reidsfav

[reidsfav]

hii I found your blog recently and I love it so much! It’s the first time I make a request so I hope I’m doing it right. Sooo I was thinking about Post Prison Reid x Wife reader.

The idea is like the trend on the TikTok where the bridesmaids give him some random spicy Polaroid of reader during the party after the ceremony and it’s end with him showing her what the Polaroid did to him once they go back home.

That’s the idea but feel free to change it or ignore it if you don’t like. xxx 🩷

content warning: Post-prison Spencer, wedding night, spicy Polaroid trend, oral (m!receiving), mirror sex, soft dom Reid, possessiveness, praise kink, established relationship, teasing

a/n: HELLO! this is so adorable i love it sm!!!

word count ~ 1.3k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The reception is a beautiful blur.

The champagne flows, the music is warm and honey-thick, and your cheeks ache from smiling so much—but you wouldn’t trade a second of it.

You’re Spencer Reid’s wife.

Wife.

Not fiancée. Not girlfriend. Not the woman who spent 18 terrifying months holding his hand through prison visitations and counting the days until he could finally come home. You’re his now. Completely. And tonight, everyone knows it.

“Mrs. Reid,” Penelope giggles, slurring a little as she flings an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close on the outdoor patio.

You grin. “You have no idea how good that sounds.”

“Oh, we know.” JJ appears with a devilish smile and a stack of white envelopes tied together with gold ribbon.

“Wait—what’s this?” you ask, reaching for them as JJ’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Something special. Just a little something from your bridesmaids. We thought Spencer could use a reminder of what’s waiting for him after tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart thumping. The ribbon unties with a flick of your fingers.

The first envelope contains a Polaroid: you on the edge of the bed in white lace, legs spread slightly, garter strap snapped taut against your thigh. Another shows you from behind, peeking over your shoulder in that barely-there silk robe, your ass round and soft beneath it. The third—oh, God—is you, lips parted around a finger, eyes closed, that same white lingerie just slightly damp between your thighs.

“Jesus,” you whisper.

Emily leans in. “We helped you take them, remember?”

“I didn’t think we were actually giving them to him,” you say breathlessly, fanning yourself.

“Oh, we did.” Penelope winks. “Morgan made the handoff.”

You swallow.

Across the lawn, Spencer looks up from his conversation with Rossi, a Polaroid clenched in his long fingers.

His eyes find yours.

And darken.

There’s no mistaking the sharp inhale of his chest or the way his jaw tightens, his knuckles whitening around the edge of that photo like he might break it in two. He looks at you like a man starved. Like he’s been polite all damn day and has finally—finally—been reminded of what’s his.

You shiver under the weight of that gaze.

And then he crooks one finger.

Back home.

You barely make it through the front door before he’s on you.

Spencer slams it shut with one hand, the other already bunching up the silky layers of your dress.

“You—” he growls, “—have no idea what you’ve done.”

You gasp as he presses you into the door, mouth hot and desperate against your neck. “S-Spencer, the photos—”

“Do you know how hard it was to sit through that reception with my cock already leaking in my pants?”

His voice is hoarse, a little broken. Hungry. You clutch at his lapels as he ruts into you slowly through his dress slacks.

“You were so good,” you whisper, “so patient—”

“I’m done being patient.” He nips your earlobe, one hand fumbling beneath your dress until he finds the garter. He snaps it with a growl. “You wore this for me?”

You nod, gasping when he slides a hand between your thighs.

You’re wet. You have been since the moment you saw that look in his eyes across the lawn.

“Oh, baby…” Spencer moans, pulling back to look down at you. “Did showing me those pictures turn you on?”

Your eyes flutter. “I imagined what you’d do.”

“And now you’re going to find out.”

In the bedroom.

He doesn’t let you undress.

Instead, he bends you over the edge of the bed, hikes your dress high, and pulls the lace of your panties to the side. His mouth is on you in seconds—devouring, hungry, unrelenting.

“Oh—fuck—Spence,” you whimper, grinding back into his face, his nose buried in your ass, his tongue licking deep and possessive like he wants to brand you from the inside.

He pulls back with a wet, filthy sound. “You taste like mine,” he groans, lips shining. “You always do.”

Then he flips you over, shoving his slacks down just far enough to free his aching cock. It slaps against his stomach—thick, flushed, leaking. Your breath catches.

That same Polaroid is still in his hand.

He holds it up beside your face as he settles between your thighs.

“You looked so sweet in this,” he murmurs. “But you’re sweeter like this. Laid out for me. Ready to take all of me.”

“Show me,” you beg.

His expression darkens. “Oh, I will.”

He slides in slow—inch by inch—eyes locked on yours as your walls stretch around him. You moan long and loud, head falling back as he bottoms out.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he rasps.

You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is clutch at his shirt and wrap your legs around his waist as he begins to move, deliberate and deep, grinding into that perfect spot over and over again.

Each thrust is a statement. A reminder. You’re his. You always have been.

And tonight, you’re his wife.

Mirror, mirror.

Later, when your dress is finally off and your legs are weak, Spencer pulls you to the floor-length mirror beside the bed. You’re naked but for the garter belt, his hand firm on your jaw as he makes you look.

“See how beautiful you are?” he says softly, his cock pressing against the small of your back.

You whimper as he bends you slightly forward, one hand on your hip, the other fisting his cock. “I couldn’t stop staring at the Polaroids,” he murmurs, stroking himself. “But this? This is what they didn’t see.”

You watch in the mirror, transfixed, as he slides into you again from behind—slow and reverent. You both gasp.

“You look so good taking me like this,” he growls, wrapping a hand around your throat lightly. “Eyes glazed, mouth open—fuck—taking all of me. Like you were made for it.”

“Spencer—” You moan his name like a prayer, your body burning, trembling under the weight of his praise.

“That’s right. Say my name. Let them all hear who made you come tonight.”

His hand slips between your thighs, rubbing quick, desperate circles until you’re unraveling, coming hard with your eyes locked on the image of him owning you in the mirror.

He follows with a hoarse cry, spilling deep inside you as his hips stutter and his lips find your shoulder, moaning your name like it’s salvation.

Afterglow.

Later, tangled in sheets and slick with sweat, he kisses your wedding ring.

“I wanted to marry you the day I got out,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to waste a second more.”

You cup his face gently. “You didn’t. You’re mine now. And I’m yours.”

He smiles—sleepy, soft, sated.

But even as his eyes drift closed, you spot the Polaroid tucked into the nightstand.

And the look he gives you as he slides his hand between your thighs again?

It says he’s far from done.

[reidsfav]

"Quiet Hours"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x Reader

Spencer wakes up with you in his arms—and quietly falls harder.

cw: none major fluff

wc: 819 ( short n sweet)

this is for those who voted this to number 1 in my poll :))

...

You’re lying side by side after a movie—some slow-moving foreign film Spencer had insisted was “essential viewing”—and at some point between the opening credits and the third impassioned monologue, your eyes had fluttered shut.

The warmth of his comforter, the soft rhythm of his voice as he translated in a whisper, the faint smell of clean laundry and old paper—all of it lulls you into sleep before you even realize what’s happening.

It’s not until 3:17 a.m. that Spencer stirs awake.

He blinks at the dim light filtering through his curtains and instinctively reaches for the book on his nightstand, only to freeze mid-movement when he feels it: your weight curled into his side, arm draped across his middle, your nose buried in the rumpled fabric of his shirt.

For a moment—maybe two—he just lies there, motionless and stiff, like his neurons are short-circuiting.

You're in his bed.

You’re asleep in his bed.

Your body is warm and soft against his, and there’s the faintest puff of your breath against his neck with every exhale.

Spencer’s heart starts beating faster.

Not in a panic, not like when he’s faced with danger or stress.

No—this is something gentler, but no less intense.

He’s just never had someone do this before. Fall asleep in his bed like they belonged there. Like he was the comforting one.

He wants to commit every detail to memory.

Not just the way you look—though he catalogues that, too—but the weight of you, the trust in your unconscious touch, the way your legs have tangled with his like it was instinctual.

But of course, this is Spencer Reid. So naturally, his brain kicks into full nerd mode.

“Studies show that physical touch, particularly during sleep, can improve emotional bonding and release oxytocin,” he murmurs softly to himself, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if it holds the peer-reviewed evidence.

You shift slightly, making a sleepy sound—something soft and content—and Spencer’s voice dies in his throat.

He glances down at you. The movement makes his arm brush your waist. You don’t wake. Instead, you snuggle closer.

Spencer’s breath catches.

Oh. Oh no.

He’s definitely not going back to sleep now.

Instead, he lies awake, completely overwhelmed by the chaos in his own head. He wants to touch you—gently, maybe wrap his arm around you, maybe tangle his fingers in your hair—but he doesn’t want to wake you or make things weird or overstep boundaries.

So he settles for stillness.

Still and quiet, except for the occasional twitch of his fingers, like they’re aching to move.

At some point, he starts tracing the ceiling tiles in his head and mentally reciting the Dewey Decimal System, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

You wake up around 8:00 a.m. to the smell of coffee and the gentle sound of pages turning.

Spencer is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back leaning against one of the bed’s many pillows—he has at least eight, in various sizes, none of them matching—and he’s got a hardcover in his lap. He looks up as you stir.

“Oh—um, good morning,” he says, instantly tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep well?”

You smile sleepily, stretching under the covers. “I did. I hope it’s okay I passed out like that. Your bed is absurdly comfortable.”

He nods quickly.

“Yes. I mean, yes, it’s okay. I mean—of course it’s okay. You can sleep here anytime. If you want. Not like any time, I mean, I don’t want to assume you’d want to again but if you did, that would be statistically… I mean—” He cuts himself off with a tight-lipped smile and a visible cringe. “Sorry. Talking too much.”

You giggle, sitting up, the covers still pooled around your waist. “I liked it. You talking, I mean.”

He glances at you, then away, ears a soft shade of pink.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “Also, uh… you were very cuddly in your sleep.”

You blink, surprised—and then you laugh.

"Was I?”

He nods, looking flustered but determined to be honest. “Yeah. You, um, wrapped around me. Like a koala.”

You snort. “Well, you’re warm. And safe. You make a good tree.”

Spencer’s laugh is quiet, but genuine.

“I didn’t mind,” he adds after a second, voice soft. “Actually, I… liked it. A lot.”

You reach for his hand over the duvet. He lets you take it.

“Next time,” you say, thumb brushing over his knuckles, “you’re allowed to cuddle back.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Next time?”

“Unless you don’t want a next time.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he looks at you—really looks—and there’s something marveling in his expression, like you’ve handed him the moon and told him he could keep it.

“I want,” he says simply.

You lean forward, kiss his cheek.

He doesn’t stop smiling all day.

[reidsfav]

𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁? 𝗶 𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗼!- 𝘀.𝗿.

wc- 5k

pairing- later seasons!spencer reid x plus size!liason!reader

summary- rossi throws a pool party for the team and spencer has a very difficult time keeping his eyes off the new bau hire

warnings- alcohol consumption, it’s late seasons spencer but the og team is there cuz i said so 😚 dating experiences as a bigger girl (mentioned), insecurities as a bigger girl mentioned, but we’re on the self love healing journeyyy 🌈✨🩷, spencer’s a teensy bit insecure of his post prison bod, so much sexual tension??, cute team antics with the girls!!!! making out!!!!!! so much making out!!!!!! touching!!!!! a lil grinding!!!! but no fr fr smut sry yall im a teacher

a/n- besides the fact that the reader is plus size and a woman, there are no other physical descriptors in this fic :D pic is just for bikini reference 😚 dividers from @saradika-graphics !!

you can’t remember the last time you’ve been this relaxed. your skin shines under the golden warmth of the sun, your head spins just slightly from the frozen daiquiris you and penelope have been drinking all afternoon, you’re in your new favorite bikini- hot pink floral print with a matching sarong draped over your hips. your perch yourself on your boss’ teakwood chaise lounge in the midst of his crowded backyard, one of david rossi’s infamous pool parties in full swing.

you lean back and sip your drink, head turning towards commotion at the front gate. cheers and happy greetings are exchanged as someone enters, though you can’t see who behind the partygoers who’ve gathered to say hello. your large sunglasses thankfully disguise the anxiety laced in your gaze, a knot tightening in your stomach when you see who’s arrived- spencer reid. he’s become quite elusive in your time at the bureau, seeing as you were hired on while he was wrongfully imprisoned. he barely talks to you, won’t do so much as look at you when there’s not a case. you still think he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

his silence is never offensive, just reserved. when you’d first met him, he was stunned at the fact that they’d hired someone new in his absence, very untrusting of outsiders since his time behind bars. it’s understandable, you’d probably react the same way if you were in his shoes. you can’t help but long for his affection, his friendship. hell, you’d take a civil conversation by the coffee pot at this point if it meant getting to know more about the dr. spencer reid.

you see the way he moves with ease throughout the swarm of people at the gate, greeting him with open arms and wide smiles. he’s comfortable as he responds to these people, you can tell from his relaxed shoulders to the smile lines arching his cheeks. you ache to be a part of that, down to the bone.

you shift in your seat, gaze turning to your lap as you awkwardly sip your drink. his presence burns into your stomach, looming over you like a ghost haunting a child in the night. he floats across the pool deck, his shadow leading to the very center-the prime tanning location, penelope insisted- where you two still lay on your chairs.

