grabbed his full attention—her tongue, confidently reaching out for his.

Only when he was forced to take a breath through his nose, and the oxygen finally reached his muddled brain, did he realize that his hands were no longer stiffly by his sides, as they had been during the first...well, it's hard to call it that, but the first kiss. He hadn’t noticed when her cheek came under the pressure of his fingers, and for a moment, his mind even wondered if it had been too much—he wasn’t controlling anything that was happening to him.

But that worry evaporated almost immediately upon its arrival, specifically at the moment he felt something tugging at his neck, not in a particularly gentle manner.

Her hand firmly pulled him closer, completely ruining the rhythm of the kiss they had been managing to maintain so far. From that moment on, everything fell apart, caught in the clutches of ugly chaos, but neither of them was concerned with something as trivial and insignificant as aesthetics.

In all of this, even his own breath had taken its place among the trivial and insignificant things, though the consequences of that affected him a little more.

More specifically, in such a way that when her lips pulled away from his, the first gasp of air was accompanied by a embarrassingly eager sound. Still with her hand on his neck, she didn’t seem concerned by it. Her head tilted to the side, towards the open elevator doors. Spencer didn't even glance to see if anyone might be standing there, staring at them in disgust.

He didn't recognize himself, but somehow it didn't matter at all—instead, his eyes kept locked on her lips, right in front of his face, so close that he felt a hungry tingling on his own, urging him to lean in again.

But instead, she pulled back, giving a slight nod towards the open doors.

 "This is my floor," she announced.

Where did all that damn nonchalance come from, when just moments ago she had been gripping his neck so tightly that if her hands had been just a little lower, she could have accidentally strangled him?

So much damn nonchalance, when her hair was sticking out messily on one side, where his fingers had dug into it?

So much damn nonchalance, when she said:

“Well, I guess we’ll soon find out who was right.”

Her words echoed in his mind long after she left the elevator, leaving him alone in that strange silence and with that odd feeling of dizziness that almost made him stumble when he took his first step down the hallway on his floor.

But then he forced himself to blink sharply, shaking it all off.

He had to remind himself who he was—a grown man with an IQ of 187.

He approached JJ when he was completely sure there was no trace of it left on him. His usual walk, his indifferent face. No shifting field of vision, no rise or fall.

“Were you looking for me?” he asked.

His friend looked at him strangely. He didn’t know what she meant. She knew him well, but was it to the extent that she could read what had just happened from a traitorous flicker in his eyes?

JJ covered her mouth with her hand, awkwardly stifling a laugh.

"Spence, I don’t know if you realize this, but you're all covered in red lipstick."

[dorcas4meadowes]

Just watched s2 ep14&15 and when I tell you I cried my eyes out I mean it. Poor baby has to go through so much and alone and all the flashbacks😭😭😭😭. What hurt more was that he had to hide his drug addiction.

So for my mental peace could you write a fic where in female!reader x spencer (established relationship) where she immediately runs to him when they hear the gunshot not caring about precautions and gives him the biggest, protective hug and Spencer just just won't let her go and she wouldn't pull away too and when they reach back home she goes to his place and he breaks down in her arms and tells her everything and she stays with him the whole night everyday helping him through his addiction and withdrawals.

I know it's super long request 😭😭😭😭. Feel free to ignore it though. Love you and your writing! ♥️

Now I'm gonna cry myself I guess, wohoo😶‍🌫️

aftermath — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , spencer having withdrawals, mentions of tobias' body ( and tobias himself ) , mention of guns and dilaudid , spencer and reader both cry a/n: hii ! hope you like this <3 this hurt my heart i'm ngl - i didnt rewatch the entire ep and instead just watched clips on youtube so if i got anything wrong lmk

The world stopped the moment the gunshot cracked through the air.

It was like someone had ripped the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you hollow, suspended in a single, suffocating second. Your brain short-circuited, thoughts reduced to a frantic, broken chant no no no no no.

