prestigereid

[prestigereid]

needle — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and spencer take your daughter to get her first vaccine, which unexpectedly turns into a nightmare. and spencer finds himself on the spot, having to face a needle for the first time in over a decade. content warnings: dad!spencer, lots of mentions of needles/ vaccines and drawing blood, descriptions of spencer's dilaudid addiction, some tears, spencer and his daughter are both faced with a needle, please let me know if i missed anything a/n: hazel is back <3 i missed her.

Spencer’s leg bounced up and down almost uncontrollably as he held Hazel in his lap. She clung to his neck, her small hands gripping the collar of his shirt, and let out a soft giggle that made him smile.

She was a bright spot of color in the waiting room, utterly oblivious to the reason for your visit, focused only on the silly faces her father was making. You smiled softly as you sat beside Spencer in the small waiting room of the doctor’s office.

You’d offered a vague, sunny explanation to your daughter about “the doctor making sure she’s extra strong.” But you weren’t entirely sure how she would react when it came time for the needle. Hence Spencer’s mission: to pre-load as much joy as possible into her tiny body before you were called.

Spencer's smile was wide as he looked at Hazel but tight at the edges. He tickled her side gently, and her head fell back, a waterfall of baby-soft hair brushing his chin as she giggled again.

Before he knew it, she spotted her salvation: a small wooden horse in the far corner, its paint chipped by a generation of anxious children. With a wiggle, she launched herself from Spencer’s lap, her little legs carrying her toward the toy.

The sudden absence of her weight seemed to startle Spencer. He sagged back against the chair with a long sigh.

You shifted closer. “She’ll be fine, Spence,” you murmured, brushing your hand over the tense cord of muscle in his forearm.

He didn’t look away from Hazel, who was now enthusiastically rocking the horse, whispering secret instructions to it. “Yeah. I know,” he mumbled, the words automatic. Finally, he turned, and his soft brown eyes met yours. “I just hope she won’t cry.”

His hand came up to fuss with a loose button on your cardigan you hadn’t even noticed was undone. It was such a Spencer thing to do, to find a tangible, solvable problem to fix when an emotional, unpredictable one loomed large.

You followed his gaze back to Hazel, your own smile faltering. You didn’t have an answer for him. Without conscious thought, your fingers began to worry at your thumbnail.

Spencer’s hand covered both of yours, stilling their frantic motion. He laced his fingers through yours, his thumb stroking a soothing pattern over your knuckles.

“You know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes fixed on Hazel so you wouldn’t have to see his reaction, “I can just go in with her. Alone.”

His eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. He was silent for a moment, processing the offer, reading the subtext of your picked-at nails and averted gaze. He squeezed your hands, pulling your joined fists gently into his lap until you were forced to look at him.

“No,” he said. “I want to come in with you.” Before he could say anything else, Hazel launched herself at your legs.

“Look! They have a blue horse!” Hazel announced. She beamed up at you.

You leaned down, gently pushing her soft hair away from her forehead. “Wow! It's such a nice blue,” you smiled, your voice warm. “It’s adorable.”

Hazel nodded with grave seriousness, tasting the new word. “Adorable.”

The moment was shattered by the door opening. A nurse with a kind face and warm eyes peered into the waiting room. “Hazel Reid?”

Your heart leapt into your throat. You stood on slightly unsteady legs. In one fluid, practiced motion, Spencer gently pried the blue wooden horse from Hazel’s grasp and swept her up into his arms before she could process the transition. She went willingly, settling against his hip, her head tucked into the familiar space between his shoulder and neck.

You fell into step behind them, following the nurse down a short, brightly decorated hallway and into the smaller examination room. Spencer sat on the edge of the paper-covered bed, settling Hazel securely on his lap.

The nurse offered another reassuring smile. “The doctor will be with you in just a moment.”

“Okay, thank you,” you nodded, your voice sounding thin in the quiet room. The door clicked shut, and the three of you were alone.

Hazel, who had been so brave moments before, grew still and quiet. The only sound was the soft rustle of the paper beneath them. “Will it hurt?”

You both froze for a fraction of a second, your eyes meeting over her head. Spencer’s expression was heartbreaking. He brushed a large, gentle hand over her back.

“No-no, it won’t,” he murmured. It wasn't quite a lie; it was a hope, a wish sent out into the universe. He was hoping for a skilled doctor and his daughter’s resilience. You offered a weak, encouraging smile, but the knot in your stomach tightened.

The door opened again, and the doctor entered, armed with a small tray that held the inevitable. She chatted brightly, helping Spencer position a now-wary Hazel on the bed. The moment her back touched the crinkling paper, it began.

It started as a low whimper, then erupted into full-bodied, terrified sobs. “No! No, Daddy!” she cried, her small hands clutching desperately at his shirt, her legs kicking in protest. Every cry was a physical blow to you both.

You both moved in soothing words, stroking her hair, holding her hand. But her fear was a fortress. It went on for what felt like an eternity. The doctor finally sat back in her chair, giving you a moment, her expression one of patient understanding.

Spencer’s face was filled with anguish. He looked from Hazel’s face to yours, his brilliant mind clearly racing for a solution that could stop this pain. Finding none, he did the only thing he could. He gathered her up and held her tightly against him, rocking gently, whispering nonsense into her hair, his own eyes squeezed shut against the sound of her distress. The sight broke your heart just as much as Hazel’s cries did.

After a while, Spencer set Hazel back down. Just as the doctor moved to try again, causing Hazel to immediately tear up again, a thoughtful look crossed her face. She leaned down, putting herself at Hazel’s eye level.

“You know what, Hazel?” she said, her voice conspiratorial.

Hazel looked up, her lower lip trembling.

“I saw your dad’s file,” the doctor continued, her tone light. “And you know what? He’s definitely due for a Complete Blood Count, too. It’s a very important test.” She glanced up at Spencer with a friendly, utterly oblivious smile. “If he does the needle with you, would you be brave and do it, too?”

Hazel’s sobs hiccupped to a stop. She blinked, processing this new, fascinating information. The world had suddenly become fair. She nodded, a slow, serious bob of her head.

Neither she nor the well-meaning doctor noticed the way the color drained from Spencer’s face, or how your entire body froze. The room seemed to tilt.

“What do you think, Dad? Teamwork?” the doctor asked, still completely unaware of the sheer, cold terror she had just invoked.

There was a reason Spencer’s medical file was years out of date. There was a reason he meticulously avoided anything that reminded him of the sting of a needle. A ghost of a feeling that could too easily bring back the phantom taste of Dilaudid and the crushing shame of his addiction. He had built walls, routines, a life meticulously designed to keep all things "spiky" at a permanent distance. And now, he was cornered.

Hazel looked at her dad, her big, trusting eyes blinking away the last of her tears. It was that look, the pure, unshakable faith that her daddy could do anything, that broke him. Before his rational mind could scream a protest, his head was nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Teamwork.”

“Excellent!” the doctor chirped, completely missing the strain in his voice. “I’ll be right back with what we need.” She left the room, and the silence she left behind was deafening.

The three of you were frozen. The only movement was Spencer’s hand, repeatedly, almost compulsively, brushing the hair from Hazel’s damp forehead. Hazel, pacified by the sudden turn of events, had laid back on the crinkling paper, her eyes fixed on the cartoon planets slowly turning above her, placed there to distract children from precisely this kind of agony.

You finally found your voice. “Spencer, I can run out and tell her not to do it. I-I’m sure—I’m sure I’m missing some blood test, too. I’ll do it. I’ll do it with her.” Your hand rubbed frantic, soothing circles on his back, feeling the rigid tension coiled in his muscles.

Spencer’s eyes remained locked on Hazel before slowly shifting to you. He shook his head. “No. It’s fine,” he whispered, the words sounding hollow.

“Spencer.” You said just his name, filled with every ounce of your fear and love and understanding.

He froze, finally truly looking at you, and you saw the raw fear in his gaze, the ghost of the man he used to be staring back at you.

“Hazel,” you whispered, leaning closer so your words were for him alone, “won’t think anything if I just did the test instead of you. I promise you, honey. It’s okay.”

Spencer shook his head again, his movements becoming more deliberate as he focused on fixing the hem of Hazel’s tiny shirt, which had ridden up during her crying fit. “No, i-it’s necessary to know about my blood count. Very important for my health,” he whispered, parroting the doctor’s words like a mantra, trying to logic his way through the panic.

You bit your lip hard enough to sting, a wave of cold regret washing over you. You regretted every single decision that had led to this exact moment. You had told him, repeatedly, that you would take Hazel alone. But no. He had been so persistent, taking the day off, determined to be there for every part of fatherhood, even the hard parts. If you had just put your foot down, if you had just stuck with your initial plan, he wouldn't be here now, white-knuckled and fighting a battle you both thought he’d won long ago.

Soon enough, the doctor returned. She guided a now-curious Hazel to sit on the very edge of the paper-covered bed, right next to her father. Spencer’s every muscle was locked in a fight-or-flight response he was desperately suppressing.

As the doctor prepared the vial and the tourniquet, you stepped closer. Your voice was soft. “Which arm, Spence?” You didn't want the doctor to choose.

He hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. The choice felt monumental, a decision with decades of weight behind it. “Left,” he finally mumbled, the word barely audible.

Hazel watched, utterly captivated, as you carefully pushed the soft wool of his sweater sleeve up to his elbow, revealing the pale, vulnerable skin of his inner arm. You both wore masks of calm for your audience of one, but your eyes met for a fleeting second, and in that glance, feelings of anxiety were exchanged.

Once his arm was bared, you took a step back, lifting Hazel onto your hip so she had a perfect view.

The doctor smiled warmly at Hazel. “See? Your dad’s being so brave. There’s nothing to worry about at all.” She began narrating her steps in a cheerful, singsong voice. “Just a little pinch, like a mosquito…”

Spencer offered a weak, strained smile in your and Hazel’s direction, a performance worthy of an Emmy. He even managed to add a quiet, shaky comment. “She’s… she’s right. Just a… a quick pinch.” His voice sounded foreign.

When the doctor finally picked up the needle, your heart hammered against your ribs. You leaned your head close to Hazel’s. “Hold Daddy’s hand, sweetie. He’s being so brave. He’d love that.”

It was a masterstroke. One to help him calm down. Even if just for a moment. Spencer’s hand shot out, his long fingers enveloping Hazel’s tiny one with a gentleness that belied the white-knuckle grip you knew he wanted to use.

And then it happened. The sting as the needle pierced his skin and found its mark.

Spencer’s breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound. You could see the fine sheen of sweat instantly beading on his upper lip and temples. His smile remained fixed on Hazel, but it was a brittle thing. His eyes, however, had gone distant, seeing not the bright pediatric room but the grim, sterile corners of a past life.

The sensation was a key, unlocking a door he had welded shut more than a decade ago. You could feel his internal panic. The calculation of his own pounding heart rate, the phantom itch in the crook of his other arm, the memory of a chemical warmth that promised oblivion.

You were close to tears yourself, your own smile feeling just as fragile as you watched him endure this private hell for his little girl.

Hazel, oblivious to everything, watched with wide, fascinated eyes, seeing only his brave smile. She saw her hero being strong.

And then, mercifully, it was over. The doctor slid the needle out, pressing a cotton ball to the spot. “All done! See? That was so fast!”

Spencer didn’t immediately move. He just sat there, breathing slowly and deliberately, his gaze slowly focusing, pulling back from the edge of memory and firmly into the present, into the room, into the eyes of his little girl who thought he was the bravest man in the world. He had done it.

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Spencer received his bandage, and the doctor offered the basket to Hazel. She chose a bright, cartoon-covered plaster, her tiny fingers fumbling as she “helped” press it over the small dot of blood on her father’s arm.

You stood silently, before gently settling Hazel on the bed for her turn. The moment she was positioned, Spencer stood up too quickly, a slight sway to his stance. He stepped into your space, his hand reaching for yours in a blind, desperate grab. You immediately took it, lacing your fingers through his and squeezing hard. You felt the tension in his shoulders drop a fraction.

He then turned his focus entirely to Hazel, slowly letting go of your hand. He pulled up the sleeve of her tiny sweatshirt on one side while you took the other, your hands brushing over her soft skin. “Look at me, sweetheart,” you murmured. “Just like Daddy. One quick pinch.”

The doctor was quick. It was over in a second, and Hazel’s surprised blink quickly morphed into a giggle as she was presented with her own basket of bandages. She chose a sparkly pink one. “That didn’t hurt!” she grinned triumphantly, her earlier tears completely forgotten as she accepted a lollipop from the beaming doctor.

You swept her into your arms, holding her close. This also gave Spencer a moment to turn away and take a deep breath, to recover from the violation of the needle.

“Daddy was right,” Hazel mumbled around the candy, already getting sticky, as she leaned her head against your shoulder and watched her father.

The doctor finished packing her things and Spencer turned back to you, his composure mostly regained. He offered Hazel a smile that, for the first time since they’d entered the room, reached his eyes. “You were so brave, Hazel. I am so very, very proud of you.”

“You were brave too,” she mumbled back, the words slightly slurred by the sucker in her cheek.

You looked at Spencer, your heart swelling. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice full of a meaning only he would understand. “Daddy was incredibly brave.”

Soon enough, you were released back into the world. The bright, ordinary sunlight outside the office felt surreal. You buckled a sleepy, sugar-crashing Hazel into her car seat, deftly swapping the lollipop for her favorite stuffed toy. You couldn't let her eat alone in the backseat. You closed her door.

As Spencer moved toward the driver’s side, you caught his elbow gently. “Spence. Come here for a second.”

He stopped and turned to face you, the bright sun highlighting his still pale skin.

“Are you okay?” you asked as you brushed a hand over the sleeve of his sweater, right over the bandage hidden beneath.

He nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yes. It was for Hazel. It’s fine.” It was the same mantra, a shield against his own feelings.

You furrowed your eyebrows, your gaze searching his, ready to push, to tell him it was okay not to be fine. But before you could, he leaned in, cutting off your concern with a firm press of his lips to yours. “I’m fine, I promise,” he whispered against your mouth, his breath warm.

You searched his eyes for a long moment. Finally, you nodded.“Okay.”

The drive home was silent. Hazel was asleep in the back. Your attention, however, was fixed on Spencer. His right hand was tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, but his left hand kept straying. At every red light, his fingers would drift to the inside of his elbow, pressing down on the bandage hidden under his sleeve with almost punishing pressure. It was as if he was testing the reality of the sensation, trying to overwrite the ghost of the needle with a more controllable kind of pain.

Each time he did it, you reached over without a word and laid your hand gently over his, stilling the movement. He would blink, his shoulders relaxing a minuscule amount, and return his hand to the wheel until the next stop brought the compulsion back.

You finally pulled into the driveway and you unbuckled quickly. “I’ve got her,” you said softly, already opening your door. “Go on inside and change. I’ll get her changed and settled.”

You knew him. You knew the look in his eyes. He was in no state to manage the task of caring for a toddler right now.

He just nodded, the movement jerky. He leaned into the back, pressing a quick, fervent kiss to Hazel’s sleeping cheek before practically fleeing into the house, heading straight for the sanctuary of your bedroom.

Spencer sometimes needed to recalibrate in solitude, to process the overwhelming static in his mind. It broke your heart, but you gave him the space he needed, even though every instinct screamed to follow him.

You lifted a drowsy Hazel into your arms, carrying her into the house and to her room. You chose a long-sleeved sweater for her, a strategic move to keep the tempting bandage out of sight and out of mind. When you asked if she was hungry, she just shook her head, her eyes already seeking out the plushies on her bed. You smiled, pressing a kiss to her crown. “I’m just in the other room, okay ?”

She barely acknowledged you, already in a conversation with her stuffed bunny. You quickly swept her hair into a loose ponytail to keep it from bothering her and slipped out, leaving her door wide open so you could hear her every murmur.

