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spencerreidsreads · 3 days ago

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i love your sunshine!reader x specer fics so much and ngl it's one of the best spencer fics i've ever read. i was wondering how the team would react to them dating? did anyone ever suspect that there was something going on between them or were they completely clueless??

PDA | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

description: Sunshine reader is worried about telling Unit Chief Prentiss about their budding relationship, despite Spencer telling her she's being dramatic.

length: 1.8k

warnings: fluff, TINY BIT OF HOTCHNISS BECAUSE I AM STILL MAD ABOUT THEIR SCENE AT JJ'S WEDDING I have never been blue ballsed so hard.

“Sweetheart, I think you need to calm down,” Spencer’s voice was calm and soothing, as was his hand that skirted down her arm to take hers in his own. Her palm was warm, the tiniest bit clammy as he meshed their fingers together, and stroked over the back of her knuckles with his thumb, “It’s only Emily,”

“I know, I know, it’s just,” She conceded, and she smushed her face into his chest as a last ditch effort to revel in his affection before they had to go back to remaining professional, the elevator quickly approaching the sixth floor, “I feel like we’re breaking the rules. Are you positive it said nothing in the papers about workplace relationships?”

“I would stake my life on it, believe me. Me and page fifty nine, sub section five, clause three are tight as can be,” Spencer reassured, after he had spent a good seven minutes reading through their entire contract, front and back, in an attempt to make her feel better because she knew she couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it, even more so couldn’t keep her hands and lips off Spencer for such an extended amount of time now she’d had him.

He watched the illuminated digits flick from four to five, and he yielded his restraint just the tiniest bit, knowing they might not get a chance to love on eachother so unapologetically until the work day was over. Spencer brought his hand that wasn’t wound tightly in her own around her shoulders, squeezing her to him with a pressed kiss to her forehead, the gesture full of eight hours worth of affections.

Five turned to six just a little too fast for his liking and he was forced to let go of her as the doors slid open, trying to ignore the saddened expression on her face as they parted, the way her lips turned into a pout like a kicked puppy.

“Good morning, my angels!” Penelope chirped, a sweet coffee with a buttload of creamer swirling around her octopus mug as she headed for her office, walking right past the two agents who looked like they’d forgotten how to behave normally.

“Morning, Penelope,” She sang back, smiling at the woman who hummed as she walked, a skip in her step, yet the second the tech analyst entered her lair, the younger slapped a hand on Spencer’s arm, turning to him with wide eyes, “Oh my god, she knew!”

He chuckled, shaking his head and resting a hand on her lower back, leading her to the bullpen as she fretted, “Relax, she did not know. And even if she did, we’re not doing anything wrong,” He cooed, thankful that the floor was empty besides Emily where she poked around her office, moving some folders between her desk and cabinet, “Derek dated pretty much every woman on the second floor within the first term of me being here, Penelope dated Kevin from Internal Affairs for years,”

“But that’s, like, between floors, between departments. There’s no way they can get distracted if there’s a whole bunch of concrete and carpet between them,” She explained, and the two of them headed for their joint desk so they could set their bags down, “When I look at you, I get side tracked thinking about your beautiful hair and your stupidly handsome face and kissing you and-” She puffed her cheeks out, flustered already.

“That sounds really difficult for you, I don’t know how you ever get anything done.” Spencer said with an indulging smile, because his favourite thing might just be humouring her. Besides kissing her and everything that came with it ofcourse.

“It’s a struggle, I’ll tell you now,” She said, almost unaware he wasn’t being serious as she looked at him finally, the glint in his eyes he got when he was teasing her, “It is. I nearly tipped coffee over my lap yesterday because you fixed your hair, it’s infuriating.”

He smiled, fighting every urge in him that wanted to pull her back into his chest and kiss her face a dozen times, because he knew she wasn’t joking when she said she was worried about breaking the rules. He knew Emily would be fine with them dating, they’d all turned a blind eye to the clear tension and lingering glances that had gone between her and Hotch for years, but he hated seeing her so frazzled, so he complied with her strict no PDA rule.

He would just have to give it to her twice over later, when they were alone, and the thought of it excited him already.

“Alright, alright, let’s do this. Am I speaking or are you speaking?” She asked, rubbing her sweating hands over her legs, and he shrugged.

“I’ll do the talking, will you just do something for me,” He said, his voice calm and collected as he took the stairs, her footsteps nervously trailing behind him.

“Sure, anything,” She said, looking up at him with wide eyes where he stood a whole step above her.

“Take a deep breath,” He reminded her, grinning when he heard her pause and do as he’d said, because this was just Emily.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbled, meeting him at the top of the landing, where he waited by the office door, watching her with gentle eyes, “I just really don’t want to mess anything up, least of all with you,”

He quickly tucked a slither of hair behind her ear in guilty pleasure, “You’re not messing anything up, I promise.” He murmured, his cadence low and calming because she already seemed worked up and they hadn’t even opened the door, “You ready?”

She nodded after another deep breath, and he knocked on the door with those boney knuckles of his.

Barely waiting for Emily to invite them in, he strode into the office, her trailing behind him like she was waiting for a scolding, and Spencer simply cleared his throat.

“Everything okay?” Emily asked, her dark eyes scanning between the two of them, a look of concern flitting over her face, “Why do you guys have a weird look on your face? Did you chip Penelope’s mug again? Was it the good one? Oh man, she’ll kill you, that was her favourite-”

The rookie shook her head, and before she could breath and regulate like Spencer had been trying to tell her it happened; the word vomit she’d been shoving down for fifteen days, “We’re dating! We’re seeing each other together, I mean were seeing together, I mean wait, hang on-”

Spencer put a hand on her shoulder to hush her, and she stopped then and there, sensing he could take over for her, because she’d quickly realised she was not one to handle pressure.

“What she means to say is we’re dating, and according to page fifty nine, sub section five, clause three of our contract, workplace relations are acceptable as long as they aren’t hindrance to either the team or the work, so,” Spencer tucked his hand into his pocket, the other still gentle as it stroked her back soothingly, “Is that okay?”

Emily shrugged, her lips twitching to hide the broad smile that begged to be released.

“That seems reasonable to me,” She said politely, looking to where the rookie seemed to have found her words.

“Th-that’s it, we’re not in trouble?” She asked on bated breath, her brows furrowed and confused.

“Look, are you guys happy?” She nodded vehemently immediately, and Emily threw her hands up, “Then, there you go. As long as there’s no funny business in the office, it’s none of my concern,”

“Funny business?” She asked, and Spencer ran a hand over her braid she’d twisted into running down the back of her head, a small smile tugging at his lips, as he and Emily exchanged a look.

“No bang bang on company time,” Emily said plainly, ignoring the way the girl stiffened, her face hot and embarrassed as she shook her head.

“Never, no, never. Never ever,” She spluttered, and Spencer took it as his signal to get her some space, “None of that ever, Emily, you don’t have to worry-”

“Who broke the rookie?” Tara asked, entering Emily’s office with a stack of folders in her arms, her eyes quickly zeroing in on the way Reid’s arm wrapped around her waist, and she turned to Emily with a knowing smirk, “You owe me ten bucks, Prentiss,”

“Hold on, you guys bet on us?” Spencer asked, his expression dropping because he’d thought that the two of them had been subtle the past few weeks, even if his sweet girlfriend looked like she was keeping bees in her mouth every time there was a pause, like the secret had been begging to come out any second it got.

Emily seemed guilty, though perhaps scathed would be a better term as she fished a bill out of her purse and handed it to Tara.

“JJ owes forty, so I’m not too torn up about it,” She replied, catching JJ’s bluebell hues as she swanned past the office window, her eyes narrowing on the way the youngest agent was all but pressed into Spencer’s ribcage, the two of them looking like they wanted the ground to swallow them whole.

Her face morphed into chagrin, “Two more weeks, and I would have been up by sixty bucks, you guys,” She bit at the happy couple, turning on her heel to where Luke was sipping coffee at his desk, clueless to the meeting they were having in Emily’s office, “Alvez, cough up. They told Emily already,”

There was some sound of indignation from the desks below as Luke rummaged through his wallet, and Tara looked like that cat that got the cream as the wads of dollar bills made their way to her.

“This is gross misconduct of workplace trust,” Spencer said, his lips pursed into something annoyed, and he could feel the way her face burnt with embarrassment without even having to look at her, “Alright, we are going out to get coffee, since we’re the only ones who know how to handle things like adults,”

He led her out with a tight, protective grip, shielding her mortified expression from the rest of the office as they got back into the elevator, and he damned himself when he let her hug into his chest again, though this time it was to hide her humiliation in his shirt.

“It’s okay, at least it’s out there now. No more secrets,” He comforted, and she nodded silently, her cheeks still on fire where the shame weaselled its way out of her face, “And, hey, it’s not like they can go on forever. They’ll have to give up some time,”

The group watched the doors close behind them, Luke immediately turning to the three women with an impish look in his eye, “Twenty says they’ll engage within a year,” Tara scoffed, waving her money in his face as Emily rooted around for more money, “You’re on, I give it eight months,”

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spencerreidsreads · 3 days ago

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YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶

Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?

Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)

warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.

authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship

There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted.

He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck.

Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?

Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin.

He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again.

They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest.

“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him.

Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.

They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene.

She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been.

Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men.

They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.

Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to.

Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions.

“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,”

They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently.

Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face.

He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet.

“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”

They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”

“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”

His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry.

“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.”

She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage.

“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,”

“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him.

She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them.

“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”

The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob.

“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”

Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand.

“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter.

Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights.

Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible.

His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was.

Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed.

“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands.

“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,”

“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”

She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip.

“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”

He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.

He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in.

Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years.

“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”

And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

—

She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe.

She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe.

It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second.

“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing.

But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late.

“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them.

She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed.

“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”

“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new.

“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”

“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”

But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them.

Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them.

He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently.

“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”

She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands.

“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt.

His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building.

Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him.

–

She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’

She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use.

He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard.

They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign.

He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?”

She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,”

And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes.

Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested.

But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again.

It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible.

He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything).

The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright.

He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet.

“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance.

She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,”

“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,”

“I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing.

And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin.

Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down.

“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?”

She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised.

“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point.

Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”

“Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,”

She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”

His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion.

She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.

“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”

His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise.

“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off.

She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him.

“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.

“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,”

She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”

She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again.

“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his.

Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,”

Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all.

But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him.

She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”

Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.

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spencerreidsreads · 4 days ago

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YOU'RE TOO SWEET FOR ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: @avis-writeshq says -

HELLO HELLO jumping on your 2k celebration reqs because 2K OMG SO DESERVED ‼️🫶

may i perhaps request a spencer reid x fem!reader fic please 🥹 maybe him post prison w new reader and she follows him around everywhere because she’s just instantly enamoured to him 🤭

thank you so so much lovely and congrats again !!!

Description: thirteen years in the fbi and ten weeks in prison does a number on Spencer, only when he arrives back in the office he meets the sunshine rookie that seems rather taken with him.

word length: 2.6k (this really ran away from me)

warnings: post-prison Reid, slightest age gap, Spencer dealing with coming home from prison, gun shooting?

authors note: hozier’s new song 'Too Sweet' + post-prison reid is a need, not a want.

He smelled her french vanilla perfume before he even knew she was there. But then again, it was all he could smell the minute she waltzed into the office with a tray of coffee, like someone had stuck a sweet dessert in the oven and baked it on full.

“Good morning!” She chirped, winding an arm over his shoulder and setting down a take out cup and a little chocolate donut on his desk, “Pen said you like chocolate, and I mean who doesn’t like chocolate, right?”

She was potent when she was so close to him, and in one single breath he caught a whiff of her shampoo, before she had flitted over to her side of the desk that sat opposite his, where Morgan once sat. Noticing his hesitance, mistaking it for discontent she paused, almost spilling her own beverage over the potted plant she kept by her keyboard, scrambling to set it on the surface.

“Y-you do like chocolate right? I mean they had strawberry too, I can switch yours with JJ’s, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind-” She splurged, and her face was much too worried considering it was a matter of a donut, particularly considering he was already eying up the way the thick chocolate was melting in the pastry bag.

“Chocolate is great, I love…” He held up the bag to read the label with squinting hazel hues, “Cocoa Caramel delight,”

He had never heard of it.

He had never even seen this brand, but he wanted to quell her nerves even in the slightest. The BAU didn’t have the funds for a new keyboard, let alone time to send her to the ER if she ended up spilling her coffee over her hand.

She seemed convinced, and he offered her a small smile, not exactly his most enthusiastic, but then again he hadn’t been much of a morning person since he’d come out of prison. He liked quiet, he liked a moment to himself before Penelope called them into the round table for briefing. But she was sweet, too sweet perhaps for the dark nature of their job.

He could already see it chewing up her perky disposition and spitting her right back out within a year. It happened to the best of them.

But she smiled back at him, a million watt grin that made him think maybe he was being a little cruel. She was still brand new, still trying to make friends and he remembered how hard he tried when it had been his first few weeks on the team. He turned his gaze away from her in shame, reading the way she’d written his name on the cup in a pink sharpie, framing it with two doodle hearts.

She all but skipped away, sensing he didn’t feel like talking much anymore, and he heard Emily exclaiming she was ‘A caffeine angel sent from the heavens,’ as she handed her the drink. He watched her braided hair disappear down the hall as she bounced over to Penelope’s lair.

He picked at the cocoa caramel delight with a kind of self loathing he was familiar with, the french vanilla still a saccharine sugar in his nose.

She caught him again; though this time he felt her bristle past his arm, watching the bullets pierce the target paper with an accuracy that only came from fourteen years of practice.

“Do you reckon you could teach me how to do that?” Her cadence was light and airy, and he had to stop himself from jumping, from slamming the butt of the gun into her nose on reaction, because he knew she meant well, even though she had no idea how damaged he was.

He was still out of sorts from having to look over his shoulder at every second of the day, and he was surprised he was holding it together so far. He supposed shooting the shit out of a target helped.

Because it was just her, looking at him with soft eyes and a smile that could start wars, and he knew she had no idea the effect she had on the walls he’d tried so hard to build in prison.

She must have mistook his look for annoyance, because she was quick to fumble with her own loaded gun, taking a step back in retreat, worried that she crossed some line she didn’t know he’d drawn.

“Or I could get Luke to show me, I didn’t mean to bother you, I just am really a shit shot and I know that’s pretty useless in the field-” It wasn’t until he flicked the safety on and took a step to follow her did she look at him again hopefully.

“No, I’d be more than happy to show you,” He cleared his throat, setting his pistol in its holster and stepping behind her as she lined herself up for the fake body meant to resemble an unsub, “We all have to start somewhere. Show me your form,”

She raised her arms up in front of her, aiming for a few seconds for the spot in the centre of the chest cavity, her finger reaching up for the trigger.

She shot once, her face hardened for the first time he’d ever seen, and they both watched the paper rip about half a foot down the unsub’s leg.

“See, in my head it’s hitting dead centre and then by the time I shoot it’s wiggling all over the place,” She explained, scratching her neck and frowning at the paper body, “I don’t suppose unsubs are willing to stand still and wait while the rookie figures out her shot,”

“Your hips are perfect, wide stance means you get more stability against the ricochet,” She tried not to simper at his words, or the way he sidled up behind her, his hands coming up to her shoulders as if he’d known her for years, as if JJ hadn’t told her how much he hated other people’s germs, “It’s in your shoulders you’re losing balance, try relaxing a little,”

But she couldn’t not when he was breathing down her neck, rubbing those long fingers over her shoulder blades trying to get her to straighten out her posture, hoping he couldn’t feel the way her chest rattled with nerves.

“Relax,” He reminded, trying not to chuckle when he felt her shake her arms out as a means of hiding the way her skin had warmed under his rough touch, “You know, my unit chief taught me how to shoot. I wasn’t at all good at it when I first started,”

“Oh really?” She asked, her breaths feather light as he reached around her and adjusted her grip on the gun, “H-he must have been a good teacher,”

“He was the best,” Spencer agreed, brushing off the fact she was all but putty beneath his hands, “Three steps for the perfect shot; front sight, trigger press, follow through. Always keep your head forward, always keep your dominant finger ready, and wait until you’ve shot to drop your stance,”

She looked up at him in admiration, and her soft smile was back as his own musk of laundry detergent and chamomile soap encompassed her as his arms did.

He brought one of those big hands to the back of her head, moving her with gentle ease to look back at the target, a slight chuckle in his voice as he spoke: “Focus, what’s step number one?”

“Front sight,” She echoed him, fixing her shoulders with determination as he dropped his hands and stepped away from her. Taking a deep breath, she murmured to herself under her breath the next step as her forefinger rested over the trigger. She pulled it after a moment of courage, and froze in spot as she watched it hit where the stomach would sit.

Not a perfect shot, but certainly a lot better than she had been doing.

Her eyes widened behind the thick protective glasses, and her hands became fists above her head as she squealed in delight.

“Did you see that- did you see!” She yelled over the sound proof ear muffs they both wore, and he was quick to grab the gun out of her swinging arms, clicking the safety on for her before she could end up blowing a hole in the ceiling.

“Very good, give it a few months you’ll be a natural,” He complimented with a smile as she clapped her hands in glee, buzzing on the spot as if she’d chugged five energy drinks or doubled up on her coffee for the day.

He tried ignoring the way his chest warmed seeing her so happy because of him, especially when she looked at him like that.

“You said you needed those files, Dr Reid,” She’d appeared again, like she always did, and he had barely enough time to glance up from the paper he was already inspecting before he was hit by the perfume again, and he looked up to see two bright eyes watching him hopefully. Her arms were piled high with easily a box full of folders he had asked Anderson to find for him, and he saw the way she strained slightly to keep them held tight.