And then you were running.

The graveyard was a sea of shadows, the cold night air biting at your skin as you sprinted blindly between the headstones. Somewhere behind you, Hotch was shouting your name, but it barely registered.

The only thing that mattered was Spencer.

“Spencer? Spencer?” Your voice was raw, frantic. The syllables tore from your throat as you stumbled forward, feet crunching against the dirt and fallen leaves.

The images wouldn’t stop—the live feed flashing before your eyes, Tobias Hankel standing over Spencer, the way he had grabbed Spencer. The moment the screen cut to black, leaving only suffocating silence.

You weren’t sure if the trembling was from the cold or the fear or both. But then—then you saw him.

Spencer. Standing. Alive.

His body rigid, unmoving, as he stood over Tobias Hankel’s lifeless form. His shoulders heaved with each breath, the gun still clutched in his shaking hands.

You didn’t hesitate. You ran to him, feet barely touching the ground, and when you reached him, you collapsed into him with all the force of your desperation.

He froze.

For one agonizing second, he was still, his entire frame wound tight with tension. But then his arms came around you, clutching, grasping—his fingers twisted into the fabric of your jacket. He pressed himself against you, as if trying to mold himself into your skin, as if fearing that if he let go, you would disappear.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely more than a breath. The words burned in your throat, strangled by the lump of tears you hadn’t even realized you were holding back.

Spencer didn’t say anything. He just held you. Tightly. Desperately.

Like if he held on hard enough, maybe he could push away the horrors of what had just happened. Like if he crushed you close enough, maybe he could become part of you, escape himself for just a moment.

You could hear the rest of the team arriving. They didn’t pull you away and they didn’t tell Spencer to let go.

Spencer wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not that you wanted him to let go.

His fingers were still twisted into your jacket, holding on with a force that felt desperate, almost painful. His whole body trembled against yours, breaths uneven, shallow, like he was trying to convince himself he was still here. That you were still here.

You tightened your arms around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his damp, disheveled curls. You felt the way he shuddered under your touch, a broken sound escaping from somewhere deep in his chest.

Spencer still hadn’t spoken. He just held you, clung to you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

So you stayed. You stayed in the middle of that graveyard, with the smell of gunpowder still lingering in the air.

Slowly—so slowly—his breathing evened out. His fingers unclenched slightly, though he still refused to release you. And then, finally, his voice, rough and barely audible, whispered against your skin:

"You came."

As if there had ever been any other option.

You tightened your hold on him, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, your reply muffled but unwavering. "Always."

You weren’t entirely sure when you stopped hugging.

Everything was a blur, a hazy, disjointed mess of moments slipping through your fingers like sand. It felt like you were barely in your body, like you were watching yourself move from somewhere far away.

At some point, you ended up in the car.

You didn’t remember how you got there—whether someone guided you or if your feet had just carried you on their own. The only thing that mattered was that Spencer was with you.

The car was silent. The hum of the engine was distant, muffled, as if you were underwater.

Your hand was in Spencer’s, fingers entwined, his grip loose but persistent—like he was afraid to hold too tightly but even more afraid to let go. He leaned against you, head resting against your shoulder, his body barely moving. He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t react to anything around him.

He just clung to you. And you let him.

You didn’t break the quiet. What was there to say?

The words would have been hollow, anyway—useless against the enormity of what had almost happened.

Occasionally, a tear would escape, tracing a slow, burning path down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away. You just pressed a kiss to the top of Spencer’s head, your lips lingering in his tousled hair, breathing him in like a reminder—he’s here, he’s alive.

And when his grip tightened, when his breath hitched almost imperceptibly, you murmured it into the space between you: "You’re safe now."

A promise. A plea. A prayer.

Spencer didn’t respond. But he held on a little tighter.

Hotch drove you to Spencer’s apartment in silence.

You managed to give him a small, strained smile as you stepped out of the car—though you weren’t entirely sure it even registered as one.