You approached your bedroom door, which was shut. Slowly, you pushed it open.

The sight was exactly what you’d feared, yet it still broke your heart into a thousand pieces. Spencer was on the floor, his back against the side of the bed, knees drawn up. He was just sitting there, utterly still, one hand pressed hard against the inside of his elbow as he stared at a fixed point on the wall opposite, seeing nothing. He looked hollowed out.

You closed the door behind you softly, leaving it open just a crack to maintain your lifeline to Hazel. You walked over and lowered yourself to the floor beside him, your shoulder brushing against his.

After a long while, a broken whisper cut through the quiet. “I’m sorry.”

You turned your head to look at him. His eyes were still fixed on that empty point on the wall, refusing to meet your gaze.

“Hazel reacted so well at the end,” he continued, his voice thin with shame. “And I… I ruined it. I made it about me.”

Your heart cracked. “Spencer, look at me,” you said softly. He hesitated, then slowly turned his head, his wide hazel eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. Not a single thing. You were so brave.”

You reached out, gently brushing the stray curls from his damp forehead. “What you did today wasn’t easy. It was the opposite of easy.” You held his gaze, making sure he heard every word. “But you pushed through it. You faced one of your biggest fears, head-on, for your little girl.” A single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his pale cheek. You caught it with your thumb, your touch feather-light. “I will never fully understand what that felt like for you, the memories it dragged up. But I know that what you did was huge.”

You let a note of warm pride seep into your voice, the same tone you used when marveling at Hazel’s accomplishments. “And look at the result. Look at her. She did so great. She was brave because her father was brave first. Not a single tear was shed because you showed her how.”

A faint, fragile smile touched his lips, there and gone in an instant.

“I am so incredibly proud of you, Spencer,” you whispered, brushing away another tear. “And I am so sorry you were put in that situation without any warning. That wasn’t fair.”

He leaned into your palm, the gesture one of utter exhaustion and seeking comfort. “It was gonna happen either way,” he mumbled, a weak attempt at the logical deflection he always used. Medical tests were inevitable.

“But you weren’t prepared,” you countered gently. “You didn’t have your walls up. You didn’t have time to… to arm yourself. There’s a difference, and we both know it.”

At that, he seemed to truly sag, the last of his defensive energy leaving him in a long, shuddering sigh. It was a relief, in a strange way. He was so used to being the strong one, the smart one who had everything figured out and under control. He was the one who persisted that everything was ‘fine’ long past the point of breaking. To have you see through it, to acknowledge the struggle without letting him minimize it, was a profound comfort. You weren’t buying his act, and in this moment, he was too tired to keep performing it.

“You did so well,” you whispered again.

Spencer closed his eyes, finally letting your words sink in, replacing the harsh internal narrative of failure with the truth of your unwavering belief in him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You offered a soft, reassuring smile. Then, without a word, you slowly moved your hand from his face, your fingers trailing down his arm until they gently closed over his own, still pressing into the tender skin of his elbow. You didn't scold or pull; you simply laid your hand over his, a silent request for him to cease the self-punishment.

He immediately stilled, his tense fingers going slack beneath yours. He let out a shaky breath, leaning his head back against the side of the bed. Instead of retreating, his hand turned, his long fingers lacing tightly through yours.

You sat together in the comfortable quiet, the only sound the distant murmur of Hazel playing in her room.

“She really did well,” Spencer mumbled, the words less heavy with guilt now, more filled with a father’s dawning wonder.

You smiled softly, turning your head to look at his profile. “Yeah. She had a great person to look up to.”

A genuine smile touched his lips. “I can’t believe I have a unicorn plaster on my arm,” he mumbled, and the sheer absurdity of it broke the last of the tension.

You giggled. “It’s cute.”

Spencer chuckled. He turned his head fully toward you, and for a long moment, you just looked at each other. In his deep, expressive eyes, you saw the ghost of the panic finally receding, replaced by profound gratitude.

Spencer felt like his heart might burst. The last hour had been a terrifying slide toward a past he never wanted to revisit. But just sitting here on the floor, holding your hand, hearing your belief in him, it made the world right itself. Did he still feel the touch of the needle and the pain of suppressed memories? Yes. But they were faint and powerless against the present reality of your love.

You had stayed with him through the darkest days of his addiction, and you were here now, in the aftermath of a different kind of battle.

He brought his free hand up, brushing his knuckles gently over the curve of your cheek. Your own heart, which had been clenched with fear and guilt, now fluttered with hope. Seeing a genuine smile grace his features was the only balm you needed.

Spencer leaned in slowly, closing the small space between you, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered against your mouth.

You smiled, your forehead resting against his. “I love you too, Spencer.”

You leaned in again, meeting his lips in another, longer kiss. Spencer smiled into the kiss, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. But before either of you could get lost in the moment, the door flew open with a dramatic slam, hitting the doorstop.

You both startled apart, turning wide-eyed toward the interruption. There, in the doorway, stood Hazel, her favorite stuffed bunny clutched to her chest, her head cocked in curiosity.

“Why are you on the floor?” she asked, her tone implying this was the strangest parental behavior she’d witnessed all day. She padded into the room, her little feet silent on the carpet, and launched herself into Spencer’s lap.

He caught her with a soft “Oof!” but his arms immediately wrapped around her, settling her against his chest. “We’re just talking, honey,” he murmured. He buried his face in her hair, pressing a dozen quick, smacking kisses all over her head and neck.

Hazel squirmed and giggled. “Tickles!” she squealed.

You sat there watching them, your heart so full it felt like it might overflow. You weren't the slightest bit bothered by the interrupted kiss; seeing Spencer with your daughter, the light back in his eyes, was a better intimacy than any kiss could ever be.

He caught your gaze over her shoulder, and the look he gave you made your own heart flutter in response.

“Doesn’t Mommy look so pretty today?” he mumbled into Hazel’s messy hair, his eyes still locked on yours.

Hazel’s head snapped up, her big, serious eyes studying you intently before she gave a definitive nod. “Mhm,” she agreed, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

Spencer’s smile was bright. You chuckled, warmth spreading through your chest. “Well, thank you, both,” you said, utterly disarmed by your little family.

A small silence fell before Hazel made her next announcement. “I’m hungry.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You said you weren’t hungry before,” you reminded her, smiling.

Hazel just shrugged, laying her head back on Spencer’s shoulder with a dramatic pout. “I’m hungry now.”

You couldn’t resist that face. “Well, okay then. Let’s go make some food.”

Hazel cheered, immediately wiggling out of Spencer’s embrace and scrambling to her feet before dashing out of the room toward the kitchen, her plush bunny flying behind her.

Spencer stood up, a little stiff from sitting on the floor, and reached his hand down to pull you up. As you got to your feet, you opened your mouth to ask him what you should make together. He didn’t let you get a word out. He grabbed your face gently and pulled you into one more swift, deep kiss, a silent thank you and I love you all rolled into one. You smiled against his lips, kissing him back.

The moment was beautifully interrupted by a distant, impatient shout from the kitchen. “I want pizza!”

You sighed, letting your hands drop from his face to rest on his chest. Spencer just laughed, the sound light and free of its earlier strain as he took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

“Pizza it is,” he smiled.

[prestigereid]

EMOTIONALLY YOURS ~ S.R

pairing: s2!spencer reid x bau!reader

synopsis: when spencer considers the reality that he’ll be spending a late night at the office, you came to his aid, offering sweet words and lingering touches that make him all the more aware of his growing feelings for you. Though this time, his night ends a little differently.

content: slightly insecure!spencer, gn!reader, mild swearing, kissing, mostly fluff, spencer has some slightly explorative hands (nothing too much for this part👀), no use of y/n.

w/c: 3.2k

authors notes: guys i’m free from my shackles it took me an hour to figure out that HTML shit for gradient text. i tried to use app tumblr for it when desktop ver is sm easier. anyways! first actual fic! ofc i had to name the fic after a bob dylan song cmon now. nervous af to post so please allow any rustiness you may find. proof read but mistakes can and will slip under my radar i’m tired as hell💔💔 part 2 anyone?

It had been 332 days, 14 hours, and 10 minutes since Spencer had fallen head over heels in love with you. From the moment you’d walked into the BAU, not long after Elle’s departure, he was awestruck. By the way you knew how to make his coffee exactly right, which was just two thirds sugar — though you never complained or commented on his sugar intake — to how you’d lean on him in the jet after a case, once furrowed eyebrows now relaxed, your lips parted to allow soft, shallow, sleepy breaths in and out. He thinks, knows, he could write a thesis about you. From your pretty face, to your excellent mind, and to your beating heart, that loves and cares so deeply for others, and thrums with compassion.

He adored your eagerness for knowledge. Always indulging him and his long-winded tangents about the filming process of Charlie Chaplin’s work, and the average number of bacteria in colony-forming units on a human hand. Which is why you’d always ask him for help on your crosswords. You honestly didn’t even need the help half of the time; you enjoyed listening to him talk, watching him light up as he not only gave you the correct answer but also an explanation to go with it. 

“Spence?” You mumbled, chewing on your pen. “Hm, yeah?” Spencer looked away from his files, spinning his chair to face you. God, you were gorgeous, looking over at him with a subtle smile. “Crossword puzzle for you,” You began, “The clue is ‘art and a cost’ for nine letters.” Spencer thought for a moment, pondering the clue, his fingers tracing shapes into his desk as he scoured through his wide vernacular to find a word to fit the criteria. “I believe it’s ‘castrato’.” Spencer smiled. Scribbling in the word with a grateful nod, you closed the book of crosswords, clearly happy. It must have been the last word you needed. “What’s a castrato?” You inquired, wheeling closer to him, and knocking some papers in the process. He immediately reached down to help you, but kept talking, “Castrato is a word of Italian and English origin. It was coined sometime in the 16th century and defined a male singer who was castrated during his childhood. The practice of castration then ensured that their high-pitched voices would carry through to their adulthood, and would remain unchanged by puberty.” 

Spencer let the words flow out of him as if it were second nature to possess all this knowledge (well, to him it was, but not to the majority of the people around him). As the last of the paper was placed onto his desk, his hands were finally free, and thus he began gesturing in very Spencer-like motions, as they did when he was sharing his knowledge. He felt other members of the team sometimes enjoyed, and other times put up with, Spencer and his chronic case of know-it-all-itis. But with you, oh, Spencer didn’t feel that way with you. You listened and hung onto his every last word, constantly returning gratitude with every definition or solved math equation. It made him feel seen and, most definitely, appreciated. You were so sickeningly sweet on him, not that he or you minded, of course. Since knowing you, Spencer had felt more sure of himself. Sure that his limbs weren’t too long or that his glasses weren’t dorky, and sure that at least someone didn’t find his random facts and supposed oddities weird, or annoying, or any negative connotation, for that matter.

“Man, getting your balls cut. Can’t imagine that’s too painless.” You cringed, pulling a slight face. You weren’t one to mince words, something which he’d grown to love about you. He laughed and gave a nod of agreement, “Yes, I’d imagine it would be quite painful.”

As he sat back down in his chair, he glanced at the stack of past case reviews he had yet to finish, and he sorely regretted procrastinating on them, convinced the issue would magically disappear if he left them long enough. He drew in a breath, exhaling it with exhaustion for the night ahead. “It’s 10 PM.” Spencer listened to your words, glancing up at the clock. “Yes, it is. So…” He replied evasively. He knew what you were getting at, “So…you’re usually packing up by now, and I’m, y’know, driving us home?” You were clearly not impressed, looking at him pointedly, brow raised and arms crossed. After finding out Spencer’s commute to and from work meant he had to wake up a whole hour earlier and wait for 30 minutes to get the subway, you had been picking him up since. Besides, he lived a 15-minute drive from your house, which would save him from being late or being sleep-deprived, and you from being lonely in the car. “Oh, I’m just gonna stay late. I have some work to finish.” 

Oh hell no. You weren’t letting him get the subway so late.

“What is it?” You asked, putting your coat onto the back of your chair again. “Just some post case reviews—“ You nodded to the pile of files by his elbow, “Hand me some.” He raised a brow, “What?” Spencer wasn’t above asking for help, but he felt bad for making you stay, though he knew it was of your own accord to do so. You held out a hand expectantly, “You heard me, boy wonder. Pass the papers. The quicker we finish these, the quicker we can both head home.” 

With a grateful nod, he reluctantly handed you a small pile, attempting to sneakily leave himself with the majority of the work so as not to burden you too much, yet you’d noticed almost immediately. 

“I'm not blind, you know. You’ve given me like 15% of the workload. That’s not fair math, Spence.” Spencer attempted to interject, but you were already reaching for more files, and he just let you. He knows how you’d get sometimes, which is very, very stubborn. “It’s fair in my eyes. You shouldn’t have to pick up my slack—“ 

“Spencer.”

Your voice was sweet, soft, his name thick and honeyed on your tongue, heavy with understanding. “I want to. I wanna help. You would do it for me.” His cheeks felt a little warm, though you said nothing. He knew you were right. He would do it for you, ‘it’ being almost anything. It spooked him a little, the depth of his care for you, considering they had only worked together for just shy of a year. “Besides,” you grinned, "The car ride would be too silent without your questionable music choices and endless tangents.” 

“My music taste is not questionable! Not every song needs lyrics. Studies have shown that listening to classical music stimulates focus, which is useful for tasks that require it for long periods, such as driving.” He defended his choice of classical music, and that only made your smile widen and your tone became even more teasing as you wheeled over on your chair to sit next to him, “Ah, so you’re saving me from getting distracted by playing it? Doctor Reid, my hero.”

As you operated at the same table, Spence felt so natural beside you. He pondered a proposition that would ensure all work would be completed like this, shoulders rubbing, arms touching, sharing fleeting glances and timid brushes of hands as one of you reached for another case. When he felt your foot nudge his under the desk, he bit back a smile and glanced back down at his work, but of course, he nudged you in return. The back and forth was a childish one, the reciprocity between each movement, with even a few ‘ow’s and irritated looks, which were laughed off in jest.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The two of you had wrapped up working at around 11 PM, offering a friendly wave and a goodnight to Hotch on the way out, the man still sat at his desk, chipping away at his seemingly ceaseless load of work as Unit Chief. The walk to your car was one spent in casual conversation, one that didn’t involve work. You had set a rule about work, it was never to be discussed, unless necessary, when they weren’t on a case or in the BAU headquarters. While you were distracted fastening your seatbelt, Spencer began digging through the mixed pile of CDs you kept on hand, most of them yours, but a select few were his; the collection of Chopin’s best works, along with Tchaikovsky and Bach. As he looked, he noticed a Bob Dylan CD sat at the bottom of the pile, and looked up at you, “You listen to Bob Dylan?” You turned your head around to check behind you as you reversed out of the parking space, “I don’t. I got it as part of a CD bundle and just never got rid of it.” He made a face of understanding, before opening the case and taking the CD out, “You mind if I play it?” He asked, not wanting to play it if you weren’t feeling it. You, however, just nodded, humming affirmatively.

Spencer inserted the disc and allowed his head to fall back against the headrest, his eyes beginning to wander. He always liked your car; it was so you. From the scent of the fresh linen car freshener, to the blue turtle charm dangling from your rear view mirror, and the egregious number of CDs you had stashed in every compartment of the car. It was a new familiarity, one that was forged through long drives and comfort after tough cases and slowly sharing intimate parts of your life with one another.

As it played, he felt your eyes glancing over to him every so often, whether they were at a stoplight or on a quieter road, “I didn’t know you listened to Bob Dylan. How’d that start?” Your tone was curious, wanting to know who or what got him listening. Spencer fidgeted with his fingers as he spoke, “My mom, actually,” he explained, “She listened to him a lot when I was younger, I know most, if not all of his songs by heart.” Spencer was smiling by the end of that sentence, a wistful sort of smile that yearned for the years with his mother before he had to have her committed to Bennington Sanitarium. “Yeah? That’s cute. He’s got a really talented voice,” He nodded and laughed at her sincere tone and toothy smile, “I'm glad you think so, and yes, he does. That’s a big reason why she loves his music.”