“Jesus! Let me help you,” She prayed he couldn’t feel the way her heart thumping against the manilla folders as he leaned over to take them out of her grasp, the way her eyes fell to his light smattering of facial hair as his lips were little more than a few inches from hers. Even when his hands brushed hers, and he seemed to realise she was staring, watching her scramble to look somewhere else other than his amused eyes, embarrassed he’d caught her, “Thankyou. And just call me Spencer,”

“Thankyou,” She echoed, shaking her head with a girlish smile on her face, her cheeks warm with humiliation, “I mean you’re welcome, any time,”

For the sake of her self preservation he waited until she turned around to smile to himself, pretending he didn’t see the way she muttered under her breath, or that she almost walked straight into the filing cabinet on her hasty exit out of the office.

“Seems like you have a shadow,” Emily’s voice met him as he heard her heeled footsteps approach, and they both watched their newest team mate almost bump right into JJ as she kept her head down, stroking her hair nervously, “She was super excited to meet you when you were away, said she went to one of your guest lectures you did with Hotch a couple years ago,”

His brows shot into his hairline, something warm flourishing in his chest when he saw her peek back to see the two of them watching her, and she immediately darted for her seat for an excuse to turn her back to them.

Spencer smiled again, running a hand through his curled locks as if he was trying to think of something else other than the joy that had over come his features.

She certainly was charming, in an incredibly girlish way, and he wasn’t the only one who thought it. He hadn’t heard Penelope giggling so much since Morgan had left, nor did he miss the way Rossi and Emily watched her darting around in the field, chasing after her as if she needed one of those leashes people had for toddlers.

Or the way Luke had had to talk her out of bringing a stray cat back to the BAU just two days ago because ‘it looked sad and lonely’.

She was only eight years his junior, and yet he felt like the job had made him too hard, too mature, too tough against a softness like hers.

Girls had never really been interested in him, at least not for him as Spencer Reid, not as SSA Dr Reid. He had the occasional fling, even Maeve in the grand scheme of things had been a budding romance at best, and just the thought of Cat Adams viper-like eyes had him shuddering.

He barely wanted anything to do with women at the moment, at least that was what he’d told himself every night he’d been fighting for his damn life in prison.

But it was almost too easy to feel this way about her, like he couldn’t drink in her sweet smell or even sweeter voice fast enough, or bathe in her gaze that melted like rich chocolate when he took a glance her way.

He didn’t bring it up with her until they were the last few people filing out of the office.

“I can drive you,” She chirped, almost dropping the contents of her bag everywhere as she rooted for her car keys, and before he could protest, because it was like all he could see now was how eager to be around him she was and he wasn’t too sure he could keep himself from opening pandora’s box, she jingled her keys, that of course had crochet bluebells hanging from them and all but danced past him into the elevator. “Come on, you can have shotgun,”

“I’ll be the only passenger, doesn’t that mean I automatically have shotgun?” He asked, following behind her as she stood in the elevator with a beaming smile, her finger clicking the ground floor button a bunch of times even though it made no difference how fast the doors closed.

“Well, yeah, but it’s going to be the best shotgun you’ve ever had. I’m talking you can be Miss Daisy and I’ll be your Morgan Freeman,” And as if her spirit was infectious, he shook his head with a hidden chuckle.

There was a minute of silence between the two as she played with a loose thread on her cardigan, and it was then he took the chance to ask her the question that had been burning on his lips all day.

“You didn’t by any chance go to University of Pennsylvania, did you?” Spencer asked, noting the way her eyes fell to the floor and how she licked her lips nervously.

“Yeah,” She replied cautiously, fingers clenched tightly around her keyring, “I know it’s not Caltech, but it was pretty good-”

“Didn't you see my lecture with Hotch?” He asked, and his smile widened tenfold when her hands slapped over her cheeks that burned with horror, moving quickly up to cover her eyes, “Little birdy told me you were quite excited to meet me-”

“Oh, Emily,” She groaned, burying her face in her palms, avoiding his teasing expression like the plague, “I knew, I knew she was going to tell you, I’m surprised she didn’t tell JJ first, unless she did and our whole team know I was some crazy girl who liked the FBI agents so much she switched her major,”

“You switched your major for me?” He asked incredulously and he only laughed harder, one of the first times since he’d come home, when she groaned louder, turning away from him entirely.

“Shut up, I did not swap my major for you,” She bit back, and she finally met his gaze, her expression an embarrassed wince, “I just… liked the material. You were very compelling,”

“Did you have a poster of us?” Spencer wanted to stop teasing, knew he was being a little cruel, but how could he resist when she shrieked in between laughter, shoving his shoulder with mortification.

“No,”

“Did you kiss Hotch’s picture before bed like an obsessive fangirl?”

She gestured to him vulgarly as they left the elevator and headed for the car park, and it made a huge difference to the usual adoration she watched him with, but maybe, he thought, it made him like her even more.

“No more shotgun for you, you’re going in the trunk like an old rug,” She snapped, though he could tell she was still horrified by the way she avoided his delighted hazelnut gaze.

“Like an old rug?” He feigned hurt, but when they sat in her car, she finally looked over at him with something vulnerable and yet affectionate, like he’d seen her for all she was worth. He reached over the console to squeeze her hand gently, not missing the way her palm clammed beneath his and she struggled for words, so he continued for her, “That’s really no way to talk to your idol, you know,”

Spencer swore his chest felt lighter than it had in months watching her laugh like that.

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spencerreidsreads · 4 days ago

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CROSS MY HEART | Spencer Reid x wife!Reader

Request: read here

description: Spencer's wife struggles with the aftermath of JJ's confession

length: 1.5k

warnings: JJ's 14x15 confession spoilers (big ick, pull yourself together Jennifer) infidelity, thoughts of worthlessness, reader thinks Spencer is going to leave her for JJ.

authors note: I have loved JJ for all of fourteen seasons and fourteen episodes. this was a BIG ICK for me watching this won't lie

She should have known something was wrong the minute they left that damn store.

It took her all of two seconds to throw herself into her husband’s arms, her voice choked with tears that had threatened to spill when she’d seen the video of Casey shooting at him, and she swore Spencer had never grabbed her so tight.

“I thought you,” She sniffled, running her fingers through the back of his scalp, the entire spanse of his huge hands ran along her spine, counting every vertebra to make sure she was still intact, despite the fact he had been the one held hostage, “I thought he’d shot you- it came so close,”

He hushed her mewls, a hand reaching to the back of her head and tucked her into his neck further, the sob rattling through her ribcage almost, almost, taking his mind entirely off what JJ had said in that stupid game of truth or dare.

What the fuck did she mean she had always loved him? She had a husband and children who doted on her; Will, who loved every shred of her being like it was his only purpose in the world. His godsons who had known him as uncle Spencer since he’d held them in the hospital, covered in goop and looking like the cutest little aliens he’d ever seen.

And yet JJ, his friend, perhaps one of his longest friends, was willing to throw it away for him? He, who had a wife he adored more than there were birds in the wind, leaves on an Autumn floor, more than there were galaxies in the damn cosmos. His wife, who had been there for him since the moment they’d met, who he’d known was the one since that first day she’d ran into him in the lobby, their files mixing together because neither of them had been watching where they were going, like one of those romcoms she forced him to watch and he pretended to hate, or like the silly thing she called fate that she insisted was very much real.

Spencer was a man of statistics and numbers and facts; things he could see. But he was sure there was nothing in any textbook that could have ever made sense of how the one person so perfectly created for him, the blob of cells that made up his wife that seemed to call to his own as if they were coming home to one another, would have just so happened to bump into him on a random Tuesday in August.

Most people waited decades for that kind of love, or something close, and he’d managed to get it at the ripe age of thirty three.

And yet in the space of ten seconds, of four little words in a wretched game, he felt like the carpet had been pulled from beneath him. Because why would JJ, who saw as clearly as anyone else how much he cherished his wife and the future they were planning together, try to take that away from him?

And as if his own odd spiral of thoughts wasn’t a kick to the gut enough, his sweet wife had quickly released him from her grasp and thrown herself at JJ, who seemed to just now be understanding the gravity of her words as she looked around with wide eyes, tear stains wetting her cheeks, the guilt gnawing in her gut already.

“JJ! Are you okay? Oh, you poor thing, you must have been so scared,” She sobbed, wrapping her friend in a loving hug that was shakily reciprocated, like JJ was waiting for the second she would get a fat shiner to the nose for confessing such a thing.

But that never happened. Instead, she pulled away from the frozen blonde woman, who looked like she could burst into tears then and there and apologise for everything until her face turned blue, and ran a kind hand over the JJ's hair, stroking it behind her ear tenderly as she tried to quell her cries because she wasn't the one who had been held at gunpoint.

She didn’t know. It hit them both at the same time. She didn’t know what JJ had said, hadn’t even got an inkling into what had happened, and god did it make the sinking feeling in Spencer’s chest swallow itself up into something the size of the Mariana Trench.

And what was left, what had for a second been a horrid mix of confusion, shock, fear and then another big dollop of confusion for good measure, quickly was dragged away by the current and replaced with anger.