But Hotch understood. He always did. With a barely perceptible nod, he lingered just long enough to ensure you both made it inside before pulling away.

As you stepped inside, Spencer was still eerily quiet. His hand was still in yours—or maybe yours was in his. You weren’t entirely sure anymore. Neither of you had let go, and at this point, you weren’t sure who was holding onto whom.

The apartment felt different. Usually, it was a place of comfort. But tonight, it felt hollow.

You weren’t sure what to say, and honestly, you were afraid that if you tried, you’d break. That the moment words left your lips, you’d start sobbing, and you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

Instead, you focused on the mundane, the mechanical—the things you could control.

Gently, you helped him out of his dirt-streaked jacket, your fingers brushing over the fabric, lingering on the faint traces of dust and dried blood. Your throat tightened, but you swallowed it down, hanging the jacket up.

Tomorrow, you told yourself. Tomorrow, you’d wash it. Tomorrow, you’d erase the evidence of tonight.

“Do you want to take a shower?” you whispered. You weren’t sure why you whispered.

Spencer shook his head.

“Okay,” you murmured, soft as a sigh. “That’s fine.”

The paramedics had already taken care of his injuries, cleaned the gash on his forehead, patched up the cuts and bruises along his body. But they couldn’t do anything for the way he felt.

So you did the only thing you could. You took his hand again and gently pulled him toward the bedroom.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t say a word. Just followed.

Usually, you would have made a teasing remark about how cute it was that Spencer kept following you around.

Because he did—a lot.

Just last week, he had hovered around you the entire time you were making breakfast, standing so close that every time you turned, you nearly bumped into him. You had giggled, playfully nudging him away, but he had just smiled that shy little smile of his and stayed right where he was.

Now, the memory carved a hollow ache in your chest.

Because now, this wasn’t the same.

Now, he wasn’t following you because he wanted to be near you. He was following you because he needed to. Because if he let go, if he lost contact with you for even a second, he might slip away entirely.

You pulled one of his sweaters from the dresser. Turning, you found him standing too close, his hands clenched at his sides, still wearing the vest that smelled of gunpowder and damp earth.

"Can I?" you asked softly, fingers brushing the edge of the blood-red fabric.

Spencer's gaze flickered up to yours—just for a second—but it was enough. His lips trembled. His breath hitched.

Your hand was on his cheek before you could think, thumb swiping away a tear before it could fall.

That was all it took.

A shattered gasp tore from his throat, raw and broken, and then he was collapsing against you, his entire body wracked with sobs. You caught him without hesitation, arms locking around him as his knees gave way.

"I thought—" His voice was fractured, muffled against your shoulder. "He made me choose, and I—I couldn't—"

You cradled the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

Words poured out of him like a flood—Tobias's taunts, the cold press of the gun, the paralyzing fear of being forced to decide who lived or died. His hands clutched at your shirt as he spoke.

"I kept thinking of you," he choked out, the words raw and fractured. "If I died there—if you had to watch—"

You squeezed your eyes shut against the image, your stomach twisting violently. Just the thought of it—of seeing that live feed cut to static, of waiting for news that never came, of losing him in the cruelest way imaginable—made your hands tighten instinctively around him, as if you could physically shield him from the memory.

"Don't," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Please, don't—"

But he kept going, the words tumbling out like he'd been holding them back for hours. "I kept seeing your face. I kept thinking—God, I kept thinking about how you'd be the one they'd call. How you'd have to—" His breath hitched, a ragged sob tearing through him. "How you'd have to identify me."

A wounded noise escaped you before you could stop it. Your fingers curled into his hair, pressing yourself tighter against him as if you could fuse the horror out of him through sheer proximity.

"But you didn't," you said fiercely. "You're here. You're alive. You came back to me."

Spencer shuddered, his hands gripping your arms like a lifeline. "I almost didn't."

The quiet admission shattered something in you.