Spencer always felt so at ease talking to you about his personal life; however, he’s a private man by all definitions, and selectively shares things about himself, controlling the perception of himself to others - something he had always been conscious to maintain from a young age in hopes of reducing the bullying and teasing he’d receive at school, and a habit he carried long into adulthood. The rest of the ride was spent in relative silence, spoken only with soft glances and reassuring smiles, and the gentle hums coming from Spencer’s lips as he matched the melody of Dylan’s voice.

The apartment complex came into view, the familiar sight making Spencer’s body relax and anticipate a nice, quiet night cosying up in bed. “Thanks for dropping me off.” He smiled, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door. You didn’t want the interaction; the closeness with him to end, so in a moment of confidence, you glanced up at him, “Want me to walk you to your building?” 

“I’d like that. It’s your fault we couldn’t park closer anyway. You owe me.” He teased with a smile, and you scoffed indignantly, snowballing off of his playful nature. “Can’t believe you’re blaming me. You’re the one who lied and told me there was a shortcut.” He slid both hands into his pockets and watched you as you walked round to his side of the car, and slowly fell into stride with him “There is a shortcut. Maybe you’re going blind.” He reached a hand out, resting his buckles against your temple, using his thumb to raise your brow to mock-inspect your eye. Swatting him away, you chuckle, and Spencer feels so proud. He’s like the cat that got the cream every time he made you giggle. It was the only thing infectious that he would actively put himself within proximity of.

As the two of you made it towards the door to the building, Spencer turned to you, his expression a mix of gratitude and mild embarrassment at what he was confessing. He wasn’t used to anyone going out of their way to help him outside of work, so it took him a moment to gather the words to express his appreciation. “Hey, um, I just wanted to say thank you.” You tilted your head at him, raising your brows slightly, “For what?”

“Y’know, for..everything, really. You’ve gone out of your way to help me a lot since the day we met.” With a wave of dismissal, you spoke, “It’s nothing. You’re not that out of my way.” Spencer, however, held up a hand and begged to differ, “You give me a ride to and from work, despite my route delaying your ETA to work by 15 minutes. You’re always willing to cut my load of work, and you actually listen to my rants without getting annoyed at me or giving me that look to shut the hell up…and you remember what I say. That’s no small feat. It’s more than what most people do, honestly.” His voice was soft and held a hint of self-deprecation, but he maintained eye contact, and he’d confessed how much you meant to him (more or less), so a win is a win in his eyes.

“I love being around you, Spencer. You’re so fucking amazing, and funny, and you teach me things without making me feel like I’m dumb, and help me on my stupid crosswords when I get stuck.” You wrapped your arms around him in a hug, hoping the closeness would amplify the meaning of your words. This, of course, took him by surprise, but by no means was he about to refuse something like this. His cheeks flushed rosy red as you gushed about him, with such genuine affection. He’d spent so much of his life feeling weird and ‘unique,’ a pariah in social situations, yet here you were, hugging him and praising him. You were warm, arms wound around his body like vines around a trellis. A somewhat dumbfounded grin broke out on his face, the pinkish apples of his cheeks making him look giddy. All he could say was a gentle “You... think so?”

“I know so, pretty boy.” 

Spencer nearly lost his mind. The nickname, coined by none other than Derek Morgan himself, felt different in this context. Not fuelled by an incessant need to tease, but by the idea that you truly believed that’s what he is. He chuckled, the sound light and slightly shaky, “You sound like Morgan.” 

“He’s pointing out the obvious.” You simply stated with a shrug, pulling away from the hug to properly face him. He was so pretty. Like picture-perfect pretty. Button nose and doe brown eyes and those fucking glasses that sat perched upon his nose, except for when they didn’t, and you’d watch him push the frames back up the bridge of his nose. You observed his furrowed eyebrows, Spencer knew Derek teased him relentlessly, but he always dismissed it as being all in good, playful humour. But the idea that Derek was simply pointing out the obvious point that he was attractive hadn’t crossed his mind. “Obvious?” He repeated back to you, as if to affirm that was what you had said. “Mhm.” That was the only sound that left your lips as he watched you move closer to him.

“Wait, really? Like, you think—“

He didn’t have time to ponder where his train of thought was going because your lips were on his. You were kissing him! Was this even real? Was he dreaming? He pinched his leg a few times, and yep, this was the real deal. 'Okay, Spencer, chill. Just kiss her back.’

You pulled away after a moment of no response, scrambling for an apology, “I-Im so sorry! I don’t even know what came over me. I'm gonna go, um, goodnight.” Idiot! You’ve ruined a good friendship, all because you let stupid feelings get in the way! You turned and almost skidded on your heel in your attempt to get back to your car, but Spencer’s voice had you halt in your tracks.

“Wait! I’m sorry!”

The almost shout even shocked Spencer, the words shaky and full of emotion. You could barely get your words out through the upset rising in your throat. You were not gonna cry. You were so much more than this. You could take a simple rejection…right?

“Don’t apologise. It was my fault, I…”

“I, I didn’t know what to do! You shocked me. I want to..Can I have a do-over…? Please?” He pleaded, but you haven’t a clue as to why. You would’ve given him a million do-overs if it meant being able to kiss his lips again and again.

“Yeah.”

Relief rolled off of Spencer in waves as you agreed. He had a second chance. He tugged on your wrist, pulling you back to assume your previous position in front of him. He raised his hand, ignoring the slight tremble in favour of cupping your face. “Can I kiss you? Properly this time.”

“Please do. The first one was a mildly painful experience for me.” You lightened the mood with a sniffle, making Spencer huff out an embarrassed laugh. He felt bad that he gave the impression he didn’t want to kiss you, because, quite frankly, it’s what he thinks of more often than any co-worker and friend should. “I promise this one will be better,” he whispered, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. And with that, he leaned in, eyes closed, his nose lightly bumping your cheek as his lips connected with yours.

Kissing Spencer was a whole experience you weren’t prepared for. At first, it was timid, shy, the hand that wasn’t on your face resting very innocently on your hip. But the feeling of the pillowy plush of your lips, and the small, near inaudible noises you were making had Spencer’s confidence climbing. Thus, he began to kiss with more confidence. You were practically on your tiptoes, begging silently for more of his lips, more of him, pushing your eager body into his wanting arms. And he was glad to deliver. For a mild-mannered man, he was kissing so greedily. Respectfully, though. Soft hands roamed your hips and settled dangerously close to your ass, thumbs hooking into your belt loops to keep you snug against his body. Spencer felt hands slide into his hair, mussing the laid-down strands and pulling him deeper into the kiss. He wasn’t sure how long had passed, but he was sure he could die like this and be happy, using his last dregs of oxygen on kissing you. He gently pulled back for a moment, his breathing erratic against your lips, “Better?” 

“Better.” You beamed, pushing his glasses up to sit right on his nose bridge. 

creds to @saradika-graphics for these cute ass dividers!!!!

[prestigereid]

I'VE GOT YOU.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ when spencer leaves you alone in his apartment for the day, the last thing you expect is someone trying to break in. scared and hiding, you call him—and he does everything he can to keep you calm until he gets home to wrap you in his arms

WARNINGS ಇ. panic/fear, attempted break-in, mentions of anxiety, comfort after distress, established relationship, spencer being soft and protective

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,071

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Spencer’s apartment always smelled like old books, coffee, and something distinctly him. A mix of cedarwood and laundry detergent that clung to the furniture and lingered in your hair long after you left. You weren’t planning on leaving anytime soon, though.

The rain tapped gently against the windows, a soothing rhythm that matched the quiet rustle of pages turning in your lap. Spencer’s favorite worn-out quilt was draped over your legs, the one he pretended he didn’t care about but always reached for first on colder nights. It smelled like home.

You were curled up on his couch, your feet tucked beneath you, a half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table—his mug, of course, because it was bigger and the handle fit your fingers just right. A book lay open in your hands, but your eyes weren’t on the words. Not really. You were too wrapped up in the stillness, in the comfort of this space that had slowly become yours as much as his. You stood up to get Spencer's copy of "In Cold Blood". The book was not the kind of book you'd read on such a cozy day, but the annotations Spencer did on the margins always made you amused.

As you walked through the apartment, you noticed the way it was filled with quiet signs of him. Stacks of books organized in that peculiar Spencer way—alphabetical but with side categories only he understood. A chessboard paused mid-game on the shelf. Notes in tiny, cramped handwriting stuck to the fridge with magnets shaped like planets. One of your sweaters was hanging over the back of a chair, and your favorite slippers sat beside the door, right next to his well-worn dress shoes.

You glanced at the clock. Almost time.

Spencer had texted you hours ago that he’d be home late, some case running over again. But knowing him, he’d be apologetic the moment he walked through the door, even though you never minded. You liked being here. Liked knowing he’d come home to you, liked the way it felt to exist in his space, to feel safe in the silence between moments.

You grabbed the book from the nightstand when something made you freeze. A soft sound.

A click.

Not the comforting kind—the door-click you knew by heart, the one Spencer always made when he came home late with tired eyes and soft apologies. This one was different. Slower. Uneven.

Like someone was struggling with the lock.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You turned sharply toward the bedroom door, heart already picking up speed. That couldn't be Spencer. He had keys. He always had keys.

Grabbing your phone with shaky hands, you turned on the small security app he insisted on installing—“just in case,” he’d said.

You tapped into the feed from the hallway camera.

And then your blood went cold.

There, just outside the apartment, was a man. Tall. Hoodie pulled up, face mostly hidden. His hand fumbled with something near the lock—thin metal glinting in the light. Not a key. Definitely not a key.

You stumbled back a step before catching yourself. Your brain spun. Lock the bedroom door? Hide? Call Spencer? The police?

Your thumb hovered over Spencer’s contact, panic rising like bile in your throat. You didn’t want to believe it was happening, not here—not in his safe, quiet space filled with books and mismatched mugs and soft blankets.

The door rattled again. Louder this time. He was trying harder now.

Your thumb hit the call button.

It rang once. Twice.

“Hey, sweetheart,” came his voice, warm and a little tired. You could picture his soft smile, his coat probably still damp from the rain. “I was just about to stop for coffee. Do you want—?”

“Spence.”

Your voice broke like glass.

He stopped mid-sentence. You could hear it—the shift in the air between you. His brain kicking into overdrive.

“Darling?” he said, suddenly alert. “What’s going on?”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “There’s someone at the door. He’s still trying to get in.” You swallowed, eyes flicking to the bedroom door as another soft rattle echoed from the front of the apartment. “I locked the bedroom. I… I pushed a chair in front. I can hear him, Spencer. He’s not going away.”

There was a pause. A very brief one. And then—

“Okay. Listen to me. You’re going to be alright.” His voice dropped into that calm, precise cadence he used in the field, except this time it was soaked in fear. “Stay where you are. Keep quiet. I’m calling the police right now. I’m just five minutes away. You’re not alone, okay?”

Your breathing was shallow, fingers digging into the floor, trying to ground yourself. “He’s jiggling the lock again.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart. Just stay hidden. Don’t hang up.”

There was some rustling on his end. Then a low, urgent murmur—you could tell he was talking to someone, rattling off the address with a speed only he had.

“Officers are en route,” he said quickly, back on the line with you. “And I’m running. I don’t care what the weather’s like. I’m getting to you.”

“Spencer,” you whispered, your voice cracking, “what if—what if he gets in before—?”

“No. No, he won’t. You did everything right. You’re safe in there. I promise. Just keep talking to me, okay?”

You let out a soft sob, muffled into your sleeve. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said, voice suddenly gentler, breaking a little too. “But you’re so brave. You’re the bravest person I know. Just a little longer.”

There was a loud bang from the living room, something knocking over—maybe the umbrella stand. You flinched so hard you nearly dropped the phone.

“Still with me?” Spencer said quickly, his voice tightening.

“Y-Yeah.” You could barely get the word out.

“I’m almost there. Less than a block. I can hear the sirens.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until a tear dripped onto your hand. You squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he said firmly. “I’m with you. Even if I’m not through the door yet. I’m with you, always.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, even though he couldn’t see you.

“Do you remember,” he said gently, “that fact I told you once about Saturn’s rings? How if they were just a little closer, just a few thousand kilometers, they’d break apart completely?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to anchor yourself in the sound of him. “Yeah.”

“But they don’t,” he continued. “They hold. Even with all that gravity pulling and pushing and shifting. They stay exactly where they’re meant to. Just like you’re going to do. You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re holding. You’re not breaking.”

Your breath hitched, a tear slipping down your cheek. “Spence…”

“I’m here. Keep listening. Did you know Venus spins backwards? It’s called retrograde rotation. It’s one of only two planets that does. We used to think something slammed into it to make that happen, but now we’re not so sure. It might’ve always been that way.”

Another footstep outside. You flinched. He heard it too.

“Hey—breathe with me. It’s okay. Just my voice. Nothing else matters right now. Just us.”

You clutched the phone tighter, your eyes locked on the door, but your ears stayed with him.

“And you know what else?” he said softly. “You’re braver than Venus. Because even when the universe throws chaos at you, you don��t spin backwards. You’re facing forward. You’re right here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body slowly sinking to the floor again. The footsteps were still out there, but they felt distant now—like they belonged to another world entirely. Because Spencer’s voice was bigger. Warmer. Steadier.

And then— Voices. Loud ones. A knock. Strong. Measured.

You held your breath. Frozen.

And then—his voice.

“Love, it’s me. It’s Spencer. I’m here. You’re safe now. Please open the door, sweetheart.”

Everything inside you cracked open at once.

The sound of him—gentle, sure, real—was like something breaking through the panic clouding your chest. You scrambled to your feet, practically throwing the chair aside. It clattered loudly to the floor, but you didn’t care. Your hands fumbled over the lock, your breath caught in your throat—

And the moment the door opened, you flew into him.

Spencer barely had time to step inside before you crashed into his chest, arms around his neck, clinging to him like if you let go, everything would fall apart. He caught you instantly, wrapping you up in his arms, holding you tighter than you’d ever been held.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your hair, your cheek. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here now.”

Your fingers clutched at the back of his coat, and your face was buried in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of rain and safety.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“I know,” he said, his own voice thick. “But it’s over now. I promise. I’m not letting you go.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, hands cradling your face with such care it made your throat tighten. His eyes searched yours, still wide with concern, but full of love.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling you back into his chest, rocking you gently like you were something fragile, something worth protecting.

And you were.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to move or let go.

Spencer just stood there, in the middle of the apartment, arms around you and lips pressed to the top of your head, as long as you needed. You were still trembling, but it was easing now—not gone, but quieter—with every slow, steady breath he took with you.

When your legs began to ache from standing so stiffly, he gently leaned down, letting you wrap yourself tighter around him, and lifted you off your feet with ease.

“Let’s get you warm, sweetheart,” he murmured.

He carried you to the bedroom, pausing only to toe off his wet shoes. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press for details—not yet. He just guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back tenderly from your face as he crouched in front of you.

“Can I get you something comfy to wear?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Y-Yeah… please.”

He pulled out one of his softest long-sleeved shirts—your favorite one that smelled like him even after three washes—and some cozy sleep shorts. He handed them to you like they were made of gold.

“I’ll stay right here, okay? Back turned. Not going anywhere.”

You changed slowly, limbs still heavy with adrenaline. But when you pulled the shirt over your head and felt the familiar scent of Spencer around you, something settled in your chest.

When you were done, he helped tuck you into bed, layering blankets over you like he was building you a nest of safety.

“Don’t move,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m making tea.”

He came back with your favorite mug, careful not to spill, and set it on the nightstand.

“I added honey,” he said softly, sitting beside you. “Just the way you like.”