“spencer!!” penelope squeals, jumping up to give him a hug.

“hey, penelope,” you hear him breathe out, hushed and tender, lips pressed to her forehead.

you adjust yourself to sit up, your feet now slipping into your sandals laid out on the concrete. your palms lay flat on the tops of your thighs as you fidget in your seat. awkwardness twists up your insides as penelope finally lets go of the man, his bright smile fading into a soft grin.

“hi,” he chirps, and it’s the most animated you’ve ever heard his voice. it’s nice, like the soft ring of birds early in the morning.

“hello, dr. reid,” the formality slips off your tongue before you can remember you’re not at work. the title pushes a laugh from deep in his chest, the apples of his cheeks tinting pink.

“oh! oh no, it’s- you can call me spencer,” he presses his lips together in an endearing half smile.

“ok…spencer,” you try the name out. it’s sweet on your tongue, absorbing the flavor of him like a hard candy. you wonder briefly if there are any other sweet parts of spencer that you can sink your teeth into.

you shake out the thought as quickly as it came, once again fidgeting in your chair so you’re facing the pool, and not your intimidatingly tall coworker.

“you should come sit with us, spence!” penelope suggests, eyes wide as she pulls over another chair. three now lay in a row, yours in the middle, and you’re entirely certain you won’t be able to last a millisecond with a shirtless spencer reid tanning next to you.

you lift your sunglasses, piercing penelope with your fiercest glare. she just smirks, cozying back into her spot as she innocently sips her drink. you let your shades fall back onto the bridge of your nose, masking your eye roll. her, emily, jj, and tara all know of the secret flame you hold for your teammate, thanks to a girls’ night featuring too many margaritas.

you couldn’t count on all your fingers and toes the amount of times they’ve all insisted that he’s just shy, that he’s never been good with beautiful women. you know what they’re trying to tell you, you just can’t let yourself give into the thought unless you hear it from him. you’ve grown to love your body, every dip and curve, your stretch marks and cellulite. still, that hurt young girl who never had a date to the school dance lingers inside, deep in a pit in the bottom of your stomach. she can’t let go of the possibility that he can’t look at you because he’s repulsed, turned off.

penelope reaches over and squeezes your hand, somehow able to read your mind. you suppose it might have something to do with the pout weighing down your lips.

“i guess bringing wine was a bad call,” you hear from beside you, and you whip your head towards spencer, nodding towards your frozen drink.

“oh!” you gasp as you connect the dots, “oh, i don’t think so!” your cheeks burn under his gaze, a hint of uncertainty in his big brown eyes, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk to him when he’d opened his mouth. you see the risk he’s taking, your heart pounding in your ears. you immediately jump to validate his worry, “rossi’s never going to complain about alcohol, you know that.”

he softens, his brow relaxing, mouth ticking upward at the corner, “that’s true, though it’s useless bringing any other type of alcohol when rossi gets his frozen margarita machine out,” spencer playfully rolls his eyes.

“that much is true, too,” you giggle, taking another sip of your drink, “he’s got daiquiris in one, margaritas in the other,” you explain, “at one point me and penelope mixed them. would not recommend,” you shudder at the memory, the tart citrus of the margarita was not so complimentary to the sweetness of the strawberry daiquiri.

he huffs out a laugh at that, one that throws his head back, “good to know…would you maybe want to come with me, see what else might be over there?” he nods back to the bar, every inch of its surface covered by a bottle of alcohol, surrounded by huge tables of food.

your heart stops, and it feels like water is swirling through your ears, the pressure pounding in your head, “yeah,” you rush out breathily, “yeah, i’d like that. i think i need a refill, too,” you gesture to your now empty cup, but you stumble as you stand from your chair.

“woah…” he holds his hands out, lightly grazing your elbows to steady you, “you sure? i can get you some water instead, maybe,” his concerned tone tells you that although it sounds like he’s giving you the option, he’s really not. you suppose he’s probably right, he is a genius, after all.

“okay,” you shrug, the mix of vitamin d and alcohol floating to your head, warming you from the inside out, “but only if you get a margarita!” you poke him in the chest, hands on your hips as you stand parallel to him. your eyes bore into his as you take in your proximity, how you can smell the sweetness of his sunscreen. in your tipsy haze, you allow your eyes to linger on his neck, just for a moment, wondering what it’d taste like to lick one long stripe up the length of it.

“deal,” he muses, slipping his own shoes back on before walking across the backyard with you. he lets you go first- ever the gentleman- and hovers his hand over the small of your back, as if he’s anticipating you to fall back into him at any moment.

“you don’t have to do that, you know,” you flip your hair over one shoulder as you gaze back at him. you can see the amusement sparkling in his eye, and your heart thumps against your chest just a bit harder, “i’m totally fi-” you’re cut off with a gasp as your sandal catches onto a rock. you would have planted face first into the tough concrete, had it not been for the long, strong arms that wrap around you in the nick of time, pulling you flush against his chest.

he’s pressed up against your back, his heart thumping a mile a minute against your shoulder, his breathing heavy in your ear, “what was that?” he murmurs into your temple, and you can feel the smirk dancing on his lips. your lashes kiss your cheeks as you let out a heavy sigh, “i’m fine,” you insist, stepping away from him and walking ahead to one of the coolers, a plastic water bottle crinkling between your fingers.

“sure you are!” his tone leaks with sarcasm, shining you his infamous close lipped smile.

you roll your eyes as you approach him at the bar, his clear plastic cup now a pale shade of yellow as his long, deft fingers lift it to his lips.

“thank you,” you relent sweetly, smiling back warmly, your heart fluttering when he returns it, “you know, i think this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me outside of the office,” your forwardness stuns you, another unfortunate symptom of the alcohol you’ve already consumed.

it takes spencer aback as well, his neck lengthening, shoulders rolling with the movement, “oh! yeah, yeah i’m sorry about that,” he responds, sheepish, but genuine, “adjusting back to my old life after being released has been tough. there-uh- there hasn’t been much time for new people in my life recently.”

the energy shifts in that moment, tension percolating between you two. you’re still at the bar, leaning your elbows on it behind you while spencer stands in front of you. very closely, all of a sudden. uncertainty strikes through his chocolate irises like lightning, your heart twisting up in knots at the sight.

“spencer, you don’t have to explain your healing process to me,” you begin, as earnestly as possible. he smiles softly at that. you continue, “you’re plenty cordial to me at work, but i would like to get to know you more, if that’s something you’d feel comfortable with?” your voice is soft, soothing, though your heart is pounding a mile a minute, anxious acidity pooling in your stomach.

you see his eyes light up, a happy little sigh escaping his lips. your cheeks heat up at the endearing noise, and you hold your breath as he prepares to speak.

“you-”

“REID!” he’s barely able to get a syllable out before he’s cut off by derek across the pool deck, seemingly quite upset that spencer has not yet followed through on his promise to swim with him.

he turns to morgan, then back to you, face flushed a furious red. he purses his lips as he tries to think of what to say. you do him one better.

“let’s go!” you chirp sweetly, heading toward the pool area, “i’ve been meaning to dip my toe in all day!” you walk in front of him, letting him watch you as you strut away.

spencer takes a minute as she walks away, his eyes scanning up and down her frame shamelessly. her bright pink bikini hugs every peak and valley of her soft figure perfectly, showcasing her body in ways he never thought he’d be lucky enough to see. the skirt draped over her hips sways hypnotically as she walks, his eyes practically rolling out of their sockets at the sight.

he saunters behind her slowly as they cross the pool deck, reveling in the show she’s giving him. his eyes grow lazy, addicted as he watches her, his tongue lolling out lazily to wrap around the plastic straw in his margarita. he sips the cold drink, the alcohol immediately rushing to his...other head, clouding his judgement until his brain is fuzzy. he finally reaches the chair penelope grabbed for him, and stops in his tracks.

she’s laid out on her own chair, mere inches from his, her body now laid out on display. she’s leaning back on her elbows, her legs extended in front of her, one knee propped up just slightly. she’s unreal, just breathtaking. his heart is beating a mile a minute the closer he approaches, and he nearly vibrates out of his skin when he sits next to her, their arms inches apart. it’s like his ears are filled with water, the world moving around him in slow motion as the only thing taking up his expensive brain is the bombshell next to him.

he’s never this needy, this gluttonous, but the sight of you electrocutes his heart, a shocking desire he feels from the deepest corner of his heart to the very tips of his toes. he can’t help but wish he’s on your mind as much as you’re on his. she may have put on a cute act by the bar, but she was right for calling him out, too.

he doesn’t speak to her, but it’s not for lack of want. when he was in prison, all he wanted was to go back to the bau, to see his family. when that day finally came, she was the last thing he’d expected. her eyes paralyzed him that day, wide and bright as she cordially welcomed him back to his position. whenever she catches his eye from his desk, or walks past him, allowing him a whiff of her shampoo, he’s frozen all over again. he feels like he’s 13 again, and he just got assigned to sit next to the prettiest girl in his ap calc class. giddy, fluttery, terrified.

he takes one last sip of his drink, for now, as he knows derek is very impatiently awaiting his company in the water. he instinctively reaches to pull his shirt off, his fingers dancing along the hem. he stops himself when his eyes catch his tummy, protruding over his swim shorts ever so slightly. he’s never really struggled with his self image all that much, but the little pouch wasn’t there before he was wrongfully arrested, so it’s a new part of his body he’s made adjustments to. the next coming of aphrodite laid up next to him was not helping his confidence, acidic nerves bubbling in his stomach.

his gaze snaps over to her, sighing a breath of relief as he sees her focus on penelope. he drops his hands, turning to wade into the pool steps. derek meets his gaze with a knowing smirk, heat spreading over his already pink cheeks.

“morgan-”

he can barely get out another syllable before he’s cut off, “let’s go, pretty boy!” he calls from the water, where he impatiently waits, “cmon, you can race me for penelope’s diving sticks,” he flashes him a classic derek morgan smile, drawling a soft, sarcastic ‘loverrr’ that only spencer can hear as he further enters the pool.

“that only sounds fun for you!” spencer flicks water at his friend, who laughs and splashes back, “what, you just gonna get your shirt soaked?” morgan asks. spencer freezes, the water only reaching his knees.

he knows derek’s only asking out of concern, he probably thinks spencer forgot. he’d never put him on the spot like that if he really knew why he’d left it on. his heart rate picks up again, and this time it’s dread pooling in his stomach, overthrowing the desire his organs housed previously. his head is fuzzy, and that’s why he acts on immediate impulse, his head whipping back to her and penelope sitting on their chairs. she’s looking right at him, of course, anxiety flooding his chest like a tsunami.

his hand involuntarily drifts to his tummy as he fiddles with a button on his hawaiian shirt, but before he can do anything, she stands. he’s wholly unprepared for what happens next- she loosens the tie holding her sarong together, and exposes even more of herself for him. she looks him right in the eye as she patters across the deck to the pool. he’s mesmerized at the light jiggle in her thigh as she walks, unable to stop his brain from imagining a scenario in which he could give her skin another reason to do that.

his gaze follows her shamelessly the entire time she moves, until she’s on the same step of the pool as him. his mouth is slightly ajar, no doubt looking like a love struck cartoon character with hearts beating out of his eyes. she seems unphased as her delicately manicured fingers lightly graze his forearm.