You pulled him closer, your lips pressing against his temple, his cheek, anywhere you could reach—as if you could kiss the pain out of him, as if you could rewrite the last few hours with nothing but your touch.

"But you did."

You swallowed back the sob clawing at your throat, pressing your lips together to keep it from escaping—but the tears came anyway, silent and relentless, spilling over as you carded your fingers through his hair.

Each stroke was a silent plea. I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.

But the more you touched him—the more you felt the way his breath hitched under your palms, the way his shoulders trembled against you—the harder it became to hold yourself together.

His hand was still clinging to your clothes, fingers twisted into the fabric so tightly that you were sure the wrinkles in your shirt would never come out.

But as he continued speaking, something in the back of your mind stirred, and it hit you like a slap.

Spencer wasn’t sober yet.

The paramedics had warned you. They had told you that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. That the drugs still lingered in his system, and that within the next hour, he’d likely start feeling the withdrawals. His shaking wasn’t just from fear or trauma—it was the first signs of what was to come.

Spencer stopped talking.

His words trailed off before he got to the part where he’d killed Tobias Hankel.

He was so shaky in your arms now, and you could feel the tension in his muscles, like he was about to collapse, like his body couldn’t handle any more of this. You weren’t even entirely sure how you were managing to hold him up. Your own legs felt weak, your arms trembling from the strain, but you kept him steady, keeping him as close to you as you could.

You stayed the entire night. Not that you could sleep anyway.

He was still in your arms when you went to bed, his body trembling against you, and you were doing your best to stay calm. Your hand continued to gently brush through his hair, a small, consistent motion that, in some way, calmed both of you. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body was fighting against the withdrawal.

The withdrawals were bad. Worse than you had imagined.

Spencer was trying so hard. You could see it in his face—tight with strain, eyes glazed with discomfort, tears streaking down his face, though he didn’t make a sound. His body was shaking uncontrollably now.

The tears that streaked down his cheeks broke something inside of you. But you didn’t let go. You wiped them away with your thumb, whispering soft reassurances even though you weren’t sure if he could hear you, even though you weren’t sure if they made a difference.

It was hard. Watching him go through this, knowing how much pain he was in. How much more he still had to face.

But you also knew that if he could fight through this, even just tonight, it would mean everything.

The night stretched on like that.

One moment he was burning up, his skin fever-hot beneath your palms. The next, he was shaking violently. You smoothed back his damp hair, murmuring nonsense comforts against his temple as he curled into you, his fingers digging into your waist.

"I'm here," you whispered for what felt like the hundredth time, pressing a kiss to his head. "You're doing so good, Spencer. So good."

Somewhere around 3 AM, he'd stopped fighting consciousness.

The moment his body finally gave out had been both heartbreaking and relieving - his muscles going slack all at once, his head lolling heavily against your shoulder. You'd adjusted carefully, shifting just enough to pull the blanket over his shaking limbs without disturbing him.

Now, with morning creeping through the blinds, you studied the way the light caught on the healing cut above his eyebrow, the bruises along his jawline turning from angry purple to dull yellow at the edges. Your thumb hovered over them, not touching, just tracing the air above the evidence of his suffering.

You watched the way his eyelashes fluttered with dreams you hoped weren't violent, the way his lips parted slightly with each exhale.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position. His fingers, even in sleep, twitched against the fabric of your shirt, as if making sure you were still there.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, watching over him, listening to his breaths as morning slowly filled the room.

Eventually, you felt yourself start to drift, your exhaustion finally catching up to you.

But just before sleep could pull you under, Spencer stirred. His voice was barely audible, hoarse from everything his body had endured.

“…You’re still here?”

The words were so soft, so vulnerable, that they nearly shattered you.

You tightened your hold on him, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple.

“Always,” you whispered.

And with that, he sighed—a slow, tired sound yet filled with relief.

The road back to normal wasn’t easy—not by a long shot. If anything, there were more nights like that one than you could’ve prepared for.