You smiled weakly, reaching out to take his hand instead of the mug. “Can you… stay?”

“Of course,” he whispered, already climbing in beside you. He pulled you into his chest, your legs tangling naturally with his under the covers. One arm curled around your waist; the other rested gently over your hand.

You listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, your ear pressed right against it.

“Want me to read to you for a bit?” he asked, nuzzling into your hair.

“Yes,” you murmured. “Please. Something nice.”

He reached for the worn paperback on his nightstand—a poetry collection you both loved—and flipped it open, finding your bookmarked page.

His voice was low and warm, each word slow and careful like it was meant just for you. You barely registered the poem itself—you just listened to the way he said it. Like a lullaby. Like a promise.

By the time he reached the second poem, your eyes were fluttering closed, your body finally beginning to relax for the first time in hours.

And just before sleep took you, you heard him whisper, lips brushing against your temple:

“You’re safe, love. I’ve got you. Always.”

And wrapped up in Spencer Reid’s arms, you believed it.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[prestigereid]

late

wc: 1.4k

summary: Spencer is known for being late, if only you knew just how late he'd be.

cw: none! light hurt/comfort!! baby fight but they make up :)

“Hotch even told me to tell you I’d be home on time, it’s been that slow.” 

Spencer had called you telling you that there was little paper work to do today, that somehow things had slowed down so much he didn't have to stay overtime. There were no killers he needed to catch or any paperwork on the ones he’d just caught. That finally after multiple missed dates and late nights he’d be home– on time. 

“I mean if your boss is saying that–”

“Then you know I’ll be home. I think we should cook the amazing pasta you made last month. I swear I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.” You can hear his excitement through the phone. The last time Spencer has been home at a decent hour to help cook dinner was around 3 weeks ago. 

“Spence you’ve been so busy, let me make it that way you can finally come home to a nice home cooked meal, yeah? How about we make some cookies together for dessert?” 

You know he wants to cook with you. The domestic thing that normal couples do daily. The thing that Spencer never gets to do with you because of his job, a rarity. Cookies are a meeting in the middle type of food. Something he can make with you but won't take two hours, it’s simple and hard to mess up. 

“I mean only if you’re sure. I should be home around 6.” 

“I’m positive babe. It’ll be all ready when you get here okay?” Spencer does so much for you to make up for his absences and missed events. Him cooking for you isn't necessary, for once you’d like to take care of him. 

“Alright angel, I’ll see you at 6pm!” He says it with so much excitement, a completely different tone than he’d called you with yesterday. It makes your heart beat fast hearing how happy he is. 

–

The phone call left you pumped up, ready to cook and do everything you needed to do for Spencer to come home to a nice space. That meant doing the laundry, cooking, and picking things up around the apartment all at the same time, multitasking to get things done efficiently. 

But there was no stress radiating off of you. Simply excitement for the night ahead of you, spending time with your boyfriend, having a nice relaxing night alone. It felt like you two could do anything you had so much time. 

With all this energy you got your chores done fairly fast. Cooking went smoothly– as if the world knew you needed this moment to go right– and you even ended on the dot at 6pm. Allowing you to set up the table, even making a cup of coffee for Spencer. He always complains about how bad the coffee is at work. 

By 6:10 you start to get worried that his coffee would get cold, that you should’ve just waited until he walked through the door to make it. Already jumping the gun on the night ahead of you. 

And by 6:30 you dumped it down the sink drain. You put the pasta in the oven to keep it warm and kept busy on your phone. 30 minutes late wouldn't ruin your night, he could walk through the door at any second. 

But when 7pm hit you knew. You wouldn't need a call, already knowing the story Spencer would tell you. Instead you ate dinner and put his utensil away, along with covering the leftover food up in tin foil. Cleaning the kitchen a little bit, putting the dishes you used away. That’s when 8pm shined brightly on the oven clock. The electric neon lights reminding you that you allowed yourself to fall for this again. 

At this point you almost hope he comes home late, so late you’re asleep and don't have to talk to him. Because you don't really know what you’d say, let alone how you feel. It’s not Spencer's fault, you know for a fact he’d rather be home with you than stuck at work. But you also wish he’d never called you, never let you know that Hotch told him to call you. Or that he gave you a time that you had to watch pass by. Just wishing you hadn't had hope that could get crushed. 

You’ve gotten good at accepting Spencer would miss out on things like dinner. No longer being something that keeps you up at night or to hold grudges on. But it’s like a healing wound that got reopened. Hurting all over again even though it was doing just fine. 

It’s a few hours later when you hear the front door open. Seconds after you hear the keys being put down. It’s childish of you to snuggle deeper into your shared bed, trying to appear asleep. But having this discussion with an already tired Spencer doesn't feel productive. 

When your bedroom door opens you hear him sigh. His belt then clangs once it drops to the floor and you flinch at the sound, not expecting it. Somehow in the dark he notices. He sees how still you go afterwards trying to act like it never happened. 

“Angel? Are you awake?” His voice sounds so soft and gentle you immediately fold. Rolling over to face him, not bothering turning a lamp on.

“Hi Spence.” 

Even in your sour mood you’re glad to see him. It’s what you wanted all day after all. To hang out with your boyfriend. He takes a second to undress and slide into bed, you don't move from your position or cuddle into him. It seems like he gets the message since he stays on his side of the bed, both of you facing each other even though it's dark in the room. The only thing illuminating any light is the moon shining through your thin curtains. 

“I’m so sorry I was late.” He puts his hand out for you to grab onto, it’s impossible to truly deny him which is why you intertwine your hand in his. “I had a small amount of paperwork to do, like I told you, but then a case came up and since I had nothing to do I thought I could do it in time.” 

Spencer did try, he really did. The case was easy, something he thought would take an hour or two tops. But with that case plus the small amount of paperwork, and Derek pulling a small prank on him with his files the day ran off without him. He could've just handed the case to someone else knowing he’d promised you he would be home, but it didn't work out that way. So now he’s laying in bed, guilt ridden, and already planning how he’s gonna make it up to you tomorrow. 

“I know. It just sucks.” Is all you say. And that simple statement is enough to break his heart in two. 

Because it does suck. He wouldn't wish missing dinners and failing promises on anyone, especially not you. Yet you put up with it and when it happens you don't scream at him or ignore him. You just say that it sucks. Which Spencer can't tell if he’d rather you scream and yell at him instead of you keeping it all in. 

“It does suck, if I could take this day back and redo it I would.” 

“It’s okay honey, I know you didn't mean for this to happen.” You’re all too forgiving in Spencer’s mind. This isn't the first time you've had this exact conversation with him so there's not much more to say. Both of you wish things were different and yet they aren't, if you had a bigger issue with it you wouldn't stay with him. But Spencer is worth the disappointing nights and the eating dinners alone. Because now you get to go to bed with your boyfriend who is safe and sound next to you. 

When you let his hand go he almost thinks you’re still mad, understandably. But instead you turn your back to him and lay next to him, his arm rests around your waist and the two of you sit in silence. Not an awkward silence but one that says something more. That you’re just happy to see him, happy he’s here with you saying how sorry he is. With his warm chest against your back you fall asleep with ease. The next morning you wake up to coffee and breakfast in bed and a bouquet of flowers in the kitchen.

[prestigereid]

・❥・ spencer reid rec list #2・❥・

blue = fluff | red = smut/suggestive content | purple = comfort

@luveline bombshell!reader w/ spencer reid and daughter post prison!spencer w/shy!reader pregnant!bombshell reader pregnant!bombshell reader in labour

@whisperedmeg breakfast in bed counter service nailed it the law of truly large numbers

@bringmeanangel overwhelmed i smell snow one too many little scrape

@mggslover angel dirty talking to spencer in ASL (sfw) spencer comforting you on your period (fxc) blacks and blue

@reiding-writing slip up surprise! beside manner incessant insomnia

@cherrygarcia-07 doctor's visit first aid baby burglar dedicated to..

@misserabella sick love biiiig mean stretch! jealousy, jealousy through your clothes

@g4rvez-r3id louder... dream a little dream bad day naughty boy

[prestigereid]

Au Revoir | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things. Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending

You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.

You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.

You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.

He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.

It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.

Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.

While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.

Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.

Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.

It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.

You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.

Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.

You didn’t believe it at first.

The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.

Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI profiler. Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.

You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.

But he didn’t come home.

And it wasn’t a joke.

Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.

And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.

The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.

You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.

Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.

You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.

Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”

And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.

He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.

They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.

They softened until he got angry.

A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.

“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”

Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”

You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”

His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.

Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”

You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.

“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”

You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”

His breath hitched.

“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”

Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.

“Spence..”

You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.

He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.

When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.

But that wasn’t what the letter said. Not even close.

I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become. What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me. -- Spencer

You read it once. Then again. And again.

Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.

This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing. A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.

He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer. Just Spencer.

And that alone shattered you.

You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.

You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.

You went through phases.

Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.

Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.

Next, you were angry.

Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.

How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?

You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.

And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.

You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.

The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.

You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.

He was free.

And he didn’t tell you.

Of course he didn’t.

That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”

And he didn't.

For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.

A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.

Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.

"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."

“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”

Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.

"Don't bullshit me."

It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.

And then you saw him.

Spencer.

Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.

And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.

You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.

You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.

You blinked once. Slowly.

Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.

Prentiss followed.

Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.

Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.

“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.

You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”

Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

“I know.” You stared down into your glass.

“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”

Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”

You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”

She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”

“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”

She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.

You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.

The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.

Like they were tracking him.

You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.

And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.

You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.

He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he’d been watching the entire time.

You almost looked away.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.

You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.

The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.

The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.

You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.

But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.

The screen door creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

You knew it was him.

There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”

Another silence.

“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”

Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.

“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”

Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.

“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”

He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.

Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”

“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.

“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”

You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”

Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.

“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”

“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”

Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.

“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”

You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”

“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”

You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”

“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”

You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.

“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.

You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.

“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”

“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”

You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.

“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”

“Spencer--”

“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love -- I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”

Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.

“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”

You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.

“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”

“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”

“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. ���If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.

You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.

“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”

He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.

“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”

You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.

Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.

“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”

His breath hitched.

“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”

You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.

“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”

His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”

A pause.

“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.

But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.

Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”

And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.

His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You just held each other.

The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”

He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.

He smelled like home. Your home.

You were so happy to be home.

[prestigereid]

very neurotic, very attached

the cover's at risk and spencer sells the lie a little too well by implying you were very, very busy.

pairing: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, pp reid, fake marriage, implying sex, sleazy man, compromised operational professionalism (again) prompt: here wc: 0.8k

Dogs possess roughly 300 million olfactory receptors, an evolutionary advantage Spencer has always admired, especially considering their demonstrated ability to detect hormonal fluctuations in individuals they are emotionally bonded to. He used to consider that an elegant, if primal, feature of mammalian design. 

But that admiration falters somewhat when he realizes he’s developed a similarly acute sensitivity to you. He’s attuned to every slight change in your tone from two rooms over, his brain practically twitching like some highly strung labradoodle hearing the rustle of a treat bag. 

It’s instinctual, inconvenient, and frankly embarrassing. It’s probably something he’ll have to discuss extensively in future therapy sessions once this undercover nightmare is behind him.

In theory, you and Spencer should be alone. He cleared the house, thoroughly, obsessively, multiple times because Spencer doesn’t believe in half-measures, especially when your safety is involved. Every door locked, every window verified, every conceivable point of entry triple-checked and secured.

So, either you’ve taken to casually chatting with the toaster (a possibility he won’t dismiss outright, because honestly, stress affects people in weird ways), or someone else is inside. 

Either way, it drags him toward the door with a frown and seventeen conflicting scenarios, each one less plausible but somehow more stressful than the last. Maybe he’s catastrophizing — actually, scratch the maybe, he’s definitely catastrophizing — but he’s never exactly excelled at moderation, has he?

Spencer makes two lightning-fast calculations the moment he clears the corner, neither of which bodes well for his blood pressure.

First there’s you, standing visibly tense, robe secured in haphazard knots and hasty angles, with a thin trail of wire at the base of your neck.

Second there’s him, some guy standing way too close, radiating the kind of arrogance you find in a man whose sense of entitlement is rooted deeply in unearned victories. His gaze strays in all the wrong places, never once bothering to meet your eyes.

Spencer has never considered himself a violent man. Really. But even the most carefully constructed moral compass can be snapped if enough pressure is applied.

He drifts up behind you, his body apparently well ahead of his common sense, one hand settling at the base of your neck.

It’s only when he’s pulling your collar to hide the wire that he realizes exactly how close he’s standing. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, close enough that he can feel your startled breath against his jaw. “Didn’t realize we were hosting. I would’ve dressed nicer.”

The nameless man doesn’t shrink under Spencer’s stare. If anything, he looks amused, eyes scanning you both with an expression just shy of lewd.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just thought I’d introduce myself, neighborly thing to do and all. Guess I should’ve waited. Looks like you two are… otherwise engaged.”

He feels you tense beside him, fingers tightening around your robe, clutching it as though you’re afraid the whole thing might spontaneously combust and leave you even more exposed.

Spencer sees your mouth open, already forming what will inevitably be a sweetly oblivious, utterly incriminating sentence, and he reacts accordingly, because clearly, maintaining your cover is solely his responsibility now.

“Newlyweds,” he announces casually, stepping just enough in front of you to block the stranger’s line of sight, because that’s definitely what a totally casual, completely non-possessive husband would do. “You know how it is.”

Connect the dots however you want, it’s probably far less interesting than what he’s imagining right now.

The man flashes an unconvincing smile, palms lifted slightly as if to say, I’m harmless, I swear.

“Right. Well,” he drawls, clearly amused by his own perceived cleverness, “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Spencer doesn’t move a muscle, tracking the neighbor step by painstaking step, counting silently until he passes the imaginary perimeter he’s already established in his mind as secure. Only when he’s sure the threat, real or imagined, is gone does he shut the door. 

Immediately, he hears you make a strangled sound behind your palms, part laugh, part existential dread. He’d sympathize, really, but he’s currently too busy trying to process what just happened.

“You plan on staying hidden like that forever, or should I start making coffee?”

Your attempted glare is weak at best. “Coffee, please.”

He chuckles, already halfway to the kitchen. “Probably a good call, sounds like you could use the energy after our busy morning.”

[prestigereid]

I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory

[prestigereid]

your absence

Spencer Reid x reader Description: established relationship, reader visits spencer in prison wc: 700+

Sitting down on the chair, your clammy hands are rubbing against your thighs to calm yourself down. The beating of your heart pushing against your skin as if it’s about to come out of your chest at any given time.

JJ went to your house, asking you to go to the prison to visit Spencer because he couldn’t stop asking for you. Your eyes glided over to the glass on the door where he stands, waiting for the guard to open the door for him.

Spencer makes eye-contact with you, his lips turn up, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes. The eye-bags, his messy hair, un-ironed clothing. The door opens and he quickly makes his way to you, metal chains of the cuffs dangling around his wrist. The officer unlocks his cuffs before Spencer sits down. Even though Spencer is sitting across, you can’t help the weird feeling in your stomach when you see his bruises on his face.

“I know.. my current state of what I look like right now looks bad to you, but I promise I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me.” Spencer murmured, leaning forward to the metal table. 

“Is this the way it’s going to be with us now?” You replied to him, frightened of what both your futures would look like if he were to spend prison for the rest of his life. What about his job in the FBI? Your heart breaks for his team who were working together to clear his name and to get justice for Nadie Ramos. 

He rolled his shoulders, the tense feeling of seeing you worry about him was more guilty to him than his verdict. “This won’t be forever. I’m hoping I’ll be found innocent by the next trial, if my defense attorney has better news than the last time.”

You remembered. Spencer was moved to Milburn Correctional Facility after being denied bail by the judge. He threaded a hand through his hair in frustration. Spencer huffs out a breath from his nose. 

“This is killing me, Spence. Your absence makes me insane.”