Anger that JJ could do something like this to his wife; he frankly didn’t care how her words had affected him, that if he had been single he would have been left feeling unworthy of her affection the first time it had been offered around, like there was something so disgustingly wrong with him this was what it took for her to say anything. He didn’t care about any of that. He cared that this would absolutely destroy his wife.

And it was for that reason Spencer hurried the paramedics into fixing the small graze on his palm as he watched with boiling blood his wife tend to JJ like she would any other time her close friend was hurt in the field. He seethed whenever Jennifer would simper and avoid her friend's eyes, how his beautiful, caring, devoted wife would stroke the woman’s back and will her to talk, to tell her what to do to make it better.

Because it was her who should be fussing over his sweet wife, certainly not the other way around.

But he couldn’t say that, not there at least, and so he didn’t, not until he had got the greenlight from the medics to leave and he had all but cut off the circulation in her fingers with how tight he’d held her hand as he led her to the car.

Spencer said nothing, not wanting to fight when she forced him to sit shotgun as she climbed behind the wheel, not wanting to cause a commotion when there was a much bigger bombshell he was sitting on that he knew would change her feelings entirely.

“What?” Her voice was soft still, a murmur in the quiet night air of their bedroom. She sat, fresh faced, minty breathed, kevlar vest long gone and replaced with one of his old Dr Who shirts and comfy bottoms.

She said the word again, like she hadn’t heard him, but judging by the way her expression had fallen into something dejected, he knew that wasn’t the case.

Sighing, drawing gentle motions up and down her legs with his warm hands, shuffled closer where he kneeled down in front of her submittingly. “JJ said that she has always loved me; that was her ‘truth’ in the game,”

“Well, she-she was lying right?” His wife said quickly, her voice shaking, trying to make sense of it herself. She didn’t get an answer right away, just her husband’s eyes casting down as he tried to think of the best thing to say, “Right, Spencer?”

“I don’t know,” He said earnestly, and he saw immediately the way tears sprung to her eyes, her bottom lip trembling, her face warming in wet-anger, “But it doesn’t change anything, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter, to me- baby, please don’t cry,”

“Ofcourse it changes things, Spencer, it’s JJ. She’s literally the hottest woman to walk the earth, Pen said you were like in love with her when you started the BAU, and now you have your chance,” She whimpered, fat tears rolling over her freshly moisturised cheeks, and he swore he felt his chest concave at her words.

“My chance? I don’t want a chance, I want you,” Spencer said in earnest, his hands rubbing further and further up her legs until his hands went under her night shirt, grabbing onto the soft of her hips with pleading tenderness, “I want you forever, no matter what JJ or any other woman feels about me,”

She sniffled pitifully, her eyes still unsure and he took it as a sign she needed more, so he leaned in fully to hug her to him.

“But it’s JJ,” She said again, like that was going to change anything, and he shook his head, stroking over the back of her hair softly.

“I don't care,” He said, and she sniffed gently into the crook of his neck, his skin wetting with the contact. She finally wrapped her arms around him, and he knew he was close to getting it through to her, “I had the smallest crush on JJ, what, fifteen years ago? Honey, I want you for the rest of my life, and nothing and no one is going to change my mind about that, not even you.”

“Really?” His sweet wife whispered tearfully, and he chuckled sadly, hating how hard she had cried that it had ripped the life from her voice.

“Cross my heart,” He kissed her hairline softly, tipping her head upwards with one long, warm finger under her chin, pressing a gentle kiss to her wetted lips, “Hope I never die,”

She smiled sorrowfully, kissing her husband as if it was the last time she could ever do so, hoping it made up for how puffy and ugly her tears had made her face. But he didn’t care, he never had, he thought she was perfect just the way she was.

And he’d remind her of that any time she thought otherwise.

–

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spencerreidsreads · 5 days ago

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𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you join the team as a replacement after jj's departure. despite the initial stress and difficulties adapting, you manage to fully connect with the rest of the team. more than that—you make friends. and fall in love. but after unexpected events and returns, your time with them comes to an end—because, in the end, you were only a placeholder.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x bau!female reader, reader is an anxious overthinker whom i want to hug so badly, my intention was not to antagonize jj and i don't want it to be perceived that way, possibly incorrect infodump about tiramisu—offended italians, please don’t come to my house with torches and forks, melancholic, sad ending aka matilda's standard

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.3k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

6 months ago…

If you look at it in a certain way, almost everything started with tiramisu. Or rather, it started with your conversation with Penelope—overheard by Rossi—where you boasted about being an expert at making this Italian dessert. Or perhaps the most accurate statement would be that it started with JJ. After all, you were brought into the Behavioral Analysis Unit as her replacement — their new, young media liaison, meant to gain more experience through the role.

Anyway, that Saturday evening, you felt a slight chill on your shoulders as you stepped out of the car, clutching a massive tray of freshly made tiramisu and silently praying not to drop it before making it inside. Rossi’s house—excuse me, his mansion—truly looked impressive.

You couldn’t say you weren’t nervous. In fact, you were absolutely terrified—and not because of what the senior member of your new team might say about your baking skills. It was something else entirely.Eeryone had been invited that evening, including the team members you hadn’t yet gotten to know outside of work. Your relationship with them was strictly professional, and more often than not, you caught yourself wanting to appear flawless in their eyes. To prove that, despite your lack of experience, you were worthy of taking on this role. That, despite your relatively young age, you were mature and responsible.

So yes, you were nervous. In fact, the anxiety grew with every step you took toward the door, your grip on the tray tightening until your knuckles turned white.That didn’t stop you from almost dropping it when you suddenly jumped at the sound of your name spoken from behind.

"Oh my—" you gasped, inhaling sharply, instinctively wanting to clutch your chest—except both your hands were occupied.

Spencer Reid's brown eyes widened as he realized just how badly he had startled you.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s fine," you assured him, nodding a little too quickly. You took a slower breath, feeling slightly embarrassed. You worked with people who hunted serial killers for a living, delved into the darkest, most nightmarish cases—and yet, you nearly had a heart attack just because someone called your name.

In your defense, you were a woman alone at night, and a tray of tiramisu wasn’t exactly the deadliest weapon.Noticing the guilt still lingering on his face, you forced a smile and lifted the tray slightly. "I mean it. As long as I didn’t drop the cake, everything’s fine."

He stood before you with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, a purple scarf draped around his neck. The corners of his lips lifted slightly at your response, but you knew it was just a polite gesture—there was nothing particularly amusing about what you’d said.

You suddenly became aware of the silence stretching between you, neither of you moving, the moment teetering on the edge of awkwardness. You cleared your throat. Maybe you should compliment the scarf. You couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by him.

After all, this was Dr. Spencer Reid—the man whose name had once reached your ears and settled somewhere in your thoughts, cementing itself under the label of genius. That was the lens through which you saw him, having yet to familiarize yourself with any of his other traits.

What you had noticed, however, was that he seemed to prefer keeping you at a distance. And yes, it all traced back to your first meeting—your first greeting, your first outstretched hand, and the first, slightly awkward:

It’s actually safer to kiss.

“You think we’re the first ones here?" you asked, just before pressing the doorbell. Then, hesitating, you bit the inside of your cheek. "Actually…maybe we’re a little too early."

"I think we’re fine," he replied. "Rossi said eight."

You gave a small nod. The door swung open.

“What are you doing here so early?" You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

"If I remember correctly—and I do—you said eight. It’s eight."

"Decent people show up fashionably late."

"And then you’d complain that the younger generation doesn’t respect your time."

You watched the exchange in silence, noticing the flicker of amusement in both men’s eyes. Of course, they weren’t actually arguing—just friendly banter. Still, something about it caught your attention. You wondered if you’d ever feel comfortable enough around them to join in like that.

He stepped aside to let you both in, and as you crossed the threshold, you realized you hadn’t said a word yet.

“As promised," you started, nodding toward the dessert in your hands. "My specialty."

Rossi raised an eyebrow at you.

"We’ll see about that. “

But he did take the tray from you while you slipped off your coat.

"I was actually about to make an important call," he announced. "Before someone decided to show up early. So, if you’ll excuse me, you’ll have to entertain yourselves for a bit. Be so kind as not to destroy my kitchen. Everyone else should be here soon."

And with that, he simply left you there.

Reid clearly knew his way around the house—he had to—because without hesitation, he led you straight to the kitchen, where you set the dessert down on the black marble countertop. And just like that, the two of you were left alone, connected by a slightly awkward silence.

"Maybe I should cut it," you mused, your gaze falling on the tiramisu. "Rossi wouldn’t mind if I used his knives, right?"

"I don’t think so," he said, standing on the other side of the kitchen island, made of white wood with plenty of drawers.

To your surprise, you realized he was watching your movements. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to realize that you noticed it from the corner of your eye. Or maybe you were imagining it, but you could swear you heard him swallow.

"You know, there are many theories about when and how tiramisu was actually invented," he remarked.

"I don't think I've heard any of them," you admitted, glancing around for a knife. "I mean, I can make it, but I can’t explain…the historical context behind it"

He leaned his elbows on the counter, briefly lowering his gaze to his hands. The sleeves of his purple shirt remained slightly rolled up, not quite reaching his wrists.