Nights filled with restless sleep, quiet tears, and Spencer clinging to you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality. Healing didn’t come in a straight line.

But slowly—so slowly—it got better.

There were mornings when he smiled before he even opened his eyes. Afternoons when you caught him humming to himself while flipping through one of his worn-out paperbacks. Little things.

Beautiful, quiet victories.

And then, one day, without thinking, you found yourself teasing him again when he followed you from room to room like a lost puppy—hovering behind you as you made coffee, bumping into you in the hallway, trailing your every step just to stay close.

He blushed, like he always did, and mumbled something about spatial awareness. But when you laughed and tugged him close, he smiled for real—soft and shy, but full of something that hadn’t been there for a long time.

Hope.

[dorcas4meadowes]

i don't know about you guys but ever since i saw sarah cameron in her lil pink button up shirt and dungarees i haven't been able to get it out of my mind. like i think about it constantly and how fucking cute she looks. she is literally the epitome of girlfriend and i love her so much. need to give her a million cuddles and kisses ᡣ𐭩

[dorcas4meadowes]

hey everyone it's Nikki blonsky from the movie hairspray coming to tell u that I love jemily and they're so in love

[dorcas4meadowes]

why are the only Sarah Cameron fics smut bffr 🔫

(Not complaining, but like ah)

[dorcas4meadowes]

no offence but i can tell by your smut fics if you’re a virgin

[dorcas4meadowes]

THIS WAS LIKE A YEAR AGO BUT

mitski songs that make me think of reid + a specific lyric

spencer reid is very mitski. but these were the first to come to mind. i do not take criticism.

- working for the knife

honestly, the entire song reminds me of reid, but this in particular:

I always thought the choice was mine

And I was right, but I just chose wrong

I start the day lying and end with the truth

That I'm dying for the knife

- liquid smooth

I'm liquid smooth, come touch me, too

I'm at my highest peak, I'm ripe

About to fall

How I feel this river rushing through my veins

With nowhere else to go, it circles 'round

- class of 2013

Mom, would you wash my back?

This once, and then we can forget

And I'll leave what I'm chasing

For the other girls to pursue

Mom, am I still young?

Can I dream for a few months more?

- i don't smoke

Just don't leave me alone

Wondering where you are

I am stronger than you give me

Credit for

If your hands need to break

More than trinkets in your room

You can lean on my arm

As you break my heart

- abbey

again, the entire song is very reid, but:

I am something

I have been something

I was born something

What could I be?

There is a light that I can see

But only, it seems, when there's darkness in me

There is a dream that I sometimes see

That only appears in the dark of sleep

- i bet on losing dogs

Will you let me, baby, lose

On losing dogs

I know they're losing and I'll pay for my place

By the ring

Where I'll be looking in their eyes when they're down

I wanna feel it

I bet on losing dogs

I always want you when I'm finally fine

- the deal

Then of course, nothing replied, nothing speaks to you in the night

And I walked my way home, there was no one in sight

Save a bird perched upon a streetlight, watchin' me

So, I stopped and let it watch 'til I found that it said

"Now I'm taken, the night has me

You won't hear me singin'

You're a cage without me

Your pain is eased, but you'll never be free for

Now I'm taken, the night has me"

- fireworks

this is perhaps one of the reid-est. here's the particular lyric:

One morning this sadness will fossilize

And I will forget how to cry

I'll keep going to work and you won't see a change

Save perhaps a slight gray in my eye

I will go jogging routinely

Calmly and rhythmically run

And when I find that a knife's sticking out of my side

I'll pull it out without questioning why

- i don't like my mind

again, the entire song is reid, but this is my pick:

I don't like my mind, I don't like being left alone in a room

With all its opinions about the things that I've done

So, yeah, I blast music loud, and I work myself to the bone

And on an inconvenient Christmas, I eat a cake

- first love / late spring

very cliché, but i HAD to include it! here:

And I was so young when I behaved 25

Yet now, I find I've grown into a tall child

And I don't wanna go home

Let me walk to the top of the big night sky

- there's nothing left for you

You could touch fire

You could fly

It was your right

It was your life

And then it passed

To someone new

It'll keep passin' on

Long after you

- nobody

And I don't want your pity

I just want somebody near me

Guess I'm a coward

I just want to feel alright

- because dreaming costs money, my dear

I once lived in the sea

Bring me to your ear, you can hear

The tide where I used to be

Though now I'm but a shell

- a pearl

Sorry, I don't want your touch

It's not that I don't want you

Sorry, I can't take your touch

It's just that I fell in love with a war

Nobody told me it ended

And it left a pearl in my head

And I roll it around every night

Just to watch it glow

Every night, baby, that's where I go

- real men

Real men keep cool in the face of a fire

Go down with the ship

And real men don't eat

'Cause they're above that, damn it

Oh, I'm gonna be a real man

- crack baby

It's been a long, hard 20 year summer vacation

Both these 20 years tryna fill the void

Crack baby, you don't know what you want

But you know that you had it once

And you know that you want it back

Crack baby, you don't know what you want

But you know that you're needing it

And you know that you need it bad

[dorcas4meadowes]

spencer reid + his crutches in season 5

[dorcas4meadowes]

the team meeting aaron's lawyer!wife who's personality is similar to his + she's the best in her field

Langston & Bell | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Lawyer wife!reader | WC: 1.2k | CW: Not really anything except for a little law jargon and mentions of a case the BAU is working on.

A/N: My brain hurts from looking up law terminology, and I'm not even sure if I used all the words correctly

The glass doors of Langston & Bell opened as Hotch led the rest of his team inside. The air felt heavy—as they entered—from the scent of freshly brewed coffee and a faint lemony aroma.

The firm itself was one of the most prestigious ones in all of Virginia, and its reputation suited it. Everything about the space was designed to impress—shining marble floors in the lobby, towering bookshelves filled with thick leather-bound volumes of law books and journals, and abstract art that screamed of a space aimed to do business with rich and pretentious people.

Emily glanced around, clearly trying to process how they’d ended up here. “Langston & Bell?” she muttered under her breath. “Isn’t this place out of our league?”

“They’re not dealing with criminal justice,” Spencer pointed out. “They specialize in corporate litigation and high-profile estate law. The firm is known for taking on cases that require absolute discretion.” Emily tried her best not to roll her eyes at Spencer's outburst of knowledge but failed.

Hotch didn’t respond, he kept his pace steady as he approached the front desk. His usual stone-faced demeanor was on full display, his features—although set not completely in a frown—were unreadable. He seemed unbothered by the hushed stares they received from the staff as they had entered with their badges held out in front of them.

The receptionist, a young woman with a straight posture and a sharp smile, greeted them. “Good afternoon. How may I assist you?”

Hotch stepped forward, his voice even. “We’re with the FBI. We’re looking for the attorney who handled the probate case for Samuel Larkin.”

The receptionist’s fingers danced quickly over her keyboard, her expression unchanged. “That would be Attorney Hotchner.”

Dead silence.

Emily blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say Hotchner?”

“Yes,” the receptionist replied, unfazed, almost on the brink of annoyance. “Would you like me to see if she’s available?”

“She,” Morgan echoed, his brows furrowing a little as his gaze flipped from the receptionist to Hotch.

Before anyone could recover from their shock, the sound of sharp heal clicks echoed through the lobby.

“Aaron,” came a clear voice from behind. “If this is your idea of surprising me, I’ll admit it’s more creative than flowers. But I have a deposition in thirty minutes.”

The team turned as one, their collective gazes landing on the woman who had just entered the room. You were dressed in a tailored navy suit that emphasized your poised demeanor. Your expression was both curious and faintly amused as your eyes locked on Hotch.