“i can put it back on your chair, if you’d like?” she asks sweetly, melting his heart into a lovesick puddle.

something about the way she’s looking at him, eyes soft and so, so genuine, puts his worries at ease. his fingers reach to the top button and pops it open, all while they stare each other down like they’re in an interrogation room. butterflies swarm in his gut, palpitating his heart as the tension builds, thickening with the heat.

she wades deeper into the water, his eyes glued on her figure. the water covers her up more and more, and he gulps, shaky fingers fiddling with the rest of the buttons. he’s thankful derek and penelope are too tipsy and too invested in timing his speed underwater. if they noticed this near pornographic level of tension between him and her, they’d make sure everyone else on the pool deck did, too.

she moves like she knows he’s watching her, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder, taking a peek at spencer right as he’s peeling his shirt off. he feels more exposed than ever now as he slips his arms out of his sleeves. he turns to toss the shirt onto the chair, and as his body twists, he notices the way his tummy pudges over the waistband of his shorts, the little rolls that weren’t there before prison.

he feels the water ripple around him, and he turns to find her approaching the steps he’s been frozen on for almost five minutes now. they don’t speak as she exits the pool, his brow incredulous, “you’re getting out?” he stutters, wide eyed and completely caught off guard with the way her hips sway as she climbs the steps.

she stops and turns to him, one leg straight on a step, the other reaching up to the next one. the angle she’s at makes his head spin, her figure twisting into the most delectable position, it’s a challenge for his eyes to not dip below her waist.

“i just wanted to cool off a bit, i’m gonna lay in the sun a little more while it’s still light out,” she responds sweetly, and he feels like a deer in headlights.

she wraps herself in a towel as spencer turns to derek, who had seen the entire interaction, if the smile on his face was anything to go by.

“you told me you’d swim with me!” derek accuses teasingly, pointing a finger at spencer.

spencer rolls his eyes and trudges the rest of the way in, “i’m not racing you.”

as the sun started to set, rossi and hotch each took their stance at the grills in his backyard, doling out hotdogs and hamburgers to the hungry partygoers. you sit at a long table, family style with the rest of the team. an old university sweatshirt is draped over your frame, your bathing suit now dry from your earlier escapade in the pool.

penelope immediately started whispering to you the moment you’d exited the pool, eyebrows raised like she’d seen a unicorn, “what was that?” she whispered, spencer and derek then occupied with their boyish argument.

“you saw that too?” you’d hissed back, relief flooding your chest at her validation.

“yes! girl, if you don’t do something about that…” she insinuated, and you bit your lip, glancing back at spencer. you remember the way the sun shone off his shoulders, the way his back muscles flexed as he swam. now, you sit at the team’s table, thinking about what kind of scratches you’d be able to leave on that back, how it would flex under your palms.

you’re ripped from your thoughts by the chair next to you scraping against the concrete. your head snaps up to meet the very object of your thoughts, your face immediately heating up.

“oh-sorry,” he smiles sheepishly at the grating noise, making sure to lift the chair slightly as he pushes himself into the table.

“that’s ok,” you smile sweetly, unable to be annoyed with him, “how you feelin’? derek didn’t tire you out too much?” you nudge his shoulder lightly with yours, and he blushes at the touch.

“no, no, not really,” he shakes his head, smiling down at the picnic table, “it was fun, but i missed you at the bar a few times after that.”

your heart races at the lightness in his tone, his lips flirtatiously curling upward, “well, if i’m not mistaken, some doctor told me that i needed to drink water earlier this afternoon,” you respond.

he laughs at this, and it emboldens you so much, you can’t help but reach forward, your fingers deftly moving a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of his eye. he smiles sheepishly at this, and you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of making him blush. you’re staring at each other in a comfortable silence, like two lovesick teenagers at the lunch table. it’s awkward and nervous, but giddy and exciting all the same.

“you look really pretty when you’ve spent all day in the sun,” spencer comments, and the breath is stolen from your lungs, “you’re glowing in a way i haven’t seen at the office.”

“well, being under fluorescent lights all day provides a much different glow than lounging in a chair all day,” you instinctively inflect, a natural reaction you’ve developed to compliments over the course of your life. you’re trying to be better at that, though, so you sigh, and continue, “thank you, though. that’s very nice.”

he nods at this, seeming very pleased to have made you happy. your attention is then stolen by the commotion of the team, drinks and laughter melodically flowing throughout the yard. aaron walks around taking a plethora of pictures, waiting until everyone is seated to get his own plate, of course. he’s parallel from you and spencer, his phone pinched between each of his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“smile!” he chirps to you and spencer, and the space immediately fills with tension once more.

you revel in it this time, leaning into him with a cheesy smile for the picture. his arm instinctively comes up to wrap around the back of your chair. you wish it was your shoulders, but you applaud his attempt at being respectful, despite your near debauchery by the pool. you scoot closer just slightly, wide-smiling cheeks press together as aaron clicks the photo.

you catch the glint in your unit chief’s eye as he takes the photograph. he’s profiling your body language, a knowing smirk teasing at his lips. he makes eye contact with you, raising his brows before moving on to snap pictures of the rest of the team. you take pause after the interaction, the breath being stolen from your lungs at the validation.

the rest of the meal was more of a group event, but neither you nor spencer minded. you love moments like this with your team, where you can be with each other when the circumstances aren’t so grim. as always, you’ve ended up in a juicy gossip sesh with the girls- jj, penelope, emily, and tara. you’ve talked about everything from the hottest people of the 80s and 90s- emily and tara gushed over jessica lange and jodie foster, jj and penelope both said leonardo dicaprio, while you opted for river phoenix- to how nobody’s replaced the oat milk in the work fridge. jj and penelope were particularly heated about that one, you, emily, and tara were just fine with your half and half, though.

your tipsy cackling rings through the air, mixing with the sound of jack and henry’s laughter, the low, booming voices of your superiors at the other end of the table, the clinking of glasses. the sun sets, a vision of pinks and oranges. the darker it got, the more people begin to filter out his back gate, nearly everyone was sent with tupperware full of leftovers in their hands, the classic signature of a rossi dinner party.

soon enough, it was dark, and the only people left were the team. the humidity that clings to the night air moves the party back over to the pool. some were swimming, but your toes were dipped in the water, still sitting with your girls. you catch spencer sitting on the other side of the deck, nursing a beer with derek and luke.

he’s already looking at you when you see him, a dangerous glint in his eye that wasn’t there earlier this afternoon. the pool lights cast him in a soft, angelic glow, illuminating the teasing in his brown eyes. your heart speeds up, breath hitching as his lips curl up in a smirk.

you’re eventually swayed back into the pool with the girls for a bit. it’s not long before the girls start heading inside, but it’s long enough to complete two essential tasks- the first is filling them in on everything you’d been through with spencer this afternoon alone.

you tell them about the stares, the moment in the pool, him peeling his shirt off like some action star. all four of them have extremely loud verbal reactions, penelope even splashes the water out of reflex. it draws the eyes of the rest of the team, and you have to stop yourself from glancing over at spencer, attempting to maintain a semblance of subtlety. they volunteer to eventually herd the rest of the group indoors, so that way you can have some time alone with spencer. butterflies swarm your chest at the thought, and you can’t help but take a glance at him. he’s still looking at you, the fire in his eye burning brighter.

the second task of the evening included penelope assigning mermaid tail colors to each of you, of course. each of you squeal and laugh with girlish glee at the idea, you so rarely get moments like these to be so carefree and silly. she hits the nail on the head with her assessment, too- she gives tara purple, emily is green, jj’s blue, you’re pink, and lastly, she reserves yellow for herself. the five of you laugh, reminiscent of years prior, when your biggest worry was if you’d all get your favorite color. you all did this time.

after that, emily and jj were among the first to head inside, aaron and dave following soon after. penelope and tara followed, ushering derek and luke inside as well. you stay in the pool, though, eyes burning a hole through spencer’s. you can see him gulp, and you swim to his side of the deck. you fold your arms on top of each other, ensuring your chest lays nicely atop your arms. he swallows again, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“hi, spencer,” you nearly whisper, your tone delicate yet cunning, “wanna come in for a bit? we can go inside and dry off after?” you surprise both spencer and yourself with that last question, the insinuation burning white hot between you.

he nods absentmindedly as he stares at you, his eyes nearly going black as he, once again, tantalizingly peels his button up off. he takes the long way, teasing you no doubt, rounding the edge of the pool to the steps. you meet each other in the middle, breathing heavy between you two.

“hi,” he whispers.

“hi,” you whisper back.

then, his lips are on yours.

it’s all encompassing, the soft touch of his lips flooding your senses until you’re dizzy. his large hands grab hold of your face, parting his lips just so, inhaling more of you with each shaky breath. your arms snake around his neck, pulling him closer. he moves his hands underneath the water, practically moving in slow motion as he pulls your thighs up so that your legs hug his waist. he rubs patterns into your plush skin, squeezing and massaging your softness.

“you’re so beautiful, it drives me absolutely insane,” he confesses, breathless between kisses.

“you really think so?” you whisper, tucking your head in the crook of his neck to pepper some soft kisses there. his hands creep up your thighs until they’re cupping your ass, reveling in you as his fingers sink shamelessly into your softness. his neck tastes like chlorine and sunscreen and you could eat him up. you sink your teeth into his soft skin, just slightly, and he lets out a small yelp.

“hey!” he whines, and you creep your hand up the back of his neck, lightly tugging on the hair there. you pull your head out of his shoulder to see his eyes desperate as you do it, a light ‘ooh!’ escaping his lips. you kiss him again, and again, and again. he’s just about to slip his tongue into your mouth, when an insanely bright light is shone on the two of you.

“hey, lovebirds! get outta my pool!” david shouts, and you can hear the team wolf whistling from inside.

you bury your face in the crook of his neck once more, mentally preparing yourself to face your team inside, soaking wet in a bikini, hand in hand with dr. spencer reid.

[reidsfav]

Day Off

📃Masterlist || WC: 1959 || Standalone

📚 Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

📚 Warnings: Sweeeeeeeet! Tooth-rotting sweet.

📚 Context: Spencer and BAU!Reader have been married for a couple years (1-2 years).

📚 Author's Note: N/A. 😭😭

It was an ordinary Thursday off—well, as ordinary as life could be for two members of the BAU. The day was a rare gift, a full 24 hours to just be. To enjoy each other’s company without the looming threat of an urgent call or a new case. You’d both taken the morning to run errands, wandering around Union Station in D.C., stopping at a bookstore where Spencer got lost in searching for a childhood favorite.

You’d been having a peaceful day, no bad guys to chase, no profiles to crack, just the quiet hum of people living their lives.

It was all so normal.

“I’ll be right back,” you told Spencer as you headed off toward the pharmacy a couple of stores down. “I just need to grab something real quick. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”

He looked up from a dusty pile of old books, his face lighting up with that familiar, concerned expression. “Do you want me to go with you? I don’t mind. We can come back afterward,” he offered, his voice soft, like he was afraid you might be up to something.

You smiled at him, trying to keep things light. “It’s fine, Spence. You’re busy looking for that book, remember? I’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding, but he still didn’t look entirely convinced. You could tell he wasn’t really buying it. But you needed to go alone. The moment felt important.

The pharmacy was quiet, early enough in the day that you could walk the aisles undisturbed. You moved slowly, scanning the shelves filled with pregnancy tests. Your stomach did flips as you looked at the colorful boxes, each promising to give you answers, but none of them were going to answer what was truly weighing on you.

You’d missed your period last month. You’d been feeling off for a while now. And while a part of you wanted to be excited—wanted to believe this was a new chapter, you were also terrified. Your heart raced as you picked up one box, then another, then another. Three seemed like a good number, right? Just to be sure.