"It originated in Italy, of course. And the most popular version says it was invented in the 1960s in Treviso. At least, before that period, the name doesn’t appear in any sources."

Focused on cutting the cake evenly, unconsciously sticking out the tip of your tongue, you couldn’t muster any reaction, but you listened intently. Spencer, however, seemed to think otherwise—after briefly glancing at your face, he looked away, apparently deciding to drop the topic.

"What does it mean?" you asked. Your eyes met, and for a moment, he looked surprised. "I mean, what does the name mean?" you clarified with a gentle smile. "I should probably expand my knowledge. What if Rossi decides to quiz me?"

After a brief moment, a small, friendly smile bloomed on his lips.

"Well, in that case, I’ll do my best to prepare you."

You hadn’t been working together for long, but even so, you had already discovered—fascinated—that he was a true wellspring of knowledge, with no apparent limits to his mind. Sometimes, he would lose his train of thought—you had noticed that too. And sometimes, he would stumble when he realized it himself. You found it somewhat endearing. Or at the very least, well…you liked listening to it.

Somewhere around the time you had been acquainted with three theories about its origin, the etymology of its name, the original recipe and its variations, as well as a few interesting fun facts about tiramisu—which you listened to without even realizing that you were still holding the knife despite having finished cutting the cake—the sound of the host’s footsteps reached you. But they weren’t headed in your direction. Instead, he made his way to the door to let the other guests in.

You tried to relax your shoulders, aiming to appear at ease. Bodies are often treacherous and rarely care about how you wish to be perceived. Instead, they ignore your intentions and take cues from your subconscious—and subconsciously, you were stressed.

You quietly scolded yourself, shaking your head slightly. After all, they were all profilers—experts at reading body language. As if on cue, just as the thought crossed your mind, you accidentally caught Reid’s gaze fixed on you. You shrugged, the corners of your lips lifting slightly, feigning ignorance.

Truthfully, you weren’t entirely sure what was going through your own head. Maybe it was that deep-seated belief that you always had to present yourself at your best—worthy of this job. Even though this was supposed to be a casual gathering, off the clock, in your free time.

“You guys already here?” Prentiss raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Spencer on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Hotch followed behind her, nodding in greeting. “We’re not late, are we?”

“We’re late?” Penelope’s voice rang out as she peeked into the room, her head appearing in the doorway. She stopped short, and Morgan, walking right behind her, gently grabbed her shoulders to keep from bumping into her.

“It’s just me, baby girl,” he reassured her, a faint smirk on his lips. “Or maybe too much me, judging by that jump. Hey, everyone. Reid. New girl. Good to see you. Not sick of us yet after this week, are you?"

"Oh, come on, don’t act like we’re that unbearable," Prentiss chided, shooting him a look.

By then, everyone had made their way inside, starting to take seats on the high bar stools. You stood there, returning smiles and greetings, and let Garcia pull you into a hug. Derek called you New girl. While you'd grown to like him, the nickname didn’t sit quite right with you. It highlighted your place in the team, making it clear that you weren’t quite like the rest of them.

"Actually, the way we perceive ourselves can be different from how we really are, simply because of how much time we spend together," Spencer mused aloud.

"You might be onto something," Morgan nodded at him, then turned his gaze back to you. "Let’s get an outside opinion. Are we unbearable?"

"You are," Rossi confirmed immediately, not even glancing up from the wine bottle in his hands, likely searching for the vintage.

"I said outside opinion."

Then, all the curious gazes had settled on you. Up until now, your hands had rested casually on the counter, but you pulled them away to hide how anxiously they were moving. Spencer tracked the motion with his eyes—something you caught in your peripheral vision, and you had to resist the urge to curse under your breath. Hiding your anxiety from these people, especially from him, was proving harder than you’d expected.

You hesitated, searching for the perfect answer. You often caught yourself doing this in social situations—as if this were a test question with only one correct response, rather than a casual conversation where anything you said would be fine as long as it was honest.

That evening, everyone seemed to be in good spirits. They were joking easily, teasing one another, and now that all their attention was focused on you, you wanted to say something that would blend you into the moment, something that would break the ice. This was your first time meeting outside of work.

But the longer you stayed silent, the more the right words slipped away from you. It was like a black curtain had suddenly dropped over your mind.

"Who wants to try the tiramisu?" you blurted out at last.

An unbearable awkwardness tightened around your chest—but then, to your surprise, Prentiss laughed, setting off the rest of the group.

"I’m not accepting this subject change," Morgan shook his head.

"I, on the other hand, think it was a good move. Almost diplomatic," Spencer countered. His gaze flickered toward you for a brief second, and you caught something there—though you weren’t entirely sure what. Understanding, maybe? Either way, you felt the urge to flash a grateful smile at both him and Emily.

But Spencer quickly refocused on Derek, directing his next words at him. "Because the real answer could be…” he lowered his voice dramatically, "…mercilessly brutal."

“Oh, you’re all wrong," Penelope rolled her eyes. "Obviously, she was going to say she’s already fallen in love with all of us. Right, sweetheart?" She turned to you but didn’t wait for an answer—actually, you didn’t even have time to move, let alone speak. "See? Just like I said. Now, let’s try that cake, because I can’t stand the way it’s looking at me with those heavenly little eyes..."

The tight, complicated knot in your stomach started to loosen, little by little. Garcia’s suggestion was met with general enthusiasm and quickly turned into action. Naturally, Rossi had to be the first to take a bite. Everyone’s eyes locked onto him as he slowly swallowed a microscopic piece, as if he were some renowned food critic. You could see amusement on everyone’s faces—even Hotch’s—which was a completely new experience for you.

After a long, tension-filled moment, Rossi gave a slight nod of approval.

You placed a hand over your chest in mock relief.

“That’s the proudest I’ve felt since I got my diploma," you said casually—straightforward, natural, without overthinking.

Maybe you really were starting to open up.

Time moved forward at a gentle pace, and while you didn’t suddenly become the life of the party, the friendly atmosphere started to get to you. You all opened the bottle of wine the host had brought, raising your glasses in a toast to whatever came to mind—after all, there was no real occasion to celebrate.

You noticed that Spencer wasn’t drinking, but he still joined in, lifting a handful of chips instead. The sight made you smile softly before you could stop yourself.

He noticed you watching him. In the background, conversation buzzed, someone laughed loudly, but for a moment, it felt like the two of you were elsewhere.

“Well…” he started, swallowing nervously. You hoped he didn’t feel pressured into making conversation just because you were looking at him. Though, another thought crept in—what other reason could he have for feeling awkward? Only after a beat did you realize that you often felt that way too, for no particular reason. That was just how you were. Apparently, so was he.

“What did you do before?” he asked, then immediately backtracked. “I mean, I know what, of course I know—that’s public information, if you know what I mean. I just meant more like…” He sighed, lowering his gaze for a second, as if exhausted by his own rambling. Then, he tried again, slower this time. “I meant, how do you feel about it? And about the change?”

His question piqued the interest of the others, their gazes shifting back to you. Whatever had momentarily set the two of you apart from the group vanished in an instant.

Just as you opened your mouth to respond, a sound cut through the conversation.

“That’s mine, sorry,” Prentiss apologized, reaching into her pocket for her ringing phone. She didn’t even glance at the screen at first, her thumb already poised to decline the call—until she hesitated. Her expression shifted in an instant, lighting up with surprise. “Oh my God, it’s JJ!”

Everyone reacted similarly, and you tried to mirror their excitement, summoning a smile to your face—though it lacked sincerity. It wasn’t out of any personal dislike toward Jareau; nothing like that. You had met her, of course—you were taking her place, after all, and she had to introduce you to everything quickly. But it hadn’t been enough to form a deep friendship, or any friendship at all. That made you the only one in this group who felt completely neutral about her.

“Oh, you have to answer,” Penelope urged, nodding enthusiastically. “Totally. And tell her I say hi!”

“And me,” Spencer and Morgan added almost simultaneously.

“From all of us,” Hotch clarified, with Rossi confirming it with a nod.

Prentiss stood from her seat, clearly intending to step out of the kitchen to take the call in private—it was meant for her, after all. But just before she left, she hesitated in the doorway, as if mentally going over the instructions.

“Say hi from everyone. Got it,” she muttered under her breath.

“Especially from Penelope.”

“And from—”

“Everyone. Got it.”

When Prentiss’ dark hair disappeared from view, a brief silence settled over the group, broken only by Garcia’s deep sigh.

“I miss her. A lot.”

“It’s not like she died, babygirl,” Derek responded with a teasing edge, though something in his tone—between the words—carried a similar feeling.

“Ugh, you know what I mean,” Garcia huffed at him. “I miss having her with us. At work. In the team. Remember…remember how she always used to…”

She drifted into a story, weaving nostalgic but ultimately amused expressions onto her friends’ faces. You caught a glimpse of Spencer out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he still remembered the question he had asked you before the phone rang. But his gaze was fixed on Garcia, listening to her tale with a small smile forming at the corners of his lips.