“Counselor,” he greeted smoothly, his tone carrying a subtle warmth that the team rarely heard.

“Counselor?” Rossi asked, a slow grin forming as his gaze flicked between you and Hotch.

Your lips quirked up in a small smile as you approached, your heels clicking against the marble with each step. “I assume this is your team?”

“It is,” Hotch confirmed.

You turned your attention to the group, giving them a brief once-over with an expression that wasn’t unkind but clearly measured. “Well, where are my manners? I’m Y/N Hotchner, senior litigation partner here at Langston & Bell. And yes, I can see the wheels turning in all your heads.”

Morgan crossed his arms, already grinning. “Oh, I’ve got a lot of questions right now.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Feel free to ask them, Agent Morgan. I’ve been cross-examined by some of the sharpest minds in the country—I’m sure I can handle you.”

JJ stepped forward, clearly trying to keep her surprise in check. “Wait, you’re married?”

You tilted your head toward Hotch, your expression softening just a fraction. “You didn’t tell them?”

“It never came up,” Hotch replied with a shrug, though the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes didn’t escape you.

You shook your head, exhaling a soft laugh. “Aaron’s great at compartmentalizing, isn’t he? Well, to officially answer your question—yes, I’m his wife. And judging by your expressions, this is news to you.”

“Big news,” Emily muttered, still processing.

Hotch cleared his throat, subtly redirecting the conversation. “We need access to the probate records for Samuel Larkin. Anything that might help us build our case.”

Your demeanor shifted instantly, professionalism overtaking the playful edge. “Aaron, you know I can’t just hand over client information without a court order.”

“We’re only asking for publicly available records,” he clarified.

You studied him for a moment, a silent exchange passing between you. Then you turned to your assistant, who stood nearby. “Jane, pull the Larkin docket and bring me all publicly filed documents. Annotate them if you have time, and leave them on my desk before your shift ends.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jane replied, already moving toward the elevator.

“You always find a way around the rules,” Hotch said, his voice was low but carrying a note of fondness.

“And you love that about me,” you shot back with a wink, your eyes glinting with mischief.

Morgan leaned closer to Emily, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. “I don’t know what’s more surprising—the fact that he’s married, the fact that she's a lawyer, or the fact that she might be scarier than him.”

Although Jane hadn't gone through the records yet, she sent you a digital copy as soon as she had found them. You walked the team through them with ease. Every legal term you used was calculated, giving away as little about your client as you could, while still helping your husband and his team. You made sure to translate every dense legal jargon into actionable insights every time you saw one of their faces pull an expression.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a transaction on the financial statement. “These wire transfers are from an offshore account linked to Larkin. It’s not evidence of criminal activity, but it raises enough red flags to warrant further investigation.” If Larkin found out you had helped the feds, you could be in big trouble, you thought as you revealed the account.

Spencer leaned in, his eyes lighting up with understanding. “If we trace the accounts, we might uncover a connection to our unsub.”

“Precisely,” you replied, offering him a small nod of approval.

By the time the team wrapped up, they had everything they needed to move forward. As they gathered their materials, you leaned against the edge of the table, folding your arms as you looked at Hotch.

“Dinner at seven?” you asked, your voice softer, the edge of professionalism giving way to something more personal.

“Seven,” he confirmed, his tone lighter than usual.

You smiled, leaning in just enough to lower your voice. “Try not to scare anyone off before then, okay?”

“No promises,” he replied, his lips twitching upward in the faintest of smiles.

As the team exited the building, Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “She is definitely scarier than Hotch”

Emily grinned. “I think I like her better.”

“I like her too,” Rossi added with a chuckle.

Hotch walked ahead, the faint smile still playing on his lips, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The team had seen enough to know he’d married his perfect match—an equal who could still challenge him enough to keep him on his toes.

[dorcas4meadowes]

my beautiful, unproblematic, feminist, never wrong queen. I hope you're doing well where ever you are. I miss you so much, you are so loved by me.