But what if you weren’t ready for this? What if Spencer wasn’t? He was always so thoughtful, so meticulous, you couldn’t help but wonder if he would be ready for the kind of commitment being a parent would require. You didn’t want to disappoint him, but you weren’t sure if you were ready either.

As you stood there, reading the back of yet another test, you bumped into someone.

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t—” You froze. It was Spencer.

He was standing there, his brow furrowed, holding your wallet with an almost confused look on his face. “The last time I checked, this wasn’t the menstrual aisle.” His voice was a little playful but laced with concern. “You forgot your wallet when we left the car,” he added. He held your wallet out to you like it was just another ordinary moment.

Your heart stopped. You tried to hide the tests behind your back, your cheeks flushing crimson. “Uh… just taking the scenic route,” you muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.

Spencer’s brow quirked, and even though you could tell he was trying to keep it light, there was a spark of suspicion in his gaze. “You’re not menstruating, at least not for another two weeks. And I bought you pads last week. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You gulped. Spencer knew you better than anyone else, and you had a hard time hiding things from him. You wanted to say something, anything, to distract him, but your hands felt clammy. He was already piecing it together.

He gently grabbed your hand and pulled the pregnancy tests into view. His eyes softened, and you saw that faint flicker of realization. His voice dropped to a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the moment. “Are we going to be parents?” He didn’t sound scared or nervous, just in awe, as though he had been waiting for this moment in some quiet corner of his mind for a long time.

You swallowed hard. “I know we didn’t plan on it for a couple more years, but I missed my period last month.” You trailed off, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you.

Spencer’s expression softened even more. There was no fear, no judgment, just a warm, gentle understanding that left you breathless. He cupped your face with one hand, thumb tracing the outline of your cheek as if grounding you, reassuring you that no matter what came next, you weren’t alone.

“Sweetheart,” he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion, “I’ve wanted to be a dad for a long time. I’ve thought about it, what it would be like to raise a little one with you. I don’t want you to feel scared, or like you have to carry all of this alone. You don’t. We’re in this together, okay?”

You felt your eyes well up with tears at the sincerity in his voice, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to speak. Spencer, as always, seemed to know exactly what you needed. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” he said, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “We’re both nervous. But I know that I want this with you. I want to be a father with you. I just need you to know that I’m here for you, no matter what you decide.”

Your heart fluttered at his words. He was so sure, so confident in his feelings, but also so incredibly patient with your uncertainty. That was what you loved about Spencer—his ability to make everything feel like it would work out, no matter the obstacles.

You nodded slowly, feeling a weight lift off your chest. “I do want it. I’m just scared,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. “I’m scared we’re not ready.”

Spencer smiled, a small but reassuring smile, before placing a soft kiss on your lips. “Change isn’t always a bad thing. It’s just different. But we can do this. We’ll figure it out together. And if it’s tough, we’ll lean on each other. We always do.”

With his hand around yours, Spencer led you back to the counter, the three pregnancy tests now carefully tucked away in a small paper bag. He paid for them, then gently guided you toward the door, the weight of the moment settling between you, but also a sense of peace.

At Home

Back at your townhouse, the tests sat on the kitchen counter. You couldn’t help but pace. Spencer watched you, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. He didn’t push you. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace.

“I’m nervous too,” he admitted, his voice soft. “But whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

You nodded, resting your forehead against his chest. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” you whispered.

He smiled and pulled up a chair for you at the kitchen island, making you sit and face him. “Hey,” he started, his tone trying to lighten the mood. “You’re working yourself up over something you don’t have control over.”

You stopped walking and gave him a look. “Spence, we both know damn well that we did have control over what happened and what will happen.”

He chuckled and sat down next to you, pulling you gently into his arms. “I mean, technically we don’t have control over it. Whether or not a sperm fertilizes an egg is random. Sure, we can try to time things, but the actual fertilization process? That’s all up to chance, which sperm makes it, and whether the egg is viable at the right time. It's not as simple as we think.”

You couldn’t help but let up a little, laughing despite yourself. “It still doesn’t change the fact that this is all happening because of… well, you know you kind of had to–,” you said, giving him a pointed look.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a sly smile. “Oh? So I’m the reason we’re here, huh?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, a little tension easing. “Well, you did have to, you know... make it happen."

He chuckled, his hand resting gently on your back. “I can’t exactly say I regret it.”

You laughed for real this time, the warmth of his embrace making everything feel lighter. He kissed your forehead, his fingers tracing soothing patterns across your skin, grounding you as you both let the reality of the moment settle.

“Let’s just take a breath, okay?” Spencer said softly, his voice full of sweetness. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together.”

You smiled, your heart lifting as you leaned into him. You were far from being sure about everything, but in that moment, surrounded by Spencer’s love and patience, you felt like you could take the next step.

The timer for the tests went off. You both stood and walked toward the bathroom door, but you stopped before you opened it.

“I can’t look,” you whispered, suddenly overcome with nerves again.

Spencer squeezed your hand gently. “We’ll look at the same time,” he suggested.

With a deep breath, you both counted to three, then looked down at the tests.

Positive.

Positive.

Positive.

Spencer let out a breathless laugh. “We’re going to be parents,” he said, voice thick with joy.

You turned to him, eyes shining. “We made a life, Spence.”

He placed another kiss on your cheek, the soft brush of his lips making your heart flutter. “So... are we gonna have to move?” he asked, his voice light but filled with that underlying excitement you couldn't quite ignore.

You smiled, thinking ahead to the future—a tiny room with a crib, little baby shoes scattered around. It was a thought that still felt surreal. “Probably,” you said, your smile widening. “We only have a two-bedroom townhouse. We’re going to need a couple more rooms.”

Spencer’s eyes lit up with something between joy and playful curiosity. He stepped a little closer, his hand finding the small of your back as he tilted his head to look at you, his gaze intense but warm. “A couple more rooms, huh?” he teased, taking a step closer, his breath warm against your skin. “How many to be exact?”

You rolled your eyes, but the playful smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Well, how many do you want?”

Spencer’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. He leaned in, just close enough that you could feel the heat from his body, his thumb gently brushing against your cheek. He kissed you then—soft, sweet, and entirely teasing—a brief, chaste kiss, but one that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world.

When he pulled back, he was still grinning, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of love and playful mischief. “I’m sure we’ll figure that out, eventually.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret just between the two of you.

You leaned into him, letting the laughter bubble up from your chest. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you close, as if you were both savoring the moment before it could slip away. You rested your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your ear. His hands gently stroked your hair, fingers combing through it in a slow, calming rhythm.

The world felt simple and perfect in that moment—just the two of you, with all the joy and uncertainty of the future ahead, but knowing that, no matter what, you'd be okay.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the smile still on your lips. “We’ll figure it out, Spence. Together.”

[reidsfav]

love beyond the pages | s.r.

⊹ pov: you’re a bookshop owner and one fateful day spencer stumbles across your small shop, starting a love story ☕️

pairing: female!reader x spencer reid

category: fluff

cw: none

a/n: something short & sweet as an apology for being gone for so long. I apologize for the lack of borders, I had to sacrifice them to finish the post. also please ignore the dates on some of the messages, it truly shows how long I've been attempting to work on this post. please like/comment/reblog if you liked, this was so much fun to make and i want to continue making smaus!

spencer masterlist main masterlist

yourusername

♪ Like the Movies • Laufey

Liked by yourbestfriend and 189 others

yourusername my idea of the perfect day; being surrounded by books, cats, and pretty boy geniuses

yourbestfriend that caption…anything to share with the class?

yourusername @/yourbestfriend pretty boy that claims to read 20,000 words per minute came into the shop today…pretty sure i fell in love

yourfriend1 cutest bookshop owned by the cutest girl

♥️ by author

click for more comments…

February 17, 2025

penny.penelope

Liked by yourbestfriend, dr.swreid, and 72 others

penny.penelope Family Dinners @ Rossi’s

@/dr.swreid @/AaronHotch @/jj.jareau

yourbestfriend ugh, you’re so cute penny

penny.penelope @/yourbestfriend Love you cutie!!

ChocolateThunder no picture of me babygirl?

penny.penelope Those are for our eyes only 😉

click for more comments…

March 3, 2025

message between you (blue) and your best friend (grey)

em.prentiss

♪ Girls on Film • Duran Duran

Liked by jj.jareau, penny.penelope, yourusername, dr.swreid and 157 others

em.prentiss girls night hosted by the best @/yourusername

@/penny.penelope @/jj.jareau @/yourbestfriend

yourusername i only keep the shop open after hours for my favorite angels

em.prentiss I adore you so much, I could kiss you on the lips

yourusername don’t temp me with a good time, em

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June 23, 2025

messages between you (blue) and spencer (grey)

yourusername

♪ Sweet Life • Frank Ocean

Liked by yourbestfriend, penny.penelope, dr.swreid and 200 others

yourusername a little slice of my sweet life 🍰💌

yourbestfriend huh i wonder who took the first pic

yourusername you’ve mentioned this question a few times

penny.penelope I had the best time at your shop! Can’t wait to go back.

yourusername oh you angel, i loved hosting girls night! you’re welcome any time.

yourfriend3 is this a soft launch i smell…

yourusername i guess we’ll never know

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August 28, 2025

dr.swreid

Liked by jj.jareau, yourusername, em.prentiss, and 15 others

dr.swreid Date night with my pretty girl

ChocolateThunder boy genius, did i read that caption right?

penny.penelope If that’s who i think it is im going to SCREAM

AaronHotch Happy for you.

em.prentiss I got up and did a cartwheel

click for more comments…

October 16, 2025

yourusername

♪pretty boy • the neighbourhood

Liked by dr.swreid, em.prentiss, yourbestfriend, and 187 others

yourusername secret's out @dr.swreid

penny.penelope I KNEW IT!!!!

yourusername i’m surprised you didn’t hack his phone to get this information

ChocolateThunder so this is little miss pretty girl

yourusername the one and only

yourbestfriend i’m crying tears of joy right now

yourusername as if you didn’t know for months

dr.swreid I love you, my angel girl

yourusername forever and then some my pretty boy

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November 21, 2025

--

taglist: @notarobotipromise @pleasantwitchgarden @taygrls @powerline-valley @october-baby25 @forevermorepassionate @lover-of-books-and-tea

*note* this is the last time I'm going to be using this taglist, so if you want to be added to the new one please click the linked post above!

[reidsfav]

put a bow on it | s.r.

in which Spencer is in charge of doing both of your daughters hair in the morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: twin dad!spencer AND girl dad!spencer. twin jealousy. word count: 1.5k a/n: twin dad!spencer!!!! a pathologicalreid first!! this one goes out to arya because she let me ramble about this idea lolololol

The pout that was being reflected in the mirror reminded him of you. At another time, he would’ve found it cute, adorable even, that one of your daughters had adopted your mannerisms, but right now, he was running late. 

He’d spent hours over the past week assuring you that you didn’t need to move your appointment this morning and he was more than capable of getting the girls off to school on his own. Breakfast was easy enough—they liked his french toast more than yours anyway—and the girls were old enough to lay their own outfits out the night before, but what he hadn’t anticipated was what happened after their teeth were brushed and he was handed two combs. 

It was something you enjoyed, individualizing the girls’ hair every day before school, but aside from a classic ponytail, he wasn’t well versed in styling their hair. Naturally, a ponytail wasn’t going to cut it today. 

“I wanted mommy to curl it,” June insisted, pointing at the curling iron that was neatly hung away from the reach of tiny hands. She’d been the first to scowl at the offer of a ponytail, insisting that her hair had to be done precisely the way she wanted it. 

Eyeing the hot tool warily, Spencer quickly tried to put together an excuse that the five year old would accept, but he came up empty. “I don’t think I should use something hot until mommy shows me how to use it,” he tried to explain. 

As if on cue, June tilted her head to the side curiously and asked, “Why not?” 

Admittedly, he had walked right into that one, but he sighed and scrambled for the answer, “Because you might get hurt.”

Big, brown eyes stared up at him, waiting for further explanation to satisfy her inquisitive nature, but instead of it coming from him, it came from her twin, standing on the other side of the counter. “It’s like the stove,” Edie offered, trying to climb up on the bathroom counter and frowning when Spencer gently tugged her down. 