“You're the only thing keeping me alive in here. You keep me sane.” His voice begins to weary, indicating he hasn’t been sleeping well. The nights he can’t sleep, he pictures your face in his mind and it helps him.

Leaning closer towards him, you beg Spencer to keep holding it together. “Spencer, please. Take care of yourself, we’ll get you out of here.” 

“I will, my love. I’m sorry you have to be here. Well, I asked JJ to convince you. ” 

“If it means being able to see you, then it’s worth my time. I miss you so much.” 

Spencer nods. His curls are a lot more noticeable than before and his face unshaved. You just couldn't help but stare.

He stares back at you, lifting his eyebrows in curiosity. Spencer holds back a smile.

"Maybe you should take a picture, print it out, and tape it to a pillow. That will help when your alone in your apartment." He tapped his foot rhythmically as he responded.

Giggling from his response, you're not sure if he meant that in a suggestive way. You wished your phone was on you, but left it inside your car.

Even his jumpsuit looked good on him. What am I thinking about?

Your silence was poking at his heart. He wished things were normal. Sitting down on the couch together watching Star Trek in his apartment, him reading his books in the study, or reading a book to you when you can’t fall asleep at night.

“When I get out, I’ll take you on a trip to the library so we can read all the romance books together.” Spencer whispered, fixing his gaze on you. 

“I’m pretty sure you have enough books at home, Spence. Any book is interesting as long as you're the one reading to me.”  

He chuckles, smiling at you.

Before we know it, the guard announces visiting time is over. Spencer stares at you one more time. Mentally tracing your features, your hair, and outfit. The image of you engraved in his mind to keep him grounded.

It ached to watch Spencer walk away, but you both know that you'll be waiting for him to come home.

[prestigereid]

dandelion ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you discover a barely scientifically possible concept, and it is the perfect conversation starter to annoy your boyfriend with.  

pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: fluff (18+ for suggestive content) tags: fade to black smut. soft dom spencer reid if you squint. lots of moles talk. past life discussion (?). spencer-i-have-3-phd's-reid pulls up to the function.  word count: 1.2k a/n: i stared at way too many matthew gray gubler photos for this. she lives and more importantly she still writes! very simple blurb to break up what's been happening and also my 2 months of fanfiction silence... love u xo

"Have you heard about the mole theory?"

Perking a head up from the sudoku book he was trying to complete, Spencer's eyebrows pinch, and he stares at your curious eyes for a few seconds. Only to exasperatedly breathe out, "There's a theory about moles?"

"Don't say it like that," you pout, placing your crossed feet down from the armchair you were curled up in. You soon enough find residence atop his desk, feet dangling as your head hangs down to look at the black and white squares on paper, trying not to laugh at the completed scrawl amongst them. 

"I didn't say it like anything," he hums, and despite his peaked interest in what you were bringing up to him, his gaze falls back down to the book, ballpoint pen still firmly in his grip. Pen, because he has no fear in messing up any of the puzzles—an attitude you resent him for. 

"Yes you did," you grumble, ducking your head down in an attempt to catch his eyes and pry it from the now fresh sudoku page. 

"What did I say it like, then?"

"Like you don't believe it's a real thing," you huff. 

"I haven't even heard the hypothesis," he replies, oh so simply. 

"I haven't even heard the hypothesis," you mock, voice going high pitched as your back straightens. You succeed in gaining his attention, for he lifts his head and gives you an amused glare. "Will you hear me out before you butt in with your stupid mole science that proves the theory wrong?"

"My stupid—mole—science?" he stammers out with a laugh. "You mean human anatomy?"

"Dr. Reid, I really hope you're not ridiculing another scientist's work?" you cock your head to one side. 

"Not at all, Doctor," he pokes the side of your thigh with his pen. You swat his hand away. "Continue."

"Right, well, there's this theory that where the moles are present on your body is where your partner in your past life would kiss you the most," you say, and though he doesn't say anything, you can see the glint in his eyes that tells you he does not believe a word of what you're saying. "So, like, you have a mole here," you point to the brown dot just below his cheekbone, "and here," you again tap the one above his right eyebrow. "So in your past life you were kissed in those places the most."

"Interesting," is the only response he supplies you with, the chair he's in wheeling back just so he can reposition himself in front of you. "Don't you have one here?" he lifts one of your hands, index finger circling the mole in the centre of your palm. 

"He was a gentleman," you beam down at him, and you watch as he tries—and fails—to not roll his eyes. Though, the smile never falls from his face.

"What about me?" he asks, bringing your palm to his lips. "Am I?"

For a split second you stop breathing. A combination of his voice hushing, his eyes never straying from yours, and his mouth meeting your hand making your head go fuzzy; your chest warm. 

"Um—yes," you nod your head. "You can be."

"I can be?" his lips find the next mole he can spot, then the next, mapping out every single dot like its very own constellation upon your skin. "Am I not always?"

"No," you say, breathless. You can see the quirk of an eyebrow on his face, and you force yourself to focus on what you're trying to say. Eternally difficult when he's stood from his chair and found his lips to the base of your neck. "I just—I mean, sometimes, you say things to mock me because you think it's funny. I don't think that's being very gentlemanly."

"You misinterpret my intentions, then."

"What are your intentions if not to tease me?" you accuse. 

"I think teasing you and mocking you are two very different things, and you're claiming it's mocking to make it seem worse than it is," he pokes your side, and you flinch away. 

"Profilers," you spit out, though there's very little malice in your voice. 

"Stop making it so easy to profile you, then."

"I don't! You just know everything about me!" you're protesting with hands on his shoulders, punching them lightly. 

His hands wrap around your wrists to stop the assault, instead locking them firmly against the tops of your thighs. 

"You know everything about me, too."

His reassurance is honey-like, and your resolve crumbles within milliseconds of him spewing it. A few simple words and you are putty all over again in front of him, moulding against his hands that are just barely grazing you. 

"I don't think I do," you say, quietly. 

"You know a lot more than anybody else in my life," though he doesn't verbalise it, you can feel the punctuated promise in his tone. 

"Mm. You too," you reply, inching towards the edge of his desk. "But I think you'd know all of that even if we weren't dating."

"I wouldn't know where to kiss you." 

It's the earnestness in the way he says it—the lack of flirtation or cockiness in his voice—that sends you spiralling. He doesn't mean to fluster you with the sentence, he means it quite literally. He wouldn't know where to kiss you. However, he does (fluster you), and he's saying it with hands holding you in place on his desk, knees knocked apart to accomodate him between them. 

"You'd have some idea," you comment, quietly. Near silence is the best you can come up with. "Erogenous zones and all that."

"I wouldn't know exactly where," he squeezes your thighs to punctuate the words, "and that would drive me insane."

"I don't think you'd put that much thought into where to kiss me if we weren't dating," you counter.

"I would. I did. Trust me."

You squirm at the implication of his words. 

"Flirt."

He laughs, head dropping to your shoulder as he shakes it. "How about I find and kiss the rest of those moles, instead of letting you continue to insult my character?"

"So you believe the theory?" you perk up, and he pulls back only to find your face again.

"Absolutely not," he shakes his head. "Moles are genetic, and if not genetic, formed due to factors such as sun exposure. Not where you were kissed in a past life. Which has never been scientifically proven to exist, by the way."

"You're so boring. Scientists are so boring."

"Uh-huh. They sure are. Let's go," he steps back even further, and attempts to take you with him.

"Mm-mm," you shake your head. "'m staying here as an act of defiance for your boring disbelief in the mole theory."

"I'm not getting you naked on top of the same desk I work on murder cases on," he says, deadpanned simplicity in his voice shattering you. 

"That's what you want to do?"

"I've been with you long enough to know when you're starting a conversation to initiate sex. Feigning innocence won't work, honey," he presses his lips to your jaw, just below your ear, as a hand finds the small of your back to coax you off of the desk. "Let's go."

And, by surprise to none, you follow compliantly.

[prestigereid]

sweet strawberries and bitter sneezes

summary: breathing dreams like air is harder to put into practice when a blocked nose makes it difficult to breathe, and the man who is the object of your nighttime sweet fantasies only wants you in the dark, in cool sheets, back-to-back, instead of on meadow pillows, tangled on a checkered blanket.

contents/tw: spencer reid x reader, implied intimacy, flangst (don’t let that cute header and pastel colors fool you) lowkey ooc spencer, but honestly, that man was sometimes a jerk even in canon, so here he is ×5

who to blame? @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat 'cause i wrote it for her birthday and i have proof it was her idea. besides, happy birthday to the most gorgeous, most hilarious girl in the world!

Spencer Reid made you fall in love with routine.

That didn’t automatically mean he was a complete control freak with a strict, unchanging daily schedule, but he definitely had certain preferences. He always added the same number of teaspoons of sugar to his coffee (5) (part of his yearly routine also included very regular dentist visits), liked to wear that specific tie on Thursdays (paisley pattern, solid color, purple), and maybe he didn’t go to bed at exactly the same time, he had trouble with that, but he always spent time in bed before falling asleep reading.

You yourself used to cringe whenever you heard that word. Routine, that is, not reading. Reading, you loved it with all your heart. It simply reminded you of nothing but unpleasant things. The necessity of getting up at the same time, too early, for work. The inevitability that after your favorite season came the next one, the hated one.

Some people found comfort in repetition. You weren’t one of them, but Spencer did. He had told you that himself, to which you gave him a skeptical look. Repetition? Pleasant? To you, it meant boredom, especially in a relationship. At least, that’s how it seemed to you before you met him. Before you slowly started creating your little relationship routine. Little things, little gestures, coming and going, anticipated and adored by you.

Like how on Saturday nights you always ended up on the floor. You had a very, very comfortable couch in your apartment. But also a floor with a pull as strong as gravity on Earth, or maybe simply tempting for what it offered. Tempting with the idea of sliding onto it with laughter, the way your heads touched, and one hand found the other, forming the letter A. A like Affinity, Italian Amare, or Turkish Aşk, not Anthrax or Autopsy, to be precise.

Or your favorite restaurant literally around the corner, where you’d drop in regularly, but it never got boring. The same with the walk over that one specific bridge you always crossed, and how, for some unknown reason, you always ended up talking about F. Scott Fitzgerald then.

Or the nights when each of you had your designated side of the bed. With fluid boundaries, but boundaries nonetheless. And even though you had to get up too early, at least you got up early every day with him, always the first one, able to watch his relaxed features in sleep.

A small life with small celebrations of love, without fireworks unexpectedly cutting across the sky or romantic wildness. Sweet, comforting routine could brighten even the gray and dull, make it shine with gold.

So Spencer appearing in the doorway of the apartment on a sunny mid-August day, holding a large picnic basket in his hands, was a kind of display of spontaneity.

You wrapped yourself in your sweater, tilting your head to the side with a smile.

“So, no dinner out tonight and we’re not going to talk about The Great Gatsby once again?” you teased lightly, feeling a pleasant warmth in your stomach. Warmth mixed with a tingle of excitement about where you were going.

“I think we’ve tried every dish on this place’s menu already. And we’ll probably try again, but there won’t be many more opportunities this summer for chocolate to melt in the sun by itself,” he replied, shifting the basket from hand to hand, dressed in a light white shirt with an almost old-fashioned cut. “Sorry, Mr. Gatsby.”

“We chose strawberries with chocolate over you,” you added. You sighed with mock guilt. “We’ve betrayed him. He’s probably tearing his hair out, crying into his pillow right now.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Spencer said, reaching out his free hand, the one not holding the basket.

You closed the door, and without taking anything with you, you slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers. “It’s hot. Our hands are going to sweat, and one will slide in the other. I repeat, they will sweat. You’re ready for this sensory ordeal?” you asked as you walked toward the car.

Spencer let out a soft snort of laughter, almost like a slightly louder exhale. “There are some sensory ordeals I can handle. Otherwise, I’d never be able to hold your hand again.”

You wrinkled your nose. “You’re so romantic today.”

He slowed your shared pace so he could lean in and kiss the little crease on your nose, instantly smoothing it out and creating two more at the corners of your eyes. 

“It’s the weather,” he explained with a murmur.

You raised an eyebrow.

 “The weather makes you romantic?”

“The weather made you notice it. I’ve always been like this.”

“Mhm. I don’t recall you ever planning a surprise picnic for us before. With strawberries and…what else do you have?” You wanted to peek into the picnic basket to see what else was inside.

Spencer pulled it just out of your reach, a teasing smile flashing across his lips as he shook his head. “It’s a surprise. You’ll find out when we get there.”

“Get where?”

He looked at you with his dark, warm eyes but didn’t answer. You sighed, though in reality, the uncertainty thrilled you. It made the drive more than just about the destination, you actually noticed the scenery outside the car window. And that day was so beautiful that even the air seemed worth admiring. If it weren’t for the slight cold bothering you and your nose not being in the best shape, you might have tried to slowly breathe it in, savoring the summer mix of freshness and something almost dense.

The meadow was covered in tall grass, a mix of green and yellow. Sometimes its dry blades brushed against your calves, causing a slight, harmless scrape. Spencer walked two steps ahead of you, his hand behind his back in your grasp, the other holding the picnic basket. You hold onto each other as if this grass, barely reaching your knees, could suddenly become a labyrinth of Daedalus, confuse you, make you lose your way. To be separated—that would be the worst.

Sunlight fell on your backs, as if pushing you forward.

You found your spot under a solitary tree. The checkered blanket, thrown on the grass, lay oddly because of the height of the blades, but when you lay on your back, it molded beneath you like a pillow. You deliberately chose to lie on your back so you could watch Spencer, bathed in sunlight, kneel on the blanket, straightening it to perfection and placing the box of strawberries on it. From time to time, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, as if habitually, unconsciously, not expecting you to return the gaze.

You did. He slowed in place, his lips lifting into a smile.

One moment he was kneeling before you on the blanket, the next he was hovering just above your body, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips, tasting so sweet himself. Strawberry-sweet. He must have tried one while you weren’t looking, but the proof rested right there in his mouth. To make sure, you deepened the kiss, placing your hand on the back of his neck, warm from the sun along the way.

A tickle in your nose.

You pulled your face back from his; he let out a protesting hum. You raised a finger, signaling him to wait. Then it came—a sneeze. Spencer sat down next to you while you lay on your back. Your hands were intertwined on your stomach in a little basket, and he covered them with his, brushing hair from your face with the other.

“A cup of hot tea would do us good,” he said. “It’d help with your illness. Sorry, I didn’t think.”

“It’s just a cold, Spence,” you replied gently. “Funny that it caught me in summer, but oh well. You couldn’t have known.”

“I want to take care of you. Somehow.”

You looked at his face, more tanned than usual lately, more alive. You blinked slowly, focusing on his hand covering yours. “Just be here with me.”

“I am. And I will be.”

“And don’t leave. And don’t make me leave.”

Spencer shook his head with sudden amusement, leaning over you once more. Only a brush of your lips. “How did that even cross your mind, silly?” he murmured into your lips.

You shrugged, because you really didn’t know—maybe the heat was affecting your speech, making absolute absurdities fall from your lips. You closed your eyes for a moment, sniffing. “And feed me strawberries,” you added.

Above you, Spencer snorted. “As you wish.”

You propped yourself up so that you could be face-to-face. You didn’t know where he had gotten the strawberries, but they were huge and deep red, looking so juicy. “Here you go,” he murmured, bringing one slowly to your lips.

Carefully, like a fruit critic, you bit into it. Juice immediately ran out, which wasn’t so common for strawberries and spoke to its incredible ripeness. You murmured in surprise and tried to wipe the trail of juice from your chin, but Spencer let out a quiet shh and wiped it himself with his thumb. You finished the strawberry, and his finger returned to your face.

Gently brushing your lower lip, probably stained red. Your eyes stayed on his as his stayed on your lips, in absolute focus. His thumb traced their length twice before brushing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek—and then, finally, your eyes really met.