You tuned out for a moment, lost in your own thoughts, only to be pulled back to reality by an outburst of laughter. You had missed a good chunk of the story—though you weren’t sure if it mattered. Some anecdotes, especially the ones built on shared memories, were meant for everyone’s ears but truly reached only those who had been there. You suspected this was one of them, but still, you joined in on the laughter. Even if you hadn’t caught the joke, you didn’t want to dampen the mood with a blank expression.

You tried to push away the feeling of not belonging. It was difficult at first, but then you realized—that wasn’t the way. You couldn’t push it away; you had to accept it. Because the truth was, you didn’t quite belong. Or rather, you hadn’t belonged long enough. That was natural. You would feel this way for who knows how long, but certainly for a while. As long as the nickname New Girl still clung to you.

Surprisingly, that very acceptance made the rest of the evening easier to get through. Prentiss returned after a while, briefly summarizing what JJ had been up to, but the conversation didn’t linger on her. The knot in your stomach didn’t tighten again. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was something else. Maybe, for the first time, you were starting to feel okay.

now

You recalled that specific moment in your memories, simultaneously sinking into it as if it were happening in real time, yet with the suffocating weight of reality breathing down your neck—a voice whispering that it was just a memory.

If it were happening now, Emily wouldn’t have left the room to take the call. No phone would have even rung. Emily was gone. You had just been to her funeral.

At an hour when most people were deep in sleep, when street advertisements and billboards cut through the darkness, illuminating the city more effectively than the stars ever could, you were half-sitting, half-lying on your bed, your back pressed against the headboard. The dark room was filled with nothing but shapes, mere outlines of furniture—just like your mind was filled only with fragments and silhouettes of thoughts. Frayed, scattered, following no chronology or pattern.

It had been six months since you joined the BAU. Some might say that’s not enough time to form real friendships. But in a job where you could die any day, six months was plenty. In those circumstances, attachment only formed faster.

Your eyelids burned with exhaustion, but you couldn’t close them. With a heavy weight in your chest, for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you kept replaying that moment—that evening at Rossi’s. Those conversations echoed vividly in your mind, but over time, they began to fade, pushed aside by another sound.

Breathing.

Not yours.

Oh. Right.

That night, you didn’t sleep alone.

While you sat on the bed, Spencer lay on his side, his back turned to you, his head resting somewhere near your hip. You weren’t sure how it had happened.

Sleeping in the same bed wasn’t something natural for the two of you—not as just friends. Though over the past two months, that label might have been debatable in the eyes of many. You had never really defined it between yourselves, so you kept calling it friendship.

You weren’t exactly sure how it had happened that night, specifically. After the funeral, after that entire exhausting day, when the sun had set, you had somehow, instinctively, ended up moving in the same direction—toward his apartment. And somehow, instinctively, you had kept postponing the moment of leaving. But when it finally came, his lips had somehow, instinctively, formed the word stay.

So you stayed, changing out of your funeral attire into one of his random T-shirts, the scent of it tickling your nose as you finally lay down, your back turned to him.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, but what could you say? What could you do? In moments like these, everyone was alone in their own way. Maybe that was why it was so important to have someone there, physically—but even that didn’t quite apply to your situation. His bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that neither of you touched. So, in a way, you were alone in both senses, but it didn’t sting as much, mostly because of the scent surrounding you, wrapping around you like an embrace.

You even managed to close your eyes—not that it meant you’d actually sleep. In fact, you felt just as far from it as when they were wide open. At least they didn’t burn anymore.

At some point—after an amount of time you couldn’t track—the scent deepened, became stronger. You tensed, unsure why, until it finally dawned on you with a quiet exhale.

It wasn’t just the scent of his T-shirt. It was him.

Moving closer.

First just slightly, then more. Until eventually, his arm draped over your curled-up frame, his hand settling somewhere against your stomach, where the fabric of the blanket bunched up.

A delicate tickle against your neck. His breath, his head almost nestled in the crook of it.

Definitely awake—you could tell by the rhythm.

And it was him. Spencer.

It’s actually safer to kiss Spencer.

"Are you awake?" he asked, so quietly the words barely brushed the air. There was a chance they hadn’t even spoken at all. Maybe it was just the sound of his breath, somehow resembling them. Maybe it was just your exhausted imagination.

Still, you chose to answer.

"No," you murmured. "I can't sleep."

"Me neither," he added, though that much was obvious. A shift of his head, an unconscious brush against your neck, sending the faintest shiver down your spine. “Does this bother you?"

"It’s nice," you said softly, unsure of what else you could add. You didn’t really want to speak. His words melted smoothly into the quiet, while yours cut through it—harsh, even when you tried to whisper.

Maybe he took it as hesitation, because his body tensed for a brief second before he started to pull away.

"No…" You tried to stop him, your hand catching his forearm—the one holding you. "Just…stay."

"Oh. Okay."

As if following your request to the letter, he stayed exactly where he was. More than that, he seemed to settle into it even further. The pressure of his chest against your back felt good. You heard him swallow, close to your ear. “Th-thank you. I don’t think…I don’t think I could—I don’t think I’d be able to fall asleep alone. Not tonight.”

You didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, you just adjusted your grip, holding it more comfortably.

And just when you were starting to come to terms with it, you suddenly found out that Emily was still alive. You could say she had never died, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Well, in a way, yes—her body never stopped functioning, nor was it buried in a coffin. But in your minds, in your belief, in your feelings, it was different. You buried her and went through the grieving process. To you, she was dead.

When she reappeared, everything was too chaotic to dwell on it. There was no shock, no tears—you had your hands full, focused on capturing Doyle.

The realization of it all began to sink in for you, as well as for the rest of the team, only later. She had faked her death. She had allowed you to mourn her. And what was even more shocking to you—JJ had known all along. You knew the two of them trusted each other deeply, but in some way, you couldn't grasp it. How she could stand beside you at the funeral, shedding a few tears, offering comforting pats on the back. How she could keep up the act for days, weeks, and months.

You knew Spencer was furious with her. It was obvious—the anger was clear in his eyes. But even if he had tried to hide it, you would have known. Because ever since Emily's supposed death, the two of you had grown even closer.

Nights spent side by side had become something that no longer required a quiet request; they had become entirely natural for you both. That was how you saw it—a way for two friends to cope with grief and sleepless hours.

You probably should have talked about your relationship. It was something you thought about often—when his sleepy breath brushed against your neck, when his lips occasionally grazed it while he spoke. You should have talked, but that didn’t mean you did.

Maybe you were both too focused on other things to worry about your feelings for each other.

Either way, at first, he was furious with her. You accidentally overheard part of their argument about it, just as you were also an accidental witness to the embrace they pulled each other into when they finally decided to let it go.

A certain skepticism lingered within you. Of course, you didn’t want to dictate whom he could forgive or what he was allowed to demand—that was his decision alone. You understood that. And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about how you were the one who had watched what those past months had done to him. How close he had come to slipping back into that.

When his relationship with JJ had finally returned to normal, you couldn’t hold back anymore—you tried to bring it up.

All you got in response was You wouldn’t understand.

And perhaps he was right. Some things simply weren’t yours to understand—not as someone who had only recently entered his life. Unlike JJ, you hadn’t been there for years.

As they quickly rebuilt their trust, their dynamic, their friendship, a strange, somber thought crossed your mind. You started wondering if, from the very beginning, you had only been filling the space she left behind—just as you had done with the team, stepping into her role.

Before, you had convinced yourself that his friendship with her was entirely different from what he had with you. Because with you, you had foolishly believed, it wasn’t just friendship.

But the more time passed, the more you started to realize that maybe—maybe that had only ever been wishful thinking.

These were the kind of worries you kept entirely to yourself, but at the same time, they gnawed at you from the inside, needing to be shared with someone.

You wanted to talk to someone about it, but there was no one to turn to. I mean, everything was the same as always. Everyone loved JJ—they never stopped—and you were the new, younger girl who might have seemed like she was speaking badly about her out of pure, immature jealousy.

Until now, aside from Spencer, the person you were closest to was Prentiss, but for obvious reasons, you couldn’t go to her. Besides, she would have chosen JJ over you too. That was undeniable.

And that’s how, somehow, you ended up standing outside Penelope’s office, telling yourself that maybe she would understand.

But just as you were about to open the door, doubt crept in. You sighed and leaned your back against the wall. Maybe, when it came to this, there was simply no one on the team you could turn to.

You abandoned the idea entirely, yet your feet refused to move. There was so much internal, mental exhaustion weighing you down. So many sleepless nights, so much stress and worry, so much uncertainty and so many questions.

You heard footsteps approaching. Turning your head to the side, you saw Hotch stopping just two steps away from you. For a moment, he simply looked at you in silence, studying your face.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," you replied flatly. You couldn’t breathe properly. You already knew—had known the moment he stopped—that he wasn’t here to ask about how you were feeling.

"Just tired."

He gave a slow nod.

"I need to have a word with you."

Pressing your teeth into the inside of your cheek, you nodded back.

You didn’t actually keep many personal things in the office.