Realization flooded June’s eyes, “Oh, you need an adult to use the curler.” She rattled off the answer that made sense to her. 

With both girls standing on their respective stepstools—engraved with their names and bedazzled by Aunt Penelope—Spencer took a deep breath. “Exactly,” He conceded. “So, what do you want me to do with your hair?”

“Braids, please!” Edith piped up with her request, but those were outside of Spencer’s skillset. You’d been teaching him how to braid the girls’ hair, but it was difficult to find the time and to get to stay still. Fruit snack bribery only got you so far. 

June looked pensively in the mirror, shrugging off her frustration about the curling iron and looking up at Spencer, “Can you do a half-pony?” 

“I can’t, but I appreciate your manners,” he responded to Edith first before turning to June, “Can you show me what a half-pony is?” He asked, making a note of the hairstyle jargon that he was getting a crash course on. 

June nodded happily, pulling strands of her hair back from her face and gathering them at the back of her head in her little fingers, “And then you do a bow.” 

He frowned slightly, “A bow?”

Junie beamed, “Yeah, a matchy bow.”

Spencer was familiar with the tote filled with bows that you’d invested in over the years, he was convinced they had a bow for every outfit. “Can you pick a bow?” He moved the tote on the counter in front of her, hoping to solve the issue of needing a matching bow by having her choose one on her own. He turned his attention to Edith, who had traded expressions with her twin and now bore a pout. “What’s wrong, honey?” 

“I wanted braids,” Edie explained, dragging her fingers down each side of her head to show that she wanted french braids. Disappointed tears welled in her eyes, and the fact that Spencer couldn’t fix the issue broke his heart. 

He frowned slightly, “Hey, no tears,” he cooed. “What if I try to do little braids?” His offer was a carefully calculated plan, using words that he’d heard you use before when talking about the girls’ hair. These weren’t french braids, little braids would start at the base of her neck and go to the ends of her hair. 

Woefully, Edith nodded, fiddling with the cuff of her sweater while she eyed the bows her sister was deliberating on. “Can I have a bow too?” 

“You can have two if you’d like,” Spencer proposed, “One for each braid.” He accepted the bow that June was holding out for him and slid the tote over to Edith. 

June gaped at his offer, “I want two bows!” 

Somewhere, he had misstepped, “She gets two bows because she wants two braids, you only wanted one pony.” He was fairly certain he was approaching pigtail territory, and his almost never turned out even. 

“I want two!” June exclaimed, waiting a moment before speaking up again, “Please.” 

Spencer nodded reassuringly, “Okay, but no more changes,” he told her, knowing she was already on her third hairstyle of the day. 

She nodded happily at his compromise, producing the matching bow that she had already fished out of the tote for him. June teetered on the balls of her feet excitedly at the prospect of getting pigtails while he sprayed her hair with detangler, just barely starting to comb her hair back for the pigtails when she flinched away from him. 

His heart jumped for a moment, fearful that he’d pulled too hard on her head, but he relaxed when she spoke up, “That’s not how mommy does it.” 

No, he supposed it’s not how you would do it, but then again, you would’ve been able to curl her hair the way she wanted, avoiding the realm of pigtails entirely. “Trust me on this,” he tried to reassure her despite his rapidly dwindling confidence. 

June put her head back in place, letting him brush her hair back before parting it down the middle. He glanced up at the mirror, watching Edith as she took her own brush in her hands and started raking it through her hair. “I’ll do yours in a minute, Edie,” he told her, not wanting her to feel like she had to do it on her own. 

“She always goes first,” Edith whined, slightly out of character for your bashful daughter. Spencer frowned slightly, not realizing her had conformed to the general order of things. 

“Cuz I’m older,” June countered pointedly, glancing up at her father to gauge his reaction to her claim, but Spencer remained stone faced. Both of you had decided to refrain from revealing which twin is older, and it’s saved you from dozens of arguments along the way. 

Spencer hummed, wrapping the first elastic around June’s hair, “I’ll let mommy know, and you can go first tomorrow.” 

Junie huffed at his dedication to keeping the secret, but her scowl turned into a grin when she saw her hair. A golden rush of victory led to a sigh of relief from him, clipping her bows to her pigtails while she bounced in excitement. He had a sneaking feeling she didn’t act this way when you did her hair, meaning all of this joy was solely for him. 

When it was Edie’s turn, Spencer still combed through her hair, even though she had done most of it on her own. She fiddled with the peeling laminate of the bathroom counter while he braided her hair, talking himself through the process—left, center, right, center—and hoping he wouldn’t get them mixed up. 

June was unable to stand still any longer, so Spencer told her she could go watch cartoons until it was time to leave. “Is she older?” Edith mumbled slightly. 

Spencer shrugged, tying off her braid with a bow that previously belonged to a doll, “Does it matter?”

She sighed in a way that only a five year old could, “Guess not.”

“You’re still twins, you were born on the same day,” Spencer tried to explain in a way she would accept. 

“Is that why we have the same birthday?” She asked, fumbling through her words—birfday. 

He hummed a confirmation, “Yeah, because your birthday is the day you were born.” He tied off the second braid before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. 

She was quiet for a moment, he thought she was pondering birthdays, so he was surprised when she whispered, “Daddy?” 

“Yeah, baby?” He responded. 

Pointing at her hair, Edith gave him a sympathetic look while silently showing him the huge chunk of hair that had been left out of the braids.

“I think mommy’s gonna have to give me another braiding lesson,” he told her, unraveling the braid so he could try it again. 

Edie nodded mournfully, “I think so too.”

[reidsfav]

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.

[reidsfav]

🎈First Days

OKAY SO you know that one post and its the husbands first day of college and their sons first day of school? Spencers first day as a professor and babies first day of school‼️

also my patreon i post cool stuff there!

[reidsfav]

spencer reid x shy!reader

[reidsfav]

SHY!MEDIA-LIAISON!READER

meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

find out what she's listening to ↳ [✧ click to listen ✧]

if you ever wanna see her try to be normal online: ↳ [⋆ click to stalk ⋆] you didn't get this from her.

if you've ever wondered how she always looks like a 2008 indie film extra: ↳ [✿ style breakdown (ish) ✿]

personality

she's the team's new media liaison, which means she's great at writing press releases, answering questions, and managing the public narrative. what she's not good at is everything else socially.

she's soft-spoke, chronically flustered, and deeply committed to making sure no one ever finds out how often she thinks about spencer reid hands. she overthinks everything, replays conversations, and says "um" way too much for someone with a functioning vocabulary. she's polite to a fault, avoids eye contact, and when she does manage to say something bold, she freaks out in the aftermath. it's not that she doesn't have thoughts, she has so many thoughts, she just isn't great at saying them out loud without dying a little.

every crush she's ever had has been a prolonged slow burn built entirely on glances and daydreams. she gets overwhelmed easily, especially by gentle attention, and tries to cope with it by pretending she's totally fine.

but once you actually get to know her ... oh. ohhh. she's all dry wit, sneaky comebacks, and intelligent observations. she has this uncanny ability to read people, to pick up on details other miss, and she can ruin your entire worldview with one delivered comment if she wanted to.

hobbies

collecting vinyl records

annotating books in pencil with neat handwriting and sad little notes like ugh and this made my heart hurt. occasionally circles a line just to come back to it later and cry

making spotify playlists with super specific titles like staring at a ceiling fan in july

watching old interviews and concert footage from artists from the 60s-80s

taking long, aimless walks with no destination

pressing flowers in thick old dictionaries that she rescued from library donation piles. has definitely done this on the job once (sorry, emily)

likes

the sound of a record cracking before the music starts

book dedications that say you know who you are (she absolutely does not know who they are, but still cries about it)

drunk cigarettes

when spencer wears his watch on the inside of his wrist

old store signage with peeled paint and missing letters

highlights in soft ink colors (especially dusty pink and slate blue)

rainy mornings and staying in bed an extra 10 minutes just because

hearing a song she loved in high school

people who ask "did you get home safe?"

old postcards and paper maps.

dislikes

being interrupted

when someone talks over her favorite part of a song

when someone compliments her and she forgets how to respond so she just says you too like an idiot

small talk that feels performative

voicemail

jeans that don't sit right

open office layouts

when someone brings up astrology and says oh you're definitely a [sign] and it's... not hers

when someone knocks on her door and she wasn't expecting anyone

when spencer reads aloud of her shoulder and she forgets how words work

relationships with the team

rossi

affectionately intimidating older man. confusing father figure vibes. he calls her kid and she panics every time like she's being graded. he respects her but teases her mercilessly, always asking if her press statements were "written in sonnets" or if she's "gonna cry over a press releases again."

and she wants to impress him so badly and is lowkey convinced he thinks she's some fragile little mouse. except he does notice when something's off and has a scary-accurate read on her despite never making a big deal out of it.

emily

hyper-competent mentor she's half in love with, half afraid of. emily terrifies her in the beginning, mostly because she's so effortlessly cool and sarcastic and seems like the kind of person who can smell fear. over time, though, emily becomes one of her softest supporters. they bond over books and their shared ability to dissociate at social events.

jj

jj is so good to her it's suspicious. it's too kind. jj is the only one she feels okay being openly anxious around, because jj has that calm, nuturing, steady energy that doesn't really demand anything in return. shy!reader definitely cried in front of her once and jj just held her hands and didn't ask questions.

garcia

chaotic good fairy godmother. constant overstimulation. garcia is overwhelming in the best way. she immediately adopts shy!reader like a puppy she found in the rain. constantly texting her things like "this is your color palette" and "what song would play if you and spencer kissed under starlight?" shy!reader is horrible at texting back, but garcia doesn't care. she sends memes and playlists anyway.

luke

reluctant siblings. emotionally blunt but weirdly gentle. their relationship starts awkwardly. like ... very awkwardly. shy!reader finds him too handsome and too quiet and he finds her kind of emotionally unreadable. he once said "you good?" and she said "what? no. yes. i'm fine. did i do something?" and he just blinked.

but over time they develop a weirdly function dynamic, he doesn't talk a lot, she doesn't need him to. he probably leaves snacks on her desk and calls her silent but deadly.

tara

academic respect with real emotional undertow. i think they bond over psychology and trauma research first. tara sees her, really sees her, understands how someone can be so emotionally intelligent and still struggle to speak up in a room. shy!reader looks up to her so much it almost hurts. their conversations are deep, infrequent, and always hit too hard.

matt

respectful distance + weird shared humor. matt is a little too normal. he has kids. he reads the room well. at first, they don't talk much. he doesn't push her, and she appreciates that more than she can say. eventually, they bond over something stupid (maybe some press conference or someone mispronouncing her name) and now they share this deeply specific deadpan humor that no one really gets. he's protective of her in that dad friend way. never patronizing thought.

[reidsfav]

GLUE MYSELF SHUT

it starts with ice on your tongue and ends with spencer trying not to picture what else his mouth might be good at

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, not explicit smut but it's suggestive, post prison spencer, fem reader, fluff, reader has an oral fixation, talk of alcohol, alcohol consumption (wine), spencer having some semi super-naughty thoughts, he’s obsessed with her lips, he’s so down bad it’s not even funny. except it is. i find it hilarious. i feel like the ending was weird but i stared at it for like 6 business days and couldn’t figure out how to fix it so #word wc: 1.6k request: here

The autonomic nervous system, when overengaged, compulsively chases external release valves. Little, repetitive distractions employed to dissipate internal pressure. Cognitive behavior theory identifies these as primitive anxiety-management strategies. Lip-biting, skin-picking, hair-twisting.

For you, the chosen method consists of timed intervals involving ice cubes, precisely fourteen minutes apart. Pinching it between cautious fingertips, rolling it contemplatively, savoring the brief burst of cold against skin.

He watches, a reluctant voyeur to the slow meltwater streams trickling along your fingers in mercury rivulets, until finally disappearing past parted lips. His eyes shutter sideways, hurriedly silencing the part of his brain that longs to quantify the thaw rate versus thermal conduction properties of ice on the surface of your tongue.