“You look so beautiful today,” he said, his voice, as always, hovering on the edge of a whisper. He didn’t need to speak loudly when he was this close. And his words were meant for you, not the world. “Like an angel, really.”

“An angel?”

“Mhm. My angel.”

“Your angel.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm.”

Spencer let out a quiet laugh again, lowering his gaze and leaning in for another lazy kiss, holding your face in both hands like a warm cup of tea. Lazy, like the whole day had been. Or maybe a better word was unhurried. Immersed in the moment, fully present in it, not rushing anywhere else. Thoughts, plans, intentions. Only there, only with you. Fully present with his whole self, and all of yours—whispered I love you in that same quiet, private tone, meant only for the two of you.

Then, you sneezed.

🍓

You stirred, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, your bare skin brushing against the cold, white sheets. Cold sheets, despite the fact that you’d both spent the entire night in them. Somehow their chill never faded, as if mocking you. Two people in the same bed, lying on opposite sides, no longer touching. Between you—cold. So much cold.

You shifted again, sniffing with some difficulty. You’d caught your first cold of the autumn, feeling fine just yesterday and quietly hoping it would pass. It never did—it only came back stronger the next morning. And it wasn’t the only thing advancing on you in formation, along with it came memories of last night.

Not last night in the literal sense—not the physical, not what really happened, again, because that was a dull and repetitive subject by now. You were thinking of your dream—of its warmth spread across you just moments ago, still lingering, still resisting the chill of the sheets.

You rolled onto your side. It made it easier to breathe through your stuffy nose. Another sniff; well, there was nothing you could do about it. You blinked, eyes still heavy with sleep.

In front of you stretched a back, ending in a tousled mess of brown hair. He was close. Spencer was close to you. When you reached out, your fingertips could just graze the surface—softly, so as not to wake him—tracing lightly along it. You weren’t writing anything in particular. Well, the first letter somehow came out as a P, just like the word pathetic. An instinct, a reflex, half-asleep mind shaping it without conscious thought, running on whatever the subconscious fed it.

You and Spencer had your routine.

First, the message. Uncomplicated, but not arrogantly direct. Then the meeting itself, first the door to his apartment, stepping inside and the meeting. The conversation, which sometimes felt as if he was having it as a punishment. But only when he felt like pretending that he respected you, such a sadistic role play or just a simple variety. Or when you, at all costs, needed to feel that way.

Then the mattress beneath your back, the first chill of the sheets taken on like a shield in the form of clothing, but soon you got rid of that form of defense. Loud breaths, never in sync, though sometimes you tried. You didn’t know why—there was something seemingly romantic about it. Breathing the same air, some illusion of spiritual connection, devotion, dedication, warmth, Orpheus turning back for Eurydice, love songs from the eighties, a big mishmash of your definition of love filling your head for a moment, allowing a few drops of delusion.

You sniffled twice, stifling an oncoming sneeze.

“Can you stop?” a question in the dark, a murmur, his morning voice hoarse. Irritated.

You froze, only then realizing your finger was still tracing along his back. You sniffled and nodded, though of course he couldn’t see it, turned away as he was. But you stopped, and that’s what mattered.

“The nose thing too,” he added.

“What?” you croaked, maybe too sleepy to understand. Or maybe it was because you were talking to his damn back, which made basic communication significantly harder.

“It’s keeping me from falling asleep.”

“I can’t breathe any other way. You want me to suffocate?”

He exhaled through his nose — you heard it. “At least do it less often.”

Morning grumpiness. That’s just how he was, something you’d learned a long time ago. Sometimes it was afternoon grumpiness too. And evening. But last week, when you’d also stayed the night and taken a shower at his place in the morning, there had been a TV show playing that you both liked, and you’d even laughed together as the sounds of a fully awake city drifted in through the cracked balcony door. You knew how to cling to those scraps of good memories like a life preserver, and ride them straight into the depths of the Mariana Trench. Optimism or stupidity. Sometimes you asked yourself that question, then flipped a coin. The answer was, therefore, variable.

You tucked your hand under your cheek, drawing your knees closer to your body. Spencer was silent, and the silence filled his half-shadowed bedroom. You kept your eyes on his back, on the movement of his shoulder blades as he breathed. Uneven, a sign he wasn’t asleep.

You could picture his dark eyes, almost absent but open, fixed on some point in front of him. Maybe he was staring at a wrinkle in the sheets and thinking it looked like a giraffe. No, scratch that. This was Spencer Reid. Maybe he was staring at a wrinkle in the sheets and thinking it looked like the Greek letter lambda.

That he was awake didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to talk to you. But you did want to talk. And you so rarely put yourself first that he ought to forgive you for it. You sniffled — quieter this time.

“I had a dream,” you said.

At first, he didn’t answer. You weren’t even sure you wanted to tell him about it. Maybe not on your own, but if he asked—

“Like all people, sometimes.”

You closed your mouth. The position you were lying in had grown uncomfortable, but you stayed in it anyway. “You had one too?”

A moment of silence and stillness. His neck moved slightly, as if he’d tried to shake his head no.

“Not today.”

You bit the inside of your lower lip, briefly summoning the warm memory of the dream and the few rare shared memories you could even loosely compare it to. He’d never fed you strawberries or told you he loved you — but still. The bedroom was cold, and you wanted to fill it with that fleeting warmth, to use it, even if it would serve only you and annoy him.

You drew in a breath through your clogged, barely-working nose.

“And you were there too. I opened the door, and you were standing there with a basket, and you said you were taking me on a picnic. And you were wearing one of those old-fashioned white shirts.”

You added that part as though it were essential to the dream’s plot. Maybe it simply helped you recall as many details as possible before they slipped away.

Spencer’s back didn’t move for a long moment — a moment that made you start to accept that you were going to be ignored, not for the first time. But then, with a quiet sigh, he turned onto his back, the blanket reaching about up to his ribs.

It brought you slightly closer to each other. You didn’t move, so with your cheek still resting on your flat palm, you found yourself right next to his shoulder.

“How old-fashioned?” he asked. In a strange tone. Both interested and as if he couldn’t care less.

Trying to ignore it, you didn’t understand the meaning of his question, letting out a short huh? You saw him roll his eyes.

“I’m asking how old-fashioned the shirt was. Like a founding father type of shirt?”

“Oh,” you murmured in understanding. You immediately made a face. “No, ew, no. If you were dressed like a founding father, I wouldn’t have gone with you.”

“No?” he asked, somehow more gently, as if certain of the answer.

You pushed out your lower lip. You would have gone. You would have cursed his choice of outfit, but you would have gone.

“Anyway,” you cut in a bit more firmly, sniffing again. “We went to a meadow. In this dream, I mean. We sat under a tree on a checkered blanket and ate strawberries. With chocolate. Melted chocolate.”

You had a view of his profile, you could see that for a moment he didn’t blink, lost in thought.

“That sounds kind of good” he finally said, slowly, weighing each word.

Something stirred strangely in your chest. It even seemed as if some kind of warmth was born there. A faint smile on your lips.

“Really?”

He shrugged, as if unfaithful to his own opinion, holding onto it only because he couldn’t be bothered to change it.

“Really. Strawberries and chocolate. That sounds good.”

The cold of the bedding between you, the sound of you swallowing.

“Right,” you murmured under your breath. Louder, you added, “That combination’s as old as the world, Spence.”

You saw it — that subtle grimace on his face. He didn’t like it when you called him Spence.

“Neither strawberries nor chocolate are as old as the world. Do you even know how old the world is?”

You raised your hand, moving it like a mouth. A mouth that was saying one big blah, blah, blah.

He tried to grab your hand to make you stop the gesture, but you quickly pulled it back.

His quiet snort, the faint twitch of the corners of your lips.

“And then,” you began to continue, somehow more animated, your thoughts returning to your dream. So suddenly. Right with your words, Spencer shifted in bed, reaching to grab something from the nightstand on his side, his brows furrowed. You didn’t watch him too closely, focused on what you were telling. “You were feeding me strawberries. Cliché, I know, but the director of my dream was my brain, not some guy with three Oscars in his pocket, so. Oh, and one more thing. Then you told me something.”

You trailed off in your words, as if forgetting you were saying this to him.

“You told me you lo—”

A hand covered your mouth. Firmly. You lifted your eyes upward. Spencer was sitting up in bed, the blanket having slipped from his stomach, his posture slightly hunched. He wasn’t looking at you — his attention was on the phone pressed to his ear.

“Now?” he asked, making sure. You let out a quiet sigh of understanding, still into his hand. He sighed too. “Alright. I’ll be there soon.”

Only after he finished the call did he remove his hand from your mouth, sending you a quick, questioning glance.

 “What were you saying?”

You shook your head slightly from side to side. Nothing.

He nodded faintly, then got up from the bed, the mattress uncovered where he had just been sitting. Lying there, you watched as he hurriedly dressed, saying nothing, giving you no explanation. Really, he didn’t have to. You guessed they probably got a new case to work on, sudden, important.

You began scanning the floor for your pants somewhere near the bed. Honestly, you didn’t really know what to do with yourself in this situation. “Should I go?” you asked, propping yourself up into a sitting position.

Spencer froze, motionless, pants pulled up but still with the belt unfastened, shirtless. He looked at you for a moment without a word, clearly thinking. He fastened the belt buckle.

 “No. You don’t have to,” he finally said.

You relaxed slightly. It was good to know he wasn’t kicking you out.

 “Just…don’t be here when I get back. And close the door when you leave.”

Then he opened the closet in search of a fresh shirt, while you stayed in the same position for a moment longer, taking a deeper breath that trembled at the very top as it passed through your mouth.

[prestigereid]

SICK AS A DOG!

summary: spencer comes home to his girlfriend being... well, sick as a dog. pairing: spencer reid x gf!reader. tags: afab reader, no use of y/n, pre-established relationship, just a bunch of comfort and cuteness because i don't write enough fluff

You were stubborn, determined, focused. Everything you did was done until it killed you. There was nothing that knocked you off your game. It was one of the things Spencer admired about you. Nothing made you stumble or stop. Not even the hundred and two degree fever that was weighing down on you like a sack of bricks. 

He’d been away from home for a week now on a case, speaking with you in the small gaps of time he had between work and the minimal amount of sleep he was getting. The updates had been normal, talking about how your coffee tasted that morning or your loud neighbors, until that morning. As soon as he had landed, he’d received your text.

Feel like shit. Will meet you at your apartment. Quieter there.

While it seemed like a nonchalant text, he’d immediately known something was wrong. In the couple of years the both of you had been in a relationship, you’ve never admitted sickness. Even when you had a low fever, even when a cold had your voice sounding raspy and raw, you just stated that you were under the weather and moved on.

Spencer had left for his apartment straight from the airport with nothing more than a wave and a comment about needing to get home, picking up a few things from the drugstore and a Tupperware of soup along the way. It would no doubt be a struggle to get you to eat, hydrate, take painkillers or do anything, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. Slowly stepping through the doorway into his apartment, the first thing he notices is how dark it is. Usually, you found joy in turning on the multiple lamps and lowlights settled through the mess of his apartment, allowing the warm light to cascade across the phthalo walls and his mahogany and walnut furniture. While you shared his distaste for big, bright lights, you also despised how much he tended to brood in the darkness. 

His eyes scan across his apartment, taking it all in. Everything, from the makeshift office to the messy living room, seems untouched. No candle lit on any of the tables, no returned book laying on his kitchen island, not even an attempt at cleaning up. If it wasn’t for the car keys abandoned on the desk closest to the door, hidden among his things, he would think that you hadn’t arrived yet.

Setting aside his go-bag and his satchel, he empties his hands before flicking on a few of the lamps. He steps around his couch to get to the ajar door of his bedroom, opening it slowly with a soft rap of his knuckles against the doorframe and a murmur of your name.

The response you give him is a hazy groan, laying curled up on his green duvet, the blankets kicked to the end of the mattress. Once the light streaming from the living room hits you, his brow furrows. Your body is hidden in one of his hoodies, oversized on him and drowning you, the hood pulled over your head and concealing all of your features.

“You okay?” Spencer murmurs as he discards his shoes and tie onto the floor haphazardly, crawling into bed behind you. A slender hand cups your elbow before he pulls back slightly, shocked by the heat radiating through the thick fabric. “Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

As soon as he’s laid behind you, you turn around, legs pushing through to press your feet against his calves. Leaning your forehead against his chest, you seek out warmth even despite the fever overtaking your body. “One hundred and two degrees,” you mumble through your haze, trying to cut out any questions he may have and minimize the amount of energy you had to use.

Frowning, his hand slides beneath his hoodie, pushing it up and exposing your skin to the cold air. At your soft mewl of discontent, he shushes you gently, large hand smoothing over your stomach. “I know, honey, but this hoodie isn’t helping. Can you take it off, please? I can get you a shirt, if you want.”

“No. Can’t take it off. Can’t move.” Your tone is slurred, voice muffled by the material of his button-up, fingers curling to fist his shirt and keep him there. “Just wanna sleep.”

To your dismay, he simply shakes his head, one hand untangling yours from the material before he sits up. Another large hand slides behind your neck, fingertips pressing into the sides as he slowly lifts you to a good-enough sitting position. “Come on. Hands up, please.” 

Your movement is slow, his hands pushing up the hoodie higher and higher and coaxing your arms to straighten so he could pull it off. Despite your fever, he can feel the goosebumps sprouting on your skin, rubbing them away with his palm as his other hand tosses the hoodie away. Placing a kiss to your forehead and fighting a grimace at the heat, he slowly brings you to lay down again. “I’m gonna go get you some painkillers and some water. We need to break your fever.”

That pulls a whine from your throat, reaching out and brushing your hand along his thigh as you try to find any way to pull him back down. “Please just come back. We can worry about that later.”

Spencer’s heart thuds a bit harder against his chest at the request, never wanting to be the one saying no to you. But he knows the science, both biological and psychological, behind sickness behavior. Autonomic and behavioral changes triggered by soluble proteins produced at sites of infection. Lethargy, sleepiness, confusion. The body releases cytokines that affect moods and lead to a desire for social connection, hence the need to cling to him.

With another soft hush, he smooths down your hair and places another kiss to your hairline before stepping away from you. Moving quickly to keep himself from giving in and crawling back into bed with you, he heads back into the living room and fills a glass of water, making sure it was cold enough to feel nice but not cold enough to not drink quickly. Last but not least, he grabs a clean rag from off the counter, running it underneath cold water and ringing it out until it was just damp.

By the time he gets back to the bedroom, you’ve pulled the duvet over your legs again, letting it cool your calves as your hands tuck beneath your cheek. He stands in the doorway, watching you fondly and admiring just how small you look in the bed that his feet hang off of. For a moment, he thinks about how he’d love to do this for the rest of his life. Have his apartment be the home you crawl to when you’re not feeling your best, be the person your subconscious deems safe when it’s at its most vulnerable. 

Only once his arms ache from holding the water for too long, Spencer returns to your side, hand cupping the back of your neck to lift you up again. “Take the pills and a couple sips, sweet girl, and then you can go to bed, okay?” He murmurs as he holds out his hand, two white pills balanced in the middle of his palm.

Your nose wrinkles in distaste, eyes glancing at him pleadingly as you hope he changes his mind, only to be met with a soft yet stern gaze. Letting out a deep sigh, you pluck the painkillers from his hand and place them in your mouth before taking the glass he holds out, letting the cool water soothe your throat and the heat of your face.

After a few gulps, he plucks the glass from your hands, setting it on the side table and swapping it out for the cool rag. Leaning his back against the headboard, he pulls your head to lay on his chest, draping the towel over your forehead and ignoring the chill when one corner drapes onto his neck. Fingers work delicately to smooth loose strands of hair away from your forehead and cheeks before working through it, lips pulling down at the corners when they get stuck in a knot. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. “I know you’re probably tired from your flight.”