You made sure the rest of the team had been sent out into the field before you started packing them into a small box. They fit easily—it wasn’t even heavy. And yet, as you stared at it sitting on your desk, it felt impossibly difficult to lift.

You guessed flawlessly what Hotch wanted to talk to you about because, in a way, it was obvious.

JJ was back. Emily was back. The team had too many members now, and someone had to go. And the choice was just as obvious.

Honestly, you weren’t even angry. It had to be you—the placeholder.

But if you were aware of that, why did something bitter nest in your throat?

Before you could take even two steps forward toward the exit, Spencer had already reached you, hesitantly extending his hands.

"Let me help—"

"No need," you said, tucking the box under your arm, keeping it out of his reach.

For a moment, you both just stared at each other in silence. You had no idea what to say. In fact, it was hard to even look at him. That was why you wanted to do this alone—to just leave quietly. You didn't even know why he was there. You must have miscalculated something, or maybe they had simply come back earlier.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he, too, remained silent. Walking past him now would signal anger, resentment—but that wasn’t exactly what you felt. So you stood in front of him, waiting for him to speak.

"You're leaving," he finally said, swallowing hard. A statement of fact he could have easily left unsaid. Adjusting the box in your arms, you simply nodded.

"I mean—what I wanted to say is… just remember that you're my friend. And I hope you still will be, even…even if we’re not working together. This doesn’t really change anything."

But if you hadn’t worked together, you never would have met. Never would have grown close. Besides, it wasn’t even the job that had stood in your way. It was something else—something simpler, because it depended only on the two of you, yet for that very reason, it was also much more complicated. Specifically, communication.

"I know," you admitted with a slight nod, though without much conviction.

Spencer tried to smile, briefly catching your gaze—one you immediately dropped to the box in your hands before he could read anything from your eyes.

"I have to go now. This is starting to get a little heavy."

"You know, I can really help you—"

"It's fine," you cut him off firmly. "It's really fine, Spencer."

He let out a quiet sigh of surrender as you headed toward the exit.

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spencerreidsreads · 5 days ago

Text

sweet strawberries and bitter sneezes

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

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

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

Spencer Reid made you fall in love with routine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised an eyebrow.

“The weather makes you romantic?”

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

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

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

“Get where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A tickle in your nose.

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

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

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

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

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

“I am. And I will be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An angel?”

“Mhm. My angel.”

“Your angel.”

“Mhm.”

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

Then, you sneezed.

🍓

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

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

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

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

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

You and Spencer had your routine.

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

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

You sniffled twice, stifling an oncoming sneeze.

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

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

“The nose thing too,” he added.

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

“It’s keeping me from falling asleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had a dream,” you said.

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

“Like all people, sometimes.”

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

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

“Not today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You told me you lo—”

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

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

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

“What were you saying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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spencerreidsreads · 6 days ago

Text

perfect bait

ship : spencer reid x bau, hotchnersdaughter!reader

warnings : the more mild mentions of a typical criminal minds case, jealous spencer, overprotective dad & boyf😵‍💫, the whole fic is basically an hr managers nightmare

hotch also doesn’t know reader & spencer are dating.. lolz!

‧₊˚ ⋅

cases like these always made your skin itch. you’d delt with unsubs who’ve had types before, tall brunettes, mothers with kids, women who jogged alone in suburban neighborhoods. but this one? this unsub had a fixation that the profile mapped out with surgical precision.

mid to late twenties, whip-smart, strong willed with a warmth to them he believed he could ‘tame’, aka, you.

which was why, of course, you were currently standing in a safehouse mirror, tugging at the strap of your dress like you could make it less revealing, while your father hovered nearby like he was debating murdering the unsub before you even left the room.

“it’s too dangerous,” hotch muttered, pacing. “he’s escalated too quickly. i don’t like the idea of you being alone with him.”

you snorted softly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “that’s kind of the point, dad. if i’m not alone with him, he won’t show his hand.”

he shot you a sharp look. “this isn’t funny.” “i’m not trying to be funny.” you turned, smoothing the fabric down with a patient calm. “but come on. you raised me to be competent.. enough, didn’t you? i can do this.”

his jaw flexed, you softened, stepping closer and resting a hand on his arm. “hey. it’s okay. i know you’re worried. but i’ll have a wire, a whole team outside, and you breathing down my neck.” you sliently muttered, just enough for you to earn the tiniest huff of amusement.

“besides,” you added, flashing him a cheeky grin, “you just had to make me so pretty and perfect, huh? it’s your fault i’m the unsub’s type.”

hotch actually pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile. “god help me. i should’ve encouraged you to be an accountant.”“you wouldn’t last a week without me,” you shot back.

and that was that, his version of surrender. but not before he tugged you into a quick, tight hug. his chin pressed against your hair for a second longer than necessary. “don’t take risks you don’t need to,” he murmured. “please.”

“yes, sir,” you teased, but your chest ached with the knowledge of how much he actually cared.

you left the safehouse and slid into the bar’s booth thirty minutes later, dress catching the low amber lights. your unsub, robert mccarthy, thirty-four, good smile, was already waiting with two drinks.

“you look even better in person,” he said smoothly as you sat down.“thanks,” you replied, keeping your tone light and your eyes warm, precisely as instructed. “you clean up nice yourself.”

what he didn’t see was the tiny black wire nestled at your collarbone, carrying every word back to the surveillance van parked two blocks away.

and what you couldn’t see, but knew without a doubt, was spencer reid hunched over his comms, listening like his life depended on it.

robert was halfway through mansplaining his ideal house when he was interrupted by the sudden scratch of the earpiece.

“remember,” hotch’s voice cut in over comms, “try to get him talking about his past relationships. let him show his patterns.”

spencer leaned forward, mic pressed close. “don’t let him order for you. unsubs like this usually exert control in small ways first.”

you struggled to find the self control to not roll your eyes. you’d been on the job for how many years now?

your voice floated back, nodding at the criminal in front of you while simultaneously delivering a double message. “copy that boy wonder”

robert leaned closer, sliding your glass towards you. “try this, it’s their specialty cocktail.”

you arched a brow. “bold of you to assume i’ll like it?”

he chuckled. “something tells me you’ll like what i pick”

in your ear, spencers whisper was laced with warning “don’t drink it. you don’t know if he-“

“-nailed my taste? guess we’ll see” you cut in smoothly. lifting the glass, but not sipping. thinking it’s a playful game, robert smiled, satisfied.

“what can i say?” he said, leaning back smugly. “i pay attention.”

“good redirect.” spencer murmured. you could almost swear you heard the undertone of jealousy in his voice.

you swirled your drink. “see that’s a dangerous quality. women love it when men pay attention.”

“do you?” robert asked, interest sharpening.

“careful” spencer whispered in your ear.

you tilted your head, letting your smile soften as you found the unsubs gaze. “yeah, i do. especially when the attention feels.. safe.”

spencers inhale crackled slightly over the comms. you’d hoped he understood the message hidden between your words.

the unsub preened under the compliment, launching into a story about his “ex” who never appreciated him. you tuned out the worst of it, nodding at intervals, steering him with light questions that kept him talking.

but spencer on the other hand, wouldn’t stop.

“you’re doing fine, but don’t let him box you in with personal questions. keep it vague.”

“your laugh’s too convincing. don’t let him think you’re invested.”

“he’s staring at your necklace, he’s probably cataloging details. adjust your posture.”

you finally pressed your hand against your cheek to cover the tiniest smile. to the unsub, it looked flirty. to spencer, it was a silent plea.

“robert,” you said sweetly, leaning in. “can i ask you something?”he nodded, eager.

“do you ever feel like someone’s always in your ear?”he frowned. “what do you mean?”

“like… commentary. little voices that won’t let you just… be.” you gave a light laugh, eyes glinting. “it gets exhausting, doesn’t it?”

in your ear, spencer choked. “…are you talking about me right now?” you ignored him, smiling at robert as if it were only for him. “sometimes i just want quiet. someone who doesn’t… hover. you know?”

robert relaxed, buying it wholesale. “exactly! god, my ex was always hovering. it drove me insane.”

“hovering?” spencer muttered indignantly. “i’m keeping you alive.” “see?” you murmured, still smiling at robert. “voices.”

the unsub, thinking it was a shared joke, laughed. the team in the van tried not to.

time ticked on, the conversation stretching thin. eventually, robert reached for your hand across the table. spencer’s voice nearly cracked the comm. “do not let him touch you.”

but you had to. you couldn’t risk suspicion. so you let his fingers brush yours, just briefly, then pulled back with a coy tilt of your head. “patience,” you teased. “good things take time.”

the unsub grinned, reeled in. and spencer? spencer swore under his breath, voice cutting off when hotch shot him a look that could kill.

you let his fingers graze yours across the table just long enough for him to take the bait, then pulled back with a teasing tilt of your head. the unsub grinned like he’d won something.

“maybe we should get out of here,” robert suggested, voice smooth but edged with impatience.

your smile stayed sweet, practiced. “lead the way.” you slid out of the booth, aware of the tiny crackle in your ear as spencer hissed, “don’t go with him, wait for backup.”

but you had to, at least for another block, you had to get enough evidence to charge him. so you let robert guide you outside, into the cooler night air, the bar’s neon buzzing behind you.