You’re studying a painting in the corner of the restaurant — abstract oils bleeding into one another in nebulous fashion behind Emily’s shoulder. Spencer finds himself studying you, an equally abstract form of art. You’re a fan of art. He’s seen your tendency to pause at gallery plaques, eyes tracing curatorial notes while your fingers twitch involuntarily, as though fighting the impulse to physically touch the described textures.

He isn’t much different at this moment. 

You’re never exacting, never critical of the things you see. You’re easy to please in the purest sense, content to absorb shapes and colors simply because they exist, acknowledging beautiful things without demanding it prove itself worthy.

It makes him wonder, morbidly, if you’re easy to please in other ways. 

Do you make noises when someone kisses you properly? Would your thighs tremble if they whispered how lovely you were, over and over again? Could you come from just a few well-placed touches?

He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.

He shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts. He’s repeated the admonition several times already, a silent internal chant that does nothing to stem the tide because here you are, unknowingly feeding it.

Your lips gleam with condensation, a lone droplet suspended just above your mouth, a tiny, inadvertent physics demonstration awaiting disruption.

His thumb tingles impulsively, a raw, tactile curiosity urging him to test the exact point at which tension collapses, to feel moisture yield to pressure.

He blinks hard, almost violently, screwing his eyelids shut in an effort to sever the treacherous visual connection tethering him precariously to your mouth. His gaze then drops like ballast to the nearest neutral object — his plate, where a roasted carrot glares back up at him with bland contempt.

Spencer coughs into a closed fist, a pathetic smokescreen for the heat scalding up his throat, licking at his ears like flame-starved oxygen.

With determined resolve, he refocuses, or at least pretends to, zeroing in on Rossi’s dramatic discourse about the fermentation processes and barrel chemistry. Wine science, he assures himself, is safe, dry, deeply unsexy. Unlike you. Unlike the mental imagery of your mouth encircled around other, less work-appropriate things.

These team dinners are, in most cases, a slow bleed. A sensory minefield dressed in linen napkins and over-loud laughter. Spencer doesn’t resent the company, he loves them, every single one, but the sound never stops, the social current too nonlinear to keep up with.

Noise and light and movement pile upon each other until his nervous system blinks seven different shades of red.

So yeah, usually, he counts minutes and builds exit strategies.

But tonight, that never happens. There’s no grit behind his eyes, no anticipatory urge for flight. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of equilibrium and the certainty that it begins and ends with you.

Every shy laugh you offer at Morgan’s jokes, every awkward tuck of your hair behind your ear when attention veers too close to you, every furtive glance his way like you’re reassuring yourself he hasn’t dematerialized between breaths.

He notices it all. Worse, he likes it. Relishes it in a way that feels almost parasitic when he dares to think about it too long.

You inch closer, lowering your voice to be aimed at him. “Do you think Rossi would be crushed if he found out I genuinely can’t taste the difference between this and, like, Welch’s?”

Spencer bites back an immediate grin, angling himself toward you until the barest fraction of space remains between your shoulders.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“So that’s a yes, then?”

“Pretty much.” He slides his glass your way. “Here, try this one. Rossi said it’s supposed to have subtle oak notes. I think that’s just the polite way of saying it doesn’t feel like lighter fluid.”

You accept his glass, fingertips brushing his as you take it. 

Spencer’s eyes cling to your mouth as you sip, lips parting over the same place his touched, sealing over it perfectly like you were made to erase him and replace him in one motion. 

When you pull back, the wine stains your lips in a dark, sultry crimson. He imagines pressing his mouth to yours until the color smears, until it becomes something new altogether — a hue birthed from shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats. He wonders what saturation your mouth would take on if it were shaped around his name.

Spencer recognizes that he might be one errant breath away from ruin.

There are other people here, he reminds himself. Polite company. His colleagues, no less, who are presumably not here to watch him experience this kind of deranged attention he’s directing toward you. He’s certain he must be blushing, overheating, or having a close, conversational strow. Each scenario feels equally plausible, equally shameful, equally likely to leave him socially incapacitated.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised in patient confusion. Three long, interminable seconds crawl by before Spencer realizes you’re awaiting a response.

Shit.

“What?” he blurts, louder than intended.

“I said I don’t think I have the palate for this one. Kind of tastes like overpriced raisins.”

Spencer bobs his head eagerly. “Right. Yeah. No, I — agree.”

Your smile is soft but searching as you seem to follow his thought process and come up short. Spencer’s heart kicks harder in his chest. He fumbles for normalcy and overshoots.

“The raisin flavor, it’s probably residual sugar. Or the grape variety, certain grapes naturally have that characteristic. Sometimes they’re intentionally allowed to over ripen, concentrating sugars. Could also be oxidation. Or, possibly, microbial spoilage, though that sounds bad, it’s usually done on purpose, beneficial spoilage. Controlled spoilage.”

“What kind of grapes do they use for that, then?” Your voice is tentative, uncertain, as though worried the question might sound overly simplistic.

It’s not. It’s absolutely fine, ideal, even. Except Spencer’s concentration evaporates instantly when your tongue flicks gently across your lower lip, leaving behind a glossy sheen.

Suddenly, grapes don’t exist. Language doesn’t exist. Spencer himself might barely exist.

“Usually Muscat or Zinfandel,” he manages at last, “They, uh, leave them on the vine longer to intensify sweetness.”

You laugh under your breath, pushing the stem of the glass back toward him. “Makes sense, though I might not be the best judge. My mom used to say that anything that didn’t taste like peach schnapps wasn’t worth the bottle.”

Spencer’s mouth opens, poised to respond, but your hand is already in motion, fingers dipping into your glass for another cube of ice. He watches as your thumb gently glides over its edges. Checking for symmetry, perhaps. You bring it to your mouth and he doesn’t blink, can’t. There’s a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue against transparent ice, the slight hollowing of your cheeks.

All sentence structure evaporates, replaced by a pounding rush of blood to his temples and other less cooperative places. 

“That’s…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Your um. Your mom’s schnapps rule.”

“Oh.” You cock your head. “I always thought it was kinda trashy.”

“It’s not,” he says, too fast. “I’ve heard worse opinions about alcohol.”

“Yeah?” Your purse your lips and the ice shifts, creating a temporary distortion in the shape of your cheek. “Like what?”

Spencer watches the dent smooth out, watches how the overhead lights refract across your skin — warmer along the apple of your cheek, cooler where it softens into shadow near your jaw. A perfect gradient, like a masterwork in motion. A living chiaroscuro. Oil paintings where the subject glows not because of the paint, but because of its depth was coaxed out by patient and loving hands.

He wonders who has painted you in that light.

You mentioned your mother and he wants to know more. What was she like? Did she nurture your curiosity, or did she scold it? Was she tender, or tired? Did she sing while she cooked? Did she let you cry, or did she rush to clean it up? 

And your father, was he there? Was he gentle? Did he hug you with both arms, or with silence? Did he make you feel small in the way children should, protected, or in the way they shouldn’t, invisible?

Spencer hopes, deeply, that they were kind. That you were someone’s favorite part of the day. That you grew up held, not just housed.

He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone romantically. Not seriously. He suspects he’d know, suspects there’d be signs. Someone waiting at the door. A name that surfaces too often. 

But you probably have been with people before. Respectful ones, preferably.

“Like how some people can’t tell the difference between a five-hundred-dollar Bordeaux and… grape juice,” he finally says, quirking a brow. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.” 

Spencer sees the instant when your brain catches up with your words, cheeks flooding with heat, eyes widening incrementally, mouth parting in a mortified ‘O’.

“I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.”

Your expression is a fascinating disaster, eyebrows drawn tight, lips flattened into a line like you’re hoping the pressure alone might rewind time and vacuum every syllable back into your throat.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s imagination flickers to life, promptly supplying him with an intensely distracting scenario involving precisely how well his tongue works when applied directly to you.

“Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”

Except he hadn’t, not immediately. His heartbeat already sprinting ahead of him, generously pumping oxygen to regions he’d strongly prefer remain switched off. He briefly considers explaining the basis of verbal slips — the Freudian slip theory, perhaps — but decides against it. 

Better to pretend that his mind hasn’t already replayed your words more times than strictly necessary.

One day he’ll show you.

shy reader is part of a stand-alone series! you can read more here!

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[reidsfav]

I'LL SAY, WILL YOU MARRY ME?.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ S. REID

SUMMARY ৎ୭ falling in love with spencer reid was never a question, only an inevitability. it was in the way he remembered things you barely remembered saying, the way he defied probability just to make you smile, the way he learned you like you were his favorite subject. four times he surprised you—quietly, sweetly, in ways only he could. and then, when it was your turn, you made sure to give him a surprise worth remembering

WARNINGS ಇ. excessive fluff, spencer reid being the most thoughtful man alive, reader being absolutely whipped, the bau being the ultimate group of enablers, and just an overwhelming amount of love A/N ಇ. my first 4 + 1 fic for spencer, and i had to make it disgustingly sweet. this man was made for the softest love. i wrote this with heart eyes the entire time. hope you love it as much as i do ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 2,524

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The first time Spencer surprised you, it wasn’t with some grand romantic gesture or an intricately thought-out plan—it was with a single sentence, delivered so casually you almost missed it.

You were at the BAU, perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, absently flipping through a book he’d left open while he and Derek were mid-conversation about something you weren’t entirely following. The buzz of the bullpen droned around you, keys clacking, phones ringing—nothing unusual. You had half a mind to start daydreaming when you caught the tail end of Spencer’s words, his tone as effortless as if he were reciting a grocery list.

“—kind of like the 1972 edition of The Last Unicorn, you know, the one with the misprint where the dedication is in the wrong place. That’s her favorite edition. She mentioned it once, so if you ever see a copy, let me know.”

You blinked.

Your favorite edition? The one with the misprint? The edition you had rambled about once—once—over takeout months ago? The conversation had been a passing thought, a fleeting mention between bites of lo mein, something you’d figured was lost to the ether.

But no. Of course, Spencer remembered.

Derek smirked, a slow, knowing expression creeping across his face as he shifted his gaze to you. “Damn, pretty boy. You writing a dissertation on your girl or something?”

Heat surged up your neck so quickly it was a miracle you didn’t combust on the spot. “Spencer—”

“What?” Spencer blinked at you, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. “You said it was important to you. Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Because I said it once. Months ago. In passing.”

He frowned, as if the very concept of forgetting something you loved was utterly foreign to him. “You love it. That makes it important.”

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You weren’t sure what to do with the way he looked at you, all soft certainty and quiet devotion, as if remembering the smallest details of your happiness was second nature to him.

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”

Spencer barely acknowledged him, tilting his head at you. “Did I say something wrong?”

You exhaled a laugh, light and breathless. “No, Spence. Not at all.”

You were still flustered. Still shocked. But more than anything, you were his. And that made all the difference.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.

A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.

The game itself was one of those—the kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.

Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no one’s won that all night.”

You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. “Figures.”

With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didn’t think much of it—he probably got distracted by something, as he often did.

It wasn’t until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.

You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.

Your mouth parted in shock. “Spence. No.”

Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. “Yes.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“It’s all physics.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. “The way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angle—”

“You’re telling me you mathed the carnival?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Technically, I scienced it.”

Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. “Boy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?”

Spencer, deadpan, said, “Would you rather I hacked it for evil?”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.

Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. “You liked it.”

You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, voice full of wonder, “you are ridiculous.”

His expression faltered. “But in a good way?”

You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Yes,” you mumbled against his shoulder. “In the best way.”

And as if he hadn’t already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, “Good.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

It started as a habit you barely noticed—something instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, you’d slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.

And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.

“I hate not knowing what you’re saying,” he admitted once, after you’d spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. “It’s like…watching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.”

You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.

You didn’t think he’d actually do anything about it.

But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.

“Spencer,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “I literally did it last week, and I swear to God—”

You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.

Or so you thought.

Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer just…sighed. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice annoyingly soft. “You feel like you’re always the one keeping things in order, and it’s frustrating when I get caught up in my work and don’t notice.”

You froze.

Your brain froze.

Your soul left your body.

“Did you just—?”

Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadn’t just rocked your entire world. “I learned.”