The sound is so soft that he barely picks it up, although he lets out a gentle hum in response. “I don’t feel as bad as you, that’s for sure,” he teases. His lips find your hairline again, breath brushing against your skin as he keeps his mouth there. “Social and emotional support is scientifically shown to be beneficial towards an individual’s health. Support encourages health behaviors, such as consuming more fruits and vegetables and the ceasing of certain sickness behaviors, like mood changes.”

That pulls a soft laugh out of you, shuddering from a chill. “I think it should be a crime for you to talk all scientifically and sexually to me when you can’t even kiss me,” you grumble playfully.

Spencer scoffs from beneath you, the arm wrapped around your shoulder tilting your chin up towards him. “To hell with that. I take my vitamins.”

And then he’s kissing you, all soft and slow, giving your foggy brain time to catch up to what was happening. You’re still uncomfortably warm in his arms, transferring your higher body heat, but there isn’t a single part of him that can find a problem with that. Not when you’re fully leaning into him, arms and legs pressed against his own, cheek tucked against his chest and lips so soft against his mouth.

The both of you part only after he’s stolen all of the breath out of your lungs, leaving you trembling from a fever and breathless from his lips. Your lips pull into a grin as you open your eyes to glance up at him. “If you get sick, I’m not taking care of you.”

“Shush,” he snips, arm moving down to pinch your hip, soothing it with a brush of his thumb. “I thought you were ready for bed, huh? Not ready to keep ogling me?” He tops off his teasing by pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “In fact, are you sure you’re even sick?” You giggle in response, lifting an arm that feels like lead to swat away his hand. “Leave me alone,” you whine dramatically before nuzzling your face into the fabric of his button-up. As soon as your nose bumps with one of the buttons, you wrinkle it, pulling back to look up at him. “Can you please go and change so we can go to bed? This cannot be comfortable.”

Spencer’s response is quick. “It’s not.” Then, he braces the back of your head with a large hand to lift you, sliding out beneath you to make a mad dash for his closet. Your head falls back onto the pillows as you let out a soft whine of displeasure, even despite being the one to tell him to get changed.

He cannot help but laugh at you as his fingers brush through his clothing options. He can feel your eyes burning through his back as he slowly slips his arms through his shirt, tossing it into the laundry basket tucked in the bottom of his closet before pulling on a larger shirt. They stay on him as he pulls off his belt and socks and tugs on some plaid pajama pants. It’s not the first time he’s undressed in front of you, however your gaze would always cover his body in goosebumps. Once he’s properly dressed and ready for bed, he crawls back in next to you, this time pulling the duvet over the both of you. With the painkillers and the lack of a hoodie wrapped around you, he can feel the change in your body heat. Still too warm, but definitely lowering. 

You let out a soft squeak in surprise as his arms wrap around you, giving you a tight squeeze as you’re brought close to his chest. Immediately, your head is snuggled into the crook beneath his chin, inhaling the spot of cologne he had spritzed there that morning. Despite the small rush of adrenaline you had had in his presence, your exhaustion and illness are quickly catching up to you, eyes heavy-lidded as you relax into him. 

“Get some rest.” Spencer murmurs as he feels the tension relax out of your body, lips brushing against your forehead. A subtle check of your temperature.

The only response you can give him is a soft hum of acknowledgement, curling your fingers into his shirt as you slowly drift into sleep.

[prestigereid]

Baby Brain

request from 🍼 anon: Pregnant reader who’s about to pop and she has bad pregnancy brain. It takes her so long to make a decision or think critically. Spencer's brain moves so fast he feels bad when reader starts to feel dumb

Spencer Reid x pregnant!reader who is struggling with baby brain [1.5k words]

CW: pregnancy fic, afab!reader, reader talks about being a 'mother', mom guilt, hurt/comfort, fluff A/N: baby fever anon! I'm saving the actual request because I've also written the prompt for Hotch as per your request too :) thanks for the prompts!

You’re curled up comfortably on the couch – or, as comfortably as you can be in your current state – as Spencer putters in the kitchen. The closer you get to your due date, the less Spencer goes into the office and the more he consults from home. He’d gone in this morning to submit a few reports and tie up loose ends before his official parental leave that he couldn’t do virtually, but he was back by early afternoon.

You like having him home, and he seems to feel the same. You wonder if the team will eventually be able to convince him to return to the BAU full time; you wonder if you want them to. 

You shift under the blankets as one of your legs starts to fall asleep, uncomfortable as one could be while dutifully tucked into the softest blanket to exist perhaps anywhere on earth. 

You’re just about to change the channel from the trashy reality show you found to a nature documentary when Spencer returns; a large glass of cold water in one hand, something else held delicately in the palm of his other. 

“What’s this?” You ask as you accept the offered glass; your mouth falling dry as you watch the condensation shift and bead under your touch. 

“Water.” He explains easily, and though the simplicity of his answers serves to make you feel silly for asking, his tone never indicates that he finds you silly at all. “You’re a little dehydrated.” 

You suppress a shiver as the water washes over your mouth and nearly half the glass is gone by the time you come back up for air. “I am?” 

Again, you feel silly for asking, because now that you have the glass in your hands you have no interest in letting it go. In fact, you’re just beginning to wonder how much effort it would be to go grab the Brita from the fridge when Spencer stands up and heads back to the kitchen.

“Yeah, lovely. I topped up the Brita this morning before I left for the office but there wasn’t much missing from it when I returned. Increased fluid intake during pregnancy is crucial for both you and the baby. It’s a key component of the amniotic fluid and you also have increased blood supply right now so staying hydrated is important to avoid dizziness or constipation.” You hardly have a moment to flush at him speaking so candidly about the quality of your bowel movements when he carries on. 

“Your metabolic rate is increased as well and adequate fluid intake helps regulate your body temperature. Have you noticed yourself experiencing many hot flashes today?”

You pull the glass away from your face when you realize you’re holding it to your – admittedly clammy – cheek. Spencer returns to the living room with the Brita in hand, gesturing for you to raise your glass which he quickly refills for you.  

Once you’ve inhaled another half a glass of water, Spencer finally exposes three tablets he’d been carrying in his hand. 

“My vitamins.” You acknowledge somewhat dumbly, a weight settling in your throat that’s painful to swallow around. “I…I can’t believe I forgot.” 

Spencer lets out a hum of acknowledgement as he reclaims his seat beside you, not a lick of judgement about him which only serves to make your shame increase tenfold somehow. 

You’re just about to retreat into a familiar internal downward spiral when you’re distracted by Spencer saying your name.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and he looks so concerned – so earnest in his worry – that the sob sort of startles out of you with no preamble. 

“What am I doing?” You ask rhetorically, hands flying out from you helplessly. “I…I’m not even doing anything yet and I’m already failing!”

“No. No, no. You’re not failing. You-”

“I can’t even realize that I’m thirsty let alone remember to take my damn pills! I mean, what the hell? If I can’t even take care of myself now, how am I going to take care of a baby? I’m a terrible mother already.” 

Spencer stands abruptly which causes guilt to surge up your sternum from your belly button, forcing more tears down your cheeks as he carefully kneels on the ground in front of you. 

“You are not a terrible mother. No- wait, just listen to me. You say you’re ‘not even doing anything’ as though you aren’t quite literally growing an entire brand new person from scratch right now. I’m serious! You’ve taken, what? Some measly cells that I’ve offered you and combined them with your own before altering your entire body and chemistry to help it grow? That’s not nothing.”

The uncharacteristic simplicity of his explanation of procreation and referring to the very intimate moment the two of you shared a little over eight months ago as “offering you some measly cells” sees you letting out a surprised, wet laugh. He smiles in response. 

“That’s not nothing.” He repeats softly.

“I just feel so stupid.” You admit quietly. “I didn’t think this baby brain would cause me to miss actual survival cues from my body. I mean, seriously, Spencer? I couldn’t even recognize my own thirst?”

His eyes dart all over your face as though he might be able to dive into your mind's eye and force you see things from his point of view if only he tried hard enough.

“Baby brain isn’t nothing either, love. And it doesn’t make you stupid. The cause of ‘pregnancy brain’ isn’t necessarily fully understood but there are so many hormonal changes happening in your body right now. Estrogen, progesterone, prolactin and hPL can all impact brain function; particularly the amygdala, hippocampus, and the pre-frontal cortex which are responsible for memory, attention, and emotional regulation. 

“If that wasn’t enough, you’ve been more than a little uncomfortable lately which makes sleep next to impossible, paired with the fact that so much of your metabolic energy is going towards growing and sustaining new life, your brain can hardly be faulted for getting the figurative short end of the stick right now.” 

He inches closer to you from his place on the floor, one hand raising to wipe at the slowly drying tear tracks on your face. 

“You’ve been doing plenty of things for yourself and the baby that I’m so proud of you and eternally grateful for.” 

You huff a self deprecating laugh. “Like what?”

“Like” Spencer starts with an encouraging smile “you’ve been keeping your stress levels low. Staying off of your phone when you realized it was contributing to some of your anxiety. Participating in relaxing activities like watching low-stakes shows and catching up on reading. You’re not over-working yourself and resting an adequate amount to make up for your aches and pains plus the general lack of sleep. You’ve been working so hard this whole pregnancy to balance eating, ensuring you have both what the baby wants plus what the both of you need. You’re abundantly prepared for the baby’s arrival. You’re a wonderful mother.” 

You’re both surprised when another sob bubbles out of you. 

“I can imagine it’s hard when you feel like your brain is operating at a reduced level, and I probably don’t help with the way my brain generally operates at a faster rate than the average person’s. But that isn’t because you’re stupid or because you’re not doing enough. You’re doing plenty; you’re doing so much. And I’m so thankful that you’re taking care of yourself and our baby,” he pauses as he brushes a hand over your ever-rounding bump, sharing a shy smile with you, “and I am beyond selfishly pleased at getting to take care of the both of you.” 

The two of you stay like that for a while – you, folded into the couch as one of his hands holds your own, his other drawing shapes into your stomach as he kneels before you. 

“You really think I’m doing an okay job?” Your question barely above a whisper into the quiet of the room as though you’re afraid of the answer. 

“No. I think you’re doing a wonderful job. Perfect, really. I have no complaints other than you being a little too hard on yourself, but that’s nothing I can’t help with.” 

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” You tell him. “I’m glad I’m doing this with you.”

The confession – though not the first time shared with him – seems to surprise him for some reason. “Yeah?”

Your responding ‘yes’ is a mixture of a breathy laugh and a sob before you pull him up to you, trying to infuse as much of your love into the kiss as you can though neither of you can stop smiling long enough to do more than simply press your lips together. 

Thankfully, that seems to be more than enough for both of you.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[prestigereid]

looveee this theme week, how about Spencer and Cupcakes?

thank you for requesting! here's the fic, hope you enjoy!

Theme week main post

The kitchen smelled delightful. The scent of sugar filled the air, making Spencer’s nose twitch as he entered the room, spotting you crouched down in front of the oven.

“What are you making?” You glanced at him over your shoulder with a giddy smile.

“Cupcakes for Jack. His birthday is on Friday.”

“Does Hotch know you’re making treats for his son?” Spencer chuckled, stepping further into the kitchen as you stood.

“He will when I give them to him.” Your smile was infectious. Spencer hooked his fingers in your belt loops, pulling your hips to his, not caring if the batter on your apron transfers to his jeans.

“You’re adorable.” He planted a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose.

“I’m busy.”

“Really? Cause it looked like you were just staring into the oven.” Spencer teased and you swatted him with your towel.

“I was checking the cupcakes!” He giggles, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay! Is there anything I can help with?”

“Well, I still need to make the frosting.”

You compiled all of the ingredients on the counter, Spencer standing by, in wait. Making the frosting was easy, just butter, sugar, vanilla, and milk.

Spencer, to his credit, did help you. He poured the sugar, kissed you on the cheek in passing, mixed all the ingredients together, pulled you away from the sink to kiss you, and washed most of the dishes before lifting you onto the counter and kissing you again. 

“You’re a menace, you know that?” You murmured against his lips, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Mhm.” He hums, pulling you closer by your waist. You’re nearly dangling off the countertop, Spencer leaning over you, as the oven timer goes off.

“My cupcakes are burning.” You protested when Spencer didn’t pull away.

“They can probably take a few more minutes.”

“Spencer!” You lightly shoved him back, descending from the counter and rushing to check your pastries.

Spencer barely got another kiss until you’d finished them. And that included cooling, cleaning, frosting, and decorating. You were putting sprinkles on the last few cupcakes when his arms wrapped around your waist.

“Are you done yet?” He mumbles, his lips grazing your skin as he buries his face in the crevice of your neck.

“Almost. Then you’ve got me all to yourself.” You chuckled. He watches from behind you, almost mesmerized by how the sprinkles fall perfectly into place.

You were pretty close with Hotch, which meant you were close with his son as well. You’d spent time babysitting him (Jack, not your boss), hanging out at gatherings outside of work. You absolutely adored the little boy.

Once the cupcakes were packed up and in the fridge, ready to go for tomorrow, you turned to Spencer.

“I’m all yours.” You opened your arms wide, letting him hug you tightly. You smelled of sugar and sweetness and you and he couldn’t get enough. You made your way to the couch, still trapped in his embrace, the two of you tumbling onto it carelessly.

Spencer curled into you, his body draped over yours, already dozing. He’d been exhausted from work this week, and he desperately needed a nap, at least you thought so.

You threaded your fingers through his curls, scratching at his scalp. He hummed quietly, snuggling into your neck and, within minutes, he was asleep, snoring softly in your ear.

You smiled. You were too excited to sleep right now, already picturing Jack’s reaction to the cupcakes. For now, you were content to just let Spencer get his rest.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre, @tinythebunni, @pixie-verse, @westanleovaldito, @khxna, @person-005, @cinnamoncunt

[prestigereid]

her possessive trigger | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader | Word Count: 1.5K

Content warning: professor!spencer, jealousy, a lil bit of possessiveness, cuteness at the end

Summary: they could look at him all they wanted, but they needed to know he was yours. or the reader announces to spencer's students that he's taken

A/N: this was actually written back in june and i’m just now coming around to posting it. But lavenderspence writing for her husband spencer is back. Heavily inspired by my love for professor!reid and my desire to slap all of his student fangirlies and proclaim him as my own in a heavily possessive manner. you too? Oh, enjoy then🤭

masterlist

The auditorium was dark when you first walked in. His voice rang around the space, successfully gathering the attention of everyone present. Words like “victimology”, “modus operandi” and “signature”, the same ones you’d used for years, left him in quick succession, as did their explanation and usage in your profession.

He was captivating, an educator’s role suited him just right, but that was hardly new information. You’d seen him thrive on sharing his knowledge for years, be it as an FBI agent, or as a guest lecturer over the years. 

When he’d been offered to take on a class for the semester, alongside his work with the BAU, he’d been more than happy to. 

He loved it, and he told you as much regularly. And even if he didn’t, you’d still be able to tell. He loved challenging young minds, hopefully shaping the next generation of BAU profilers. 

His students loved him too, that much was evident in the way they hung onto his every word and explanation. Their hands raised with questions, taking part in the discussion, and diligently taking notes. They were dedicated to their studies, and to the subject Spencer taught. 

Or, most of them were. 

The other part, multiple young women it seemed, were far more dedicated to checking him out, than the class itself. 

You didn’t need it spelled out for you, you didn’t even need to see their faces. The art of reading people from a distance was deeply engraved into your being after years of working with the best. And then another part of it was your love for the man at the front. 

Your eyes ran around the room, the profiler in you working over time. 

Two brunettes sat near the front, third row, right side of the auditorium. Both their bodies turned towards the center of the room, following along with Spencer’s movement. One was casually leaning back in her seat, trying her hardest to mask her interest in her professor, and for anyone less vigilant, she might have been successful.