“You learned?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. “You use it when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re really happy. When you’re really upset. I wanted to be able to—” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to understand you. All of you.”

You were reeling.

Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.

The worst part? He wasn’t even bragging about it.

He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Say something else,” you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.

Spencer’s lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your language—something soft, warm, achingly tender.

You didn’t need a translation. You felt it.

And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldn’t even need a ring to say yes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The BAU wasn’t exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a while—when the cases weren’t weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breathe—someone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.

You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.

Spencer.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you teased, raising a brow.

“I don’t,” he said. “Or, well—I told you I don’t.”

Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

“Spencer,” you laughed, trying to plant your feet. “What are you—?”

And then he spun you.

Spun you.

Not clumsily, not awkwardly—gracefully, like he’d been doing this for years, like he’d memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.

Your breath caught.

“You lied,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Spencer had the audacity to smirk. “I omitted.”

You wanted to be annoyed—really, you did—but it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.

And then, over the music, someone yelled—loud, clear, amused.

"Put a ring on her, Reid!"

The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencer—adorably, unbelievably—went scarlet.

But you?

You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.

And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

You should’ve known things wouldn’t go exactly to plan.

But in your defense, you did the math.

And for a while, everything was going perfectly.

The entire BAU was in on it—except Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didn’t suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.

Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.

“Derek, the ribbons don’t loop like that,” you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. “They’re supposed to be elegant and flowy, not—” you gestured wildly at the mess he’d made, “—that.”

Derek scoffed. “Princess, I think we’re getting a little dramatic over some bows.”

“You’re dramatic over football games,” you shot back. “Let me have this.”

JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was perfect.

And then, the door opened.

At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit you—thick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And that’s when you turned.

And saw Spencer.

Standing in the doorway.

Everyone. Froze.

Your heart plummeted.

“NO, NO, NO—” You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. “YOU CAN’T BE HERE YET! YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CA—”

Spencer blinked. “You… did math?”

“That’s not the point!”

Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.

“Hotch was supposed to distract you,” you accused, glaring at the universe itself.

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, after about ten minutes of his ‘So, Reid, how’s work lately?’ routine, I figured I should leave him alone.”

You groaned. “Dammit.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you were—standing in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldn’t quite solve.

But then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Curious.

And you realized—it didn’t matter.

The plan had never mattered. Only he did.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Okay, well, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, but—” You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“Oh.”

And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.

“Spencer, I have never met anyone like you,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “You remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because that’s just who you are. You love me so much that it’s written into every detail of your life, and I—I just—”

Your voice broke.

Your vision blurred.

Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a mess—sniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that should’ve been poetic but were just loud.

“There’s a reason girls don’t do this,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.

Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.

You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. “But I figured you’d appreciate an unexpected variable for once.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “And I love you so much it terrifies me.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, “Damn, pretty boy really does have it bad,” and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.

But none of it mattered.

"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"

Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Of course, yes,” and you knew—down to your bones—that this was the best equation you had ever solved.

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

[reidsfav]

౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ my boyfriend ? sorry, that’s my husband !!!

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─ IMPORTANT NAMES ☆

☆ pairing: husband!spencer x wife!reader

☆ summary: how your best friend helped your daughter come into the world.

☆ warnings / tags: fluff! SOOOO MUCH GARCIA MY BB! WC: 1.3K

☆ author's note: someone requested a fic about how garcia found out reader’s and spencer’s daughter is named after her, but i wanted to write a fic about how it led to it & how she reacted!! enjoy

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST

you've always believed that you can have multiple soulmates during your lifetime; you found your romantic soulmate in the form of your husband; dr. spencer reid. one of your platonic soulmates though, came in the form of the glittery unicorn-loving ray of sunshine that is penelope garcia.

you met spencer's team / second family a year after you'd gotten together, and although you got along with all of them, the perky woman who showed you pictures of her cat within moments of meeting her became your best friend within weeks of knowing her.

not only did you two go on weekly brunches with bottomless mimosas, random shopping trips for whatever excuse you could find, or spend time trying to find the perfect tea shop, but you went to her for everything, and she, unlike most people, never judged you. not even when you'd had doubts about your relationship with spencer, when you were scared about if the two of you would last due to how often he was gone. she simply listened to you, and gave you the best advice she could.

penelope was the first one you told about spencer proposing to you (of course, derek had gotten there first. he could never keep secrets from her), and you'd asked penelope to be your bridesmaid, the woman squealing in delight for five straight minutes when you asked her, and immediately after accepting, she started squealing about how she wanted to give you the perfect wedding for you two.

spencer had seen penelope as his sister, but almost as soon as you met her, penelope became your sister too.

penelope was also the first one to find out about your... condition. she'd called you when spencer had gotten into a hostage situation, and without thinking, you rushed to the BAU headquarters in quantico, absolutely frantic; they wouldn't even let you in until you called penelope in tears and she came to the lobby and claimed you as her visitor.

"what's going on?" she asked softly as soon as she got you to sit down in her personal batcave, a small frown on her face. you were still sniffling, but you'd managed to get the tears to stop flowing, "reid's been in these kinds of situations before, and you've never been this freaked out."

"if... if something happens to him..." you sniffled, "he'll never know." "he'll never know what? that you love him? he knows- oh."

you interrupted penelope's sentence simply by pressing your hand on your stomach, "you're... wow." "yeah..." you chuckled dryly, "wow." "how far along are you?" "ten weeks. i just found out a few weeks ago. i wanted to keep it a secret from him until the wedding."

"oh, that's so obnoxiously adorable!" penelope exclaimed, taking your hands in hers, "trust me, he's going to be fine. and in a few weeks, you're gonna he married, and you're gonna get to tell him that he's going to become a dad and he'll be over the moon!" penelope pulled you into a hug, "he's always made it home before." she mumbles, "he'll make it home this time."

"alright..." you sniffled, the smell of your best friend's cotton candy-scented perfume strangely comforting, "he's going to be alright..." you told yourself, bursting into laughter at penelope's next words. "and you better make me a godmother!"

penelope was the one who drove you to the hospital when your water broke, ignoring every single traffic law in the state. she was the one who sat next to you as you were going through contractions, who took on the harsh squeezes you gave her hand to redirect the pain.

"alright, they've landed. spencer should be here in... fifteen minutes." she said, "he better be here before this thing comes out of me!!" you groaned in pain, "or i'm going to curse his damn bloodline!" "sweetie, that's your-" "i don't caaaaaare!"

and fourteen minutes later, your husband rushed into the hospital room, out of breath, his forehead sweaty. "i'm so sorry, i'm so sorry..." he mumbled breathily. "thank you for taking care of her gar-" his sentence was interrupted by your groan of pain. penelope bent down and pressed a kiss to your sweat-soaked forehead, "you can do this, hun."

she pried her hand off of yours, and it was soon replaced by your husband's as penelope made her way out of the room, blowing one last kiss at you.

"i'm sorry i wasn't here..." he mumbled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "i'm here now, and whatever you-" "AHHHHHHHHH!"

after a brutal two hours of screaming, epidural, nearly breaking spencer's hand and feeling like you were going to die... you were looking down at the perfect little mixture of you and your husband who had screeched like a siren the moment she came out.

"you wanna invite them in?" you asked with a chuckle, looking at the sleeping baby in your arms. "yeah. yeah." spencer took in a deep breath, leaving you into the hospital room. she was so precious. so tiny. no part of you could believe that you'd grown her, that you'd made her. that she was half you and half the man you loved the most in the world.

you sniffled and heard a soft knock on the door, before spencer's team started piling in one by one, penelope, of course, making sure to get the spot closest to you, holding a stuffed bunny that was bigger than penny, as well as a bouquet of flowers, aww'ing at the little baby.

"so, what's the little one's name?" derek said with a fond smile, and you looked to them with a small smile, "her name is penny." you announced, before looking to spencer, " more specifically... penelope diana reid."

penelope gasped, her hands going to her mouth and her eyes widening into saucers. everyone in the team turned to look at the shocked woman, who, for the first time, was speechless. "pe-penelope?" she squeaked.

"yeah." you looked to her, holding your free hand out for her to take, and she did. "penelope for her godmother, and diana for her grandmother."

even though there was a smile on her face, penelope's eyes glimmered with tears, "can i... can i hold her?" she asked, and you nodded, slowly handing over the swaddled, sleeping baby as your husband made his way to the bed. he took your hand in his and smiled as he looked between penelope and derek, "we... actually had a question for you."

"spencer and i agreed that we could each pick one person to be the godparent." you explained, "and i picked you." spencer said, gesturing to derek, "and i picked you." you chuckled and gestured to penelope, "so, would you do it?" your husband asked.

"of course." the two of them answered almost simultaneously, making them wink at one another. penny ended up being passed around every member, until she finally ended up in your husband's arms, staying there until everyone else except the three of you had left.

"we have a baby." spencer mumbled from the chair next to yours. you chuckled softly, shaking your head, "we have a baby."

only for the peaceful moment to be broken by tiny, loud sobs.

TAGLIST: @purpleplumpudding, @cinnamoncunt, @rafesheaven, @nonietosay

[reidsfav]

🖍️✂️

would you believe it but this was inspired by @nottherealslimshady who liked my art and i go on peoples accounts who like my stuff to see what other stuff they like and brain went prince reid ➡️dad reid im not even ovulating its just dad reid era rn making a princess cone crown

OH AND a version of this but with older/later season!Spencer on Patreon 🫣it was also uploaded a few hours prior to this one

[reidsfav]

S is for Sitter

march 30, 2009

summary: you and spencer babysit newborn henry, spencer gets a BAD case of baby fever

word count: 944

warnings: mentions of pregnancy

It was just after 6:00 PM when you and Spencer arrived at JJ and Will’s front porch. Spencer held a neatly folded receiving blanket under one arm and a book titled “The Science of Infant Sleep” under the other. You, on the other hand, carried the essentials: your overnight tote bag filled with snacks and an extra shirt for each of you (just in case).

JJ opened the door before either of you could knock.

“Thank God you’re here,” she breathed, pulling you into a hug. “Henry’s been fed, he’s clean, and he just went down for a nap. Will and I will only be gone a few hours.”

Spencer nodded dutifully. “We’ve reviewed the emergency contact numbers. Pediatrician’s posted on the fridge. Carbon monoxide detector functional. You have backup power in case—”

JJ cut him off with a laugh. “Reid. We’re only going out for dinner. Not to Mars.”

Will appeared behind her, adjusting his watch and looking apologetic. “He’s really easy. Just don’t look him in the eye when he wakes up or he’ll think it’s party time.”

You gave them both a reassuring wave as they headed out the door, and before long, it was just the two of you… and Henry.

The house was quiet, except for the gentle whirr of the white noise machine from the nursery. Spencer peeked around the corner like he was approaching a wild animal. You followed, watching as he tiptoed up to the crib and peered inside.

“Wow,” he whispered. “He’s so… small.”

You leaned your head against Spencer’s shoulder. “You’ve seen Henry before, you know.”

“I know. But I haven’t been alone with him. This feels… sacred. And dangerous. But mostly sacred.”

____

The first half hour went smoothly. You sat on the couch with a documentary playing quietly while Spencer read aloud from the baby sleep book “for reference.” Every so often, he glanced toward the nursery like he needed to make sure Henry hadn’t vaporized.

Then came the cry.

A single, high-pitched wail that turned Spencer’s spine to stone. He dropped the book.

“I—what do we—should we—he’s crying.” Spencer was halfway to the nursery before you could answer.

You followed him inside and found Henry red-faced and flailing in his swaddle. Spencer hovered awkwardly, eyes wide.

“He’s crying because he woke up,” you said softly, reaching into the crib. “Sometimes that’s all. Babies don’t really know how to wake up without announcing it to the world.”

You scooped Henry into your arms and began to gently sway. Spencer looked completely frozen.

“Want to hold him?” you offered.

Spencer shook his head furiously. “No. I mean yes. I mean—what if I drop him?”

“You’re not going to drop him,” you laughed, adjusting Henry against your chest. “You’re literally the most careful person I know.”

Spencer looked unconvinced.

So you stepped closer, and, with practiced ease, gently placed Henry in Spencer’s arms.

His entire demeanor shifted.

“Oh,” Spencer breathed.

Henry blinked up at him sleepily, his tiny fists clinging to Spencer’s shirt. Spencer stared like he’d just been handed the entire universe.

“He’s… he’s perfect.”

____

Henry didn’t go back to sleep. But he didn’t cry either. Not after Spencer started walking him gently through the living room, softly reciting passages from some obscure early 1900s poetry book he'd found on the shelf. Every once in a while, Spencer looked at you with wide, gleaming eyes like he was discovering something new about life.

“He smiled at me.”

“He farted.”

“No, I know the difference between a reflex and genuine expression, and I’m telling you, Y/N, that was a smile.”

_____

At 8:00 PM, Henry spit up on Spencer’s sweater.

At 8:02 PM, Spencer insisted it was “a badge of honor” and refused to change.

At 8:10 PM, you changed the diaper. Because Spencer turned green at the sight.

By 8:30 PM, the baby had fallen asleep on Spencer’s chest, and Spencer hadn’t moved in 45 minutes.

“Y/N,” he whispered, “you have to take a picture of this. I need evidence that this happened. I need to remember this forever.”

You did.

And you smiled as you watched him gently rock the baby, his long fingers tracing small circles across Henry’s back.

“You’ve got it bad,” you whispered.

Spencer didn’t even deny it.

“I didn’t know I could feel this kind of love,” he said softly. “I didn’t even know.”

_____

JJ and Will returned around 10:30 PM. JJ found you curled up on the couch, half asleep, while Spencer sat in the armchair—Henry passed out on his chest again, a look of pure contentment on Spencer’s face.

“He’s a natural,” Will whispered.

JJ smiled. “He really is.”

Spencer looked up and whispered, “He just fell asleep again. I didn’t want to move him.”

JJ crouched down next to the chair and gently took Henry. The baby didn’t even stir.

“You guys are amazing,” she said, eyes full of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” you whispered, standing and stretching.

Spencer looked like someone had taken away his favorite toy.

On the way back to your apartment, he was unusually quiet. You let the silence linger until he finally spoke.

“I think I want one,” he said.

You blinked. “A nap?”

“A baby,” he clarified, dead serious. “Not now. But someday. With… you, if you’d want that.”

You reached across the console and took his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “I think I’d want that too.”

Spencer squeezed your hand.

“…Do you think Henry would notice if we babysat again next weekend?”

You laughed. “I think you just got yourself officially added to the emergency contact list.”a/n: i have baby fever right now and writing this part did not help one bit.

_____

next chapter: T is for Two Time

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

_____

a/n: please don't let the next chapter title steer you away. I promise there is NO cheating in either party. It's actually one of my favorite chapters I've written and I can't wait to release it :)

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27

@hopelessheaven @shycreationdreamland @cultish-corner @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls

@hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08

@princessbowbaby @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @smalltownbeautyqueen @spencereidapologist @lunajay33

@softlysunrays @maybe-not-this @wannabewolf @sylv3in @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles

@pillsbury-doughgirl @monfleurr @novaeatsworld @pleasantwitchgarden @vivixir @lolita-hc

@pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @guacam011y @super-nerd22 @khxna

[reidsfav]

"you didn't think it was odd that she stopped cumming?"

word count: 6,1k

about?: your husband's an idiot, agent Reid got mesmerized by you so he stole you from him.

who?: Spencer Reid; Y/N; Y/N's husband; Hotch

When you got married, you knew you didn't love your husband, Jeff, Jeffrey, you knew that sleeping next to him was gonna be a challenge, you knew it as soon as you met Spencer.

Spencer and you met once when Jeff's savings got stolen and he thought it had to be told to the FBI. You told him it was excessive and that calling the police was enough, but, you're a woman, what would you know?, so you went with him to the FBI building, trying to walk to his pace, being left behind as always.

Stroking your engagement ring with your thumb while looking at it, thinking of how you got there, with a man that made you unhappy and not respecting you or your opinions at all.

You could hear his yelling, it was so embarrassing you kept watching your ring, until you heard an unknown voice, someone talking back to your fiancee, who could it be? who would dare to talk back to your fiancee? and you saw it.

Big curls and a face with a bone structure so beautiful you had to hold back a gasp. When he saw a glimpse of hair moving and a pair of eyes so big and beautiful he immediately felt like he had to take a look, he saw you. Your eyes interlocked while your husband was yelling at him for his manager, manager? God how could he be so stupid?.

As soon as those words left his mouth another man came, one with a suit and a face less soft than the other one's.

You stayed behind your husband while the three of the men kept talking, unknown eyes interlocking with yours some times while the chat kept going. Apparently, your husband realized Dr Reid was looking somewhere so he turned his face around, only to say

"oh, I forgot you were here" it felt embarrassing. Your own fiancee, forgetting your presence.

Spencer's eyebrows furred and Hotch looked at that movement.

"are you two together?" Spencer asked

"yes, why?" your husband responded, almost defensive.

"then only one of you has to be here, it's already not how the procedure is done that the victim comes to the department, so I'm gonna ask someone of you to go to the waiting room here while we talk to the other" what a voice, so right, so elegant, you could feel your eyes piercing his own.

"are you deaf? go wait somewhere else" Jeff shot at you.

"I'll guide you to the waiting room" Spencer said while putting his hand behind your back, you swallowed and started to walk.

"Is he your husband?" he asked while walking you to the elevator.

"uhm, yes, my fiancee" you said.

"what's your name?"

"Y/N"

"Y/N, your fiancee doesn't seem very nice" he said, with the face as a rock.

You smiled "no, he's not very nice" you said, thinking "of course, he doesn't know him, he doesn't know he's got no friends besides the ones that are just like him".

You got to the elevator doors and kept talking until you got to the waiting room, where you though he'd eventually leave and go back to deal with your stupid fiancee. But he didn't.

"would it be wrong if I asked for your number?" he said, lowering his voice is if in case your husband were close.

You smiled and shook your head "no, no it wouldn't".

Then it kept going, you met in nice cafes and in beautiful restaurants, having delicious meals invited by him. Since your husband wasn't home since morning til 8, you'd have all day to yourself and to Spence. You would tell yourself "he's just a new friend, married woman have male friends too..." but those tickles you felt when you'd see him, all dressed up and waiting for you with his hand inside his pockets and a smirk that had subtitles saying "you're so gonna get stolen from your husband" made you have in your aware that you were just full of shit.

Once he came to your house to drink coffee, you, sitting in front of him, so close your knees were touching, and him listening to you talk about something that wasn't even the beginning of the conversation. That would happen, you would talk about so many things you would always ask "how did we even start talking about that?", you felt like a teenager, how you felt when you first met Jeff...

You kept chatting when suddenly you felt Spencer's hand holding yours, and observing you with those hazel eyes you'd be capable of eating. Then, as an avalanche, you saw him leaning closer to you. One thing led to another when you were in your shared bed. Once a week, then twice, then three times a week...then four times.

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. When he would leave yours you would still smell his cologne and would start to clean the house up and down, half because of the guilt, and half because you thought your fiancee would smell it. But he's so ignorant he wouldn't even have that though in his stupid little head.

The hardest thing after being with Spence would be trying to be with stupid Jeff. He would often try to sneak his hand between your covered legs and you would groan pretending to be asleep.

Luckily, you knew Jeff was in something... weird, all that sudden money and all those working hours that weren't in his schedule were suspicious. Which leads, now accurately, at the FBI being at your door. When you opened the door and saw your curls, your chest sank, but when you realized besides Spencer there was another agent too you calmed down.

"Hello Ms Shwats" he said "is your husband home?" there it was, that cologne you'd try to scare away from your bed almost everyday.

Jeff was taken to the car when you took Spencer's arm and asked him what was going on.

"we believe your fiancee is involved in a chain of drug traffickers"

"Jeff?" you scoffed, he smiled. "I miss you, when can I come, or you?" he asked.

"I think I should follow my role as a wife now, baby" he pouted. "but we'll see" you took a look to check Jeff wasn't looking in your direction and kissed Spence, holding his cheek while he would hold your entire face. My god you were soaking already.

In the interrogation room, Spencer was killing your fiancee with questions, he has never been so inspired in getting someone inside of jail, as soon as possible. Think of all the possibilities, him in your bed, you and him sharing breakfast without having either of you to run away, he did want to wake up next to you, every day if it was possible.

Getting involved with an engaged woman has never even passed by his mind, but the first time he saw you, hidden behind "Jeff" it was like he had never seen any other woman ever.

"where were you January 12th at 3 pm, Mr Shwats?" he asked, waiting for his response.

"I was on a date with my wife. Anniversary." he answered. Wrong, he was with you, messing up his bed. Spencer smiled "oh, did you?" he relaxed in his chair "what did you do?".

Jeff felt trapped somehow "we made love all day" if you would've heard that you would've gotten so upset.

"right" Spencer said and with that, he had everything already solved.

Jeff was accused guilty and sent to jail by being a helper and complicit. Finally, your love would be finally free of having to run, to rush and to be hidden.

In the trial, you went to pretend you cared about Jeff's sentence, but you only went because your mother in law was going, and honestly, she's pretty good. When you arrived you were dressed with a nice blue dress, it felt like a half celebration half widow. You saw a beautiful blue suit, far away from you, almost matching with your dress, when you realized, it was your beautiful man. He smiled and you did too, keeping your arm intertwined with your mother in law.

Jeff walked past a door that took him who knows where, who cares? not you. You cried a little, honestly you did feel bad, he was still human besides an idiot, he was the woman you were holding hands with son, and actually it did feel a little bad. Your wedding was gonna be gorgeous. Was. With flowers that you choose, food that you knew he liked, the invitation with his name before yours, everything chosen by you because every time you'd bring the wedding to the conversation he just wouldn't help.

You took your mother in law to a cafe and then to her house, Jeff's sentence was long enough for you to grow older and even move.

You arrived at your house, empty of anyone's masculine smell, it was only you, you and yourself alone in a big house that wasn't gonna be kept by you. You made yourself a tea to leave there getting cold while you sat there thinking when your phone made a buzz.

"hey beautiful, are you in your house?" it was Spence.

"hey, yes I'm here, why?" you answered.

"can I drop by?" he asked, God yes, yes come home.

"yes of course" you sent and then you waited. The bell rang some minutes after and you went to open the door.

"hey" he smiled and kissed your cheek. You smiled as well.

"hey, come in" you had a chat about what you were gonna do about the house and about how you felt about Jeff being away, which got to the hypothesis that you did feel bad about him but you weren't unhappy about his absence.

"you could...you know, if you don't find a home soon that you like...you can come to mine" he said holding your hand, those masculines hand wrapping perfectly around yours, with his fingers stroking your knuckles in a way no one has ever done it. You smiled and raised your eyebrows.

"you think?" he smiled.

"of course" then he moved a hair from your face and placed it behind your ear "there's nothing I'd love more"

"it'll be just for a while...I won't disturb..I still have to sell the house and-"

"you don't have to leave too soon, and...I want you there" he said, smiling like trying to get inside of your head. He was.

You squinted your lips and nodded. It was all settled up. You, Spencer, an apartment you've visited tons of times and forgotten clothes and dumb stuff multiple times.

The day you left the house to move to another mens one you looked back, like trying to see if you could save at least one good memory from those four walls, but it was impossible. You drove to Spencer's, you went up the stairs and knocked.

You could hear him tripping over stuff in his way to the door and some "ouch!", you smiled to yourself for the last time. Then, as a ray of sunshine, there he was, smiling a little disheveled.

"hey!" he smiled and kissed you, not letting your lips separate for a while, holding your waist so hard you realized you weren't dreaming.

You got inside and left your stuff on the sofa.

"I uhm...I prepared some drawers for you...and space in the closet, I don't have that many clothes so you don't have to worry" he said, almost shyly, was he nervous?

You smiled and kissed him, he wrapped his arms completely around your waist and kissed you kinda brutally, suddenly you were in his bed...in your bed, shared bed, sounded so sweet, he made you promise you'd feel home and call his house your house too, it was a new beginning, you both felt it.