The girl next to her twirled a piece of hair around her finger, head moving left and right, but judging by the lift of her cheek, you could tell she was smiling, probably a little shily. It wouldn’t surprise you if her eyelashes fluttered too. 

A row in front of them sat a blond, hand constantly touching her hair, or her face, even fanning it. It was mid-March, the room wasn’t hot, but quite the contrary, a bit chilly. 

And then there was a girl, a few places to the left of the blond, whose hand was constantly in the air. Her voice was smoky, with questions that hardly contributed to the topic at hand, but Spencer let her ask them anyway. He even went so far as to answer as he would any other question.

Even though you knew he’d long ago picked up on her behavior, much like you had, he still indulged her, just like any good educator would. She looked just a tad too interested in the class, but maybe far more interested in him. If you had to guess, she had it bad, judging by the way she readjusted in her seat, every time her eyes met Spencer’s, even for a second. 

You knew Spencer was handsome, maybe even more so than that. He was beautiful in ways you found hard to explain sometimes. His curls, soft and golden-looking in the sun, the barely there scruff you could still feel against your palms and lips as you kissed him goodbye this morning. The suit, and how well it fit him, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and the cardigan vest that made him look soft, when you knew he was anything but when needed. 

But there was so much more beauty on the inside, just as long as you wanted to see it. A heart that spans miles, big, always ready to give, but rarely willing to take. A godfather, proud to be one, and a smile that could light up whole skies, out of happiness, out of love. Your own little search engine in a body, facts, and statistics, as long as you wanted to listen, and you always did. 

How he was with you, his love like no other, and his eyes lighting, the green in them even more prominent, just with you in the room. How calm he was, whenever in your presence. Patient, even when you couldn’t be, and he could bring you back down from any ledge you found yourself stuck on, or whatever worry sat heavily on your mind. 

He brought out the best in you, and you let the best of him out too. 

And even knowing him as well as you did, and loving him as much as your heart allowed you to, and knowing how he loved you, with everything he could, there was a part, if small at that, that couldn’t help, but feel taken aback by this behavior. 

Maybe taken aback wasn’t the right word, but jealous felt more appropriate. 

There was no need for those feelings to arise, insecurities that bore no weight. Your relationship was as secure as the sun was bright if the stunning rock on your finger was anything to go by. 

But maybe it wasn’t really jealousy either, but the desire to protect, maybe even to possess. 

It sounded ridiculous, to an extent, because Spencer could protect himself just fine. He wasn’t an object that could be picked up from a shelf, and owned. 

He was your equal, in every way that counted, your other half, your best friend, your closest confidant. 

And maybe that’s where that protectiveness stemmed from.  

Because as you looked around, women, without knowing him, and who he was beyond his looks, and as deep as you and your BAU family knew him, sat there, gawking. 

And as the lecture was coming to a close, the desire to cement the fact that Spencer Reid was happily in love, and soon to be much more than just a boyfriend, arose. It was petty, very much so, but at that moment, pettiness won over. Because the man in front, the same one those students were thirsting over, was very much your own, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

“Before we end today’s lecture, any questions?” 

No hands rose at the question, except one, your own. 

He pointed at you, giving you permission to ask the question, and his hand reached for the light switch. 

Just as you started speaking, the room was illuminated in light, and his eyes focused on yours, and you winked.

“Uhm, Dr. Reid, I was wondering, do you happen to have a girlfriend?” A silence so defeating followed, as every head turned in your direction as you stood from your seat. Spencer, the dork smiled big, and then he laughed, surprised, and maybe a little bit proud at that moment. His laugh was rich, attracting a part of the attention back to him, as you started walking in his direction. 

“Wasn’t expecting a guest lecturer today,” He raised a brow just as you reached him, and you just shrugged, smiling. “Class, this is Supervisory Special Agent Y/L/N” Spencer introduced you, as you looked on over his class. 

“Soon to be SSA Y/L/N - Reid” You added, looking at his students sitting in multiple stages of processing the information. He laughed, and instead of looking shy or even embarrassed by the display, he just looked happy, and proud. Maybe it was the knowledge of the fact that you were his, and his desire for everyone to know. 

Soon after that, he dismissed the class and you watched as the auditorium emptied, students turning to look at you both as you pulled him into a big hug, followed by a gentle kiss. 

When you separated, he looked at you with a huge smile, lifting a brow, “You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He picked your hand, bringing it to his lips to lay a kiss right on your ring before he rubbed it with his thumb. 

“No, no I couldn’t. They were looking at you like you were a piece of meat on a platter.” Your reply was swift, a smile just as big.

“Is that jealousy I detect, and a bit of possessiveness?” He was amused by the fact that you wanted to stake some kind of claim on him in front of his students, but secretly, he felt happy you loved him enough to do it

“Noooo…” You didn’t meet his eyes, playing stupid, but you knew he saw right through you.

“Wait until I tell Morgan about this,” He said as he picked up his satchel. 

“Aww, that’s just mean, Dr. Reid.” He pulled you towards the exit, arm wrapped around your waist, possessively. You may have seen the girls looking at him, but he saw the boys checking you out just the same. 

Maybe that was why he felt happiness when you stated you weren’t just a colleague, but rather his soon-to-be wife.

“Don’t I know it, Mrs. Reid.” And then he pulled you into another kiss, this time, a little more urgent, and very much possessive.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!

[prestigereid]

I’m a flower, you’re the bee.

Summary: you and Spencer celebrate a year together, and he surprises you in the most sweetest way…

A/N: short but sweet 🥹

BYR(b4 you Reid): just pure cuteness

you never thought this would be your life, being with someone like Spencer Reid. A man who was gentle, who listened to you with his whole heart, and who never made you feel small.

Before him, calmness seemed like something only other people had found. But with Spencer, it was real. Calm wrapped around you like a soft breeze. Every moment with him felt like a sigh of relief.

“Are you ready, dear?” Spencer asked. You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the white sundress that hugged your figure. Through the reflection, you caught his eyes, his expression was soft and warm.

“Almost.” You answered with a smile.

He nodded, stepping closer. He didn’t need to ask, or even take a second guess, he already knew what was missing. The delicate gold necklace he gave you six months ago rested on the vanity.

He picked it up and brushed your hair aside, the cool chain skimming your skin as he clasped it. “This dress is beautiful on you.” He murmured, his eyes trailing over you.

“Thank you.” You replied, your voice softer now. “I wasn’t sure about it.”

“I’m glad you wore it.” He said simply. His fingers lingered for a moment before his hands dropped to his sides.

Turning to face him, your hands found his chest. “This shirt.” You teased, your fingers playing with the buttons. “It’s lovely, whoever picked it out has really good taste.”

“Yeah, it was this beautiful lady.” Spencer smirked. “Beautiful?”

“Very.”

His hands rested on your waist, the warmth of his touch sending a pleasant shiver through you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying gently together.

“As much as I’d love to stay like this.” You murmured, “I think we have somewhere to be.”

“Right.” He chuckled. “But when we get back…”

“Then we can pick up where we left off.” You finished for him, grinning.

You both reluctantly pulled away, Spencer grabbing his coat and keys while you reached for your purse. As always, he opened the door for you, offering his hand as you stepped outside.

He never told you where you were going, and honestly, you didn’t mind. Spencer’s surprises were always worth the wait.

The car ride was peaceful. Your favorite music played softly in the background.

Your fingers laced through his as he drove, his thumb brushing over your skin. You never used to crave touch, but with Spencer, it was different. You wanted to be close to him, to feel him. And he was the same way.

“Where are you taking me?” you asked, your curiosity getting the best of you as you passed by countless of restaurants and parks.

“I'm not going to tell you.” he replied, squeezing your hand. “But we are almost there.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Alright but if this involves skydiving or any sort of jumping from anything, I’m out.”

He laughed shaking his head. “No Skydiving, or jumping out of anything. I promise.”

Minutes later, Spencer pulled onto a gravel path leading to a ranch. Fields of green stretched out before you, the air fresh and crisp.

Your eyes lit up as you noticed a table set up in the distance, draped in white and elegant dinnerware.

You hadn’t even noticed Spencer had opened the car door waiting for you to take his hand. “Spencer.” you gasp stepping out.

The both of you walked hand in hand up to the set up, there was a singular glass rose in the middle of the table, and you grabbed it.

“It’s a forever rose, a testament to the love I will forever have for you.”

You looked at Spencer, your cheeks flushed. He was always sweet, but this was different.

“I love you so much,” you say, wrapping your arms around him. His hands instinctively find your waist, just as they always do.

“Do you like it?” He asked, searching your eyes. “Baby, this is perfect. I love it.” You smiled as you cupped his cheek, tears welling in your eyes.

“Good.” He murmured, as he leaned down leaving a gentle kiss on your nose. “Shall we?”

He moved toward the chair, pulling it out. Always the gentleman.

You sat and watched him make his way toward the other one. You hadn’t even realized that there was a chef and a server there with you guys until the server came up and filled your glass with red wine.

“How long did this take to plan?” You ask, sipping from your glass. “A while.” He admitted “But it was worth every second.”

Your heart swelled. “When did you even find the time?”

“On the jet. After cases. While you were asleep.” He listed with a grin.

You laughed. “And I didn’t suspect a thing.”

He nodded. “That was the goal.”

Your hand reached across the table for his, you loved everything he had done but honestly you couldn’t wait to go home and show him just how grateful you are for him.

Dinner passed in a blur of laughter and soft touches. You found yourself just admiring him, admiring the way the golden light hit his face, how his smile reached his eyes.

God you were so in love.

“I love you.” You said, the words tumbling from your lips without a second thought. “I love you more.” He replied, his fingers tracing slow circles on your hand.

The distance was too much. Spencer had moved closer to you, pulling his chair next to yours. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, and you leaned into him.

You’d been through so much before him. A life filled with chaos, uncertainty, and noise. Spencer had too, and it never failed to amaze you how two people with so much pain could become each other's sanctuary, showing one another peace they never had.

In a world that could be so dark, you guys were each other's light.

“Spence.” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear. “I’m ready to go home.”

He grinned. “I can take us there.”

The drive back was filled with soft laughter and stolen glances. But when you reached your apartment, Spencer paused, a spark of excitement flickering in his eyes.

“One more surprise.” He said, cutting the engine.

“Spencer.” You protested, though your smile betrayed you. “You already did so much.”

“There’s always room for more when it comes to you.”

You shook your head fondly, and he came to your side opening your door. Hand in hand you made your way to your home, you unlocked it and walked inside.

The apartment looked the same, nothing out of place. Then Spencer disappeared into the guest room, returning moments later with something small tucked in his arms.

“Are you ready?”

You nodded eagerly. And when he reveled the tiny kitten, your heart nearly burst.

“Spencer.” You gasped, taking the little baby into your arms. Tears welled in your eyes. You’d talked about getting a pet for months, but Spencer had always hesitated.

“He’s a boy.” Spencer said softly, watching the way you cradled the kitten like he was a baby you had just given birth to.

“Spencer.” You whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m so happy.”

“Don’t cry.” He chuckled, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb.

“I can’t help it.”

“What are you going to name him?” He asked, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Cheese.” You said without thinking.

“Cheese?”

You grinned. “It fits.”

Spencer laughed, the sound full and warm. “Okay, Cheese it is.”

You kissed the top of the kittens head, before leaning up to kiss Spencer’s lips. “Today was perfect.” You whispered.

“Anything for you.” He murmured, wrapping his arms around you.

And as you held your new kitten and curled into Spencer’s embrace, all you could think about was how lucky you are. How, after everything you’d endured, you found him.

You’d go through it all again thousand times over, as long as, in the end, it was Spencer waiting for you…

Hope you guys love this<3 thank you to all that leave comments, and reposts. I appreciate it so much! xoxo

Read more of my writings here<3

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[prestigereid]

౨ৎ booked & busy - s.r. ౨ৎ

you doze off while studying for finals. spencer is there to take care of you.

pairing: spencer reid x grad student!reader genre: fluff content: established relationship, gn!reader, reader is not taking care of themself, spencer uses pet names, tooth rotting fluff wc: 818 a/n: currently suffering through finals and cannot get my brain to focus. so this itty bitty blurb is the product. i wish i had a spencer to make sure i took care of myself. requests/asks are open! my masterlist!!

Your eyes are starting to blur after reading the same sentence for the fourth time, making no more sense out of it than you had the first three times. You're sitting cross legged on the couch, surrounded by papers, articles on the topic you're writing a dissertation on. God, this is your passion, but sometimes you wish you had picked something a little bit easier.

You scrub your hand over your face, sighing and knocking your glasses askew. There's too many big words, and you haven't gotten nearly enough sleep to process all of them. You've been so busy drafting this paper that you haven't been sleeping properly, and Spencer hasn't been around to make you. You chew absently on your thumbnail, shuffling a stack of papers around, trying to find a specific one. Had it even been in that stack? Did you completely imagine that quote?

You sigh again, setting your highlighter to the side. The words are swimming behind your eyelids, becoming little blobs on the page. You're honestly not even convinced they are words. Maybe this author is just making words up, and gaslighting you into believing they're real because of their credentials and the fact that it's been nearly a week since you've gotten a proper rest.

Maybe if you just close your eyes for a moment, you could get them to focus...

---

Spencer is headed back to your shared apartment. He's just gotten home from a long case across the country, lasting nearly a week and a half, and hadn't let you know that he was coming home. He was intending on surprising you, but when he walks in, he finds you fast asleep on the couch, your head tilted back, your mouth slightly open.

Spencer's heart nearly melts in his chest. God, did you have to be so cute? He wonders for a brief moment why you're not sleeping in your bed, but clocks the articles spread out over your lap and the couch. He smiles, and makes his way over to the couch, careful not to disturb you.

Spencer gathers up the papers, stacking them neatly and setting them aside on the coffee table. He gathers you carefully into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, and carries you off to bed.

---

You wake up horribly disoriented. When did you climb into your bed? You blink slowly, reaching up to rub at your eyes. And your glasses are off...

You sit up, looking around the room, blinking blearily, and you see a man sitting on the other side of the bed. He's reading, his fingers skimming along the pages, his lips pursed in concentration. He looks over at you as you sit up, his dark curls falling into his eyes, and immediately his features soften. "Hi, baby," Spencer says fondly, reaching out for you. He wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you to him, closing the book and setting it carefully on the nightstand. The tips of his fingers slide underneath the material of your shirt, tracing along sensitive skin.

"Hi," you say breathlessly, surprised to see him. "You're... home."

"Try not to sound so excited," Spencer smiles, tucking a stray piece of your hair out of your face. This is his favorite way to see you- soft, sleepy, a little lost, and all his.

"I'm- I was studying, and now I'm in bed," you tell him, your eyes widening almost comically. "Christ, I need to finish that chapter of my dissertation, I have pages due this weekend, and-"

"Sweetheart," Spencer interrupts gently. "You need to sleep. You can't do anything while you're this tired. You'll end up having to rewrite the pages anyway, and that's just going to make more work for yourself."

You bite your lip, considering this for a moment. You know he's right, you're too tired to really focus, and the bed is warm and inviting. Spencer is looking at you with those soft eyes, the expression he saves just for you, and you suddenly can't find it in yourself to move away from him.

"Okay," you whisper, tucking your nose into the soft hollow under his jaw. It fits perfectly into the spot, like it was made for you.

"Okay," Spencer repeats softly, placing a kiss on your forehead. "Go to sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up, and I'll make you tea, and we can figure out a work schedule for you to get your pages done."

You sigh, nuzzling further into his neck, hiking a leg up to drape it around his thigh. "You're too good to me, you know."

"Just giving you what you deserve," Spencer murmurs, running a gentle hand through your hair. "Go to sleep."

You fall asleep like that, tangled up in one another, the smell of him surrounding you. Old books, rain, and a hint of lemon.

It's the best sleep you've gotten in weeks.