“i know a quieter place,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket like he was just fishing for keys. your instincts screamed.

you could tell he was pulling out the laced handkerchief, you acted oblivious though. you both paused near the alleyway trash bins, he started to grab your shoulder, attempting to pin you down.

you reacted before your brain fully caught up, slamming your elbow back into his ribs with enough force to make him stumble.“what the—” he hissed, clutching his side.

you spun, playing it off with a light laugh, covering the move. “oops. heels, you know? i’m clumsy.” you winked, brushing your hair back to disguise the tension in your jaw.

the bust came seconds later. the team drove in with sirens and badges, pulling you free while robert shouted protests.

you stepped out of the dimly lit alley into the cool night, adrenaline still fizzing in your veins.

spencer was the first one there, pulling off his comm and shoving it in his pocket. his eyes scanned you head to toe. “are you okay? did he-”

“i’m fine,” you interrupted gently. “he barely touched me.” his jaw clenched. “he wanted to.” “but he didn’t.” you touched his arm, grounding him. “because i had you in my ear the whole time.”

that softened him, though only slightly. “sorry,” he muttered. “i know i was.. intense.” you laughed softly. “intense is one word.”

before he could respond, hotch strode over, relief hidden under his usual steel. “you handled yourself well,” he said, but his eyes lingered on you with unspoken worry. “both of you.”

“thanks, dad,” you said lightly. “told you i could do it.” you earned a look that screamed never again.

and as the team packed up, spencer lingered by your side, silent but close. you bumped his shoulder with yours, teasing under your breath, “see, spence? sometimes voices in my ear aren’t so bad.”

the apartment door had barely clicked shut before spencer was on you. you could tell the more you guys had talked about it in the car, the more anger he felt. but this was much different.

he wasn’t his usual careful way, no, this was different. this was urgent, magnetic, like every second he’d spent listening to that unsub breathe in your ear had been coiling him tighter and tighter until now, when he could finally snap.

his hands found your waist before you even dropped your go bag, pushing you back against the door, his mouth crushing down on yours.

you laughed into the kiss, breathless, tugging at his hair. “jesus, spence-” “don’t,” he muttered against your lips, voice low and rough. “don’t joke. do you have any idea what it felt like to sit there and hear him talk to you like that? see him touch you?”

you tilted your head, lips brushing his jaw. “hm. you mean while you were whispering jealous commentary in my ear?”

he groaned, forehead falling against yours. “i wasn’t jealous.”“mm.” your fingers slid down his chest, slow and teasing. “you sure about that?”

his grip tightened on your hips. “i was worried.” “worried, jealous, tomato, tomahto.”

spencer pulled back just far enough to glare at you, though his pupils were blown wide with desire. “you think this is funny?”

you smirked, leaning closer, whispering like it was classified: “huh. maybe i should get almost drugged and killed more often.”

he froze for a heartbeat, and surged forward again, kissing you hard enough that your knees nearly buckled. “don’t say that,” he breathed against your mouth. “don’t you dare. you scared the hell out of me.”

you gasped as his hands roamed, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing hot against your skin. “okay, okay, i’m sorry,” you murmured between kisses, though your grin was wicked. “i’ll stick to boring paperwork from now on.” “don’t tempt me.”

“god,” he muttered, kissing down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d somehow have to explain to your dad later “you have no idea how close i came to ripping that comm out of my ear and storming in there.”

you arched under him, half-laughing, half-melting. “what would’ve been your excuse? ‘sorry team, couldn’t take it, she was being too hot’?”

“yes,” he said, dead serious, and you burst out laughing until he silenced you with another bruising kiss.

his hand skimmed up your thigh, dragging your dress higher. “you think you can just sit there looking like that, letting him touch you, and i wouldn’t” his words cut off in a groan as you rolled your hips against his.

“it was an act, spence. i was in control the whole time, you know this.” “doesn’t matter,” he muttered, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “he wanted you. he wanted what’s mine.”

the possessiveness in his tone made your breath hitch.“yours, huh?” you teased softly, though your pulse raced.

he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, pupils dark and serious. “yes. mine.”

(a/n : hi guys long time no see, schools been kicking my ass icl.. we started on monday😣. anyway we got kinda 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓎 in this one. uhhh leave requests cs i have no ideas, bye babes!!)

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spencerreidsreads · 6 days ago

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rate my bookmark (I know it’s a perfect 10/10)

#Aaron Hotchner #criminal minds #reading #bookmark #I’ve just started reading prison healer I’m so excited #hotch

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spencerreidsreads · 7 days ago

Note

have you ever done a fic where reader is a little insecure after having a baby? like maybe Ellie is a toddler and she thought her body would be “back to normal” by now and she’s not where she wants to be and there’s just a lot of Hotch reassurance

after the afterglow

🥺 cw; fem!reader, dad!aaron, established relationship, talk about body image and postpartum, sooo much comfort and reassurance from aaron, and he's very down bad <3

"Are you ready?" Aaron called out to you, securing the cuffs to his button-up.

Another night, another long, draining bureaucratic event.

He was expecting a yes, or at least an almost. You’d been in the bathroom a while now, and never been the one to dawdle, not wanting to be late if you were going out. But to his surprise, a flat no was your only response.

"No?" Aaron began walking towards you, but you met him halfway, a look of displeasure written all over your face. Your makeup was done, your hair was tied up - in just the way he liked, as a matter of fact. But you weren't dressed yet, robe tied tightly around you.

Aaron stared for a moment, and it took a second for him to come back to himself - nothing could distract him like you could. Words, Aaron. "What's going on?"

"You can go without me." You rushed an excuse out, avoiding his eyes. "I'll stay home with Jack and Ellie. "

Your voice had that careful, composed tone people use when they're trying to make things seem okay - only it was obvious they weren’t.

His gaze followed you, gentle but scrutinizing all the same. "Honey."

"I can give Jessica a call right now," you stated, retrieving your phone. "She probably hasn't even left yet."

"Hey," he asked again, softer this time. His large hand cupped yours, removing the phone and placing it back on the dresser. "What's going on?"

You sighed, your eyes lowered in thought; you were clearly fighting against some internal battle. Aaron's hand rose, lifting your chin so he could look at you. Your eyes were solemn in a way he hadn't seen from you in a long time - tired, but not physically.

And by his own expression, it was clear he wasn't going to drop the subject until you confided in him.

"I don't like the way I look."

"You don't like the way you look?" he repeated, in an almost wounded way. The uneasy manner in which your face pulled caused an instant pain in his chest. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't look the way I used to," you exasperatedly admitted. The tears came without warning, tracing silent paths down your cheeks, unstoppable once they started. "It's frustrating."

"Sweetheart-"

"No, I know. I had a baby. The changes my body went through are normal. And I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. But..." Your voice cracked, your vision clouding, "I've been trying hard to get back to normal, and I'm not. It's been three years."

As soon as you healed and received the clearance from your doctor, you began postpartum yoga. You've frequented the gym when permitted, working out at home if you couldn't, focusing on gentle core strengthening exercises. Or when the weather was nice: going on runs pushing Ellie's stroller, following Jack as he rode his bike. You ate healthily. You’d done so much, and yet it seemed nothing had changed.

"It doesn't go unnoticed."

"But it's not working."

"You take wonderful care of yourself. You're the mother of the perfect daughter I always dreamed of having. You're the one that'll grow and nurture any other children that come our way in the future. Your body is, and has done, amazing things. It doesn’t need to be the way it was before you had Ellie to still be beautiful." Aaron sympathized, a hand finding your waist.

You nodded with a faint noise slipping from you, wiping your tears. Aaron continued.

"If anything, I'm the one at fault here. For not reminding you how sexy you are more." He lowered his voice, and his eyes darkened for a flash of a moment, the familiar look they always took when he was quietly admiring you. "And I find you extremely sexy."

He was wrong there; while you had your own doubts about your appearance, never once had Aaron made you feel anything less than worshiped. Even after going through childbirth and all the changes it brought, you hadn’t needed to worry about him finding you less attractive.

It was the opposite; if anything, ever since you became pregnant with Ellie, he was more infatuated with you.

You sniffled, calmed and a little more at ease. "You're just saying that 'cause you married me."

"And thank god I did." A comforting smile pulled at his lips, the pad of his thumb clearing away the streaks of makeup caused by your tears. "It's okay. If you feel the need to, just keep working at it. You'll get there, sweetheart, I'm certain you will. And I’m more than happy to help you any way I can. You just say the word.”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck and reaching up to peck his lips. "I will. Thank you."

"And if you don't feel like going out tonight, that's fine. I'm more than willing to stay home. Watch a movie, get the kids to bed early, and then have you all to myself." His hands wound around you as he spoke, rather handsy about his actions. Pulling you flush against him, his touch wandering. "Trust me, no part of your body will be unattended."

"Aaron." A wet giggle escaped you, your eyes darting to your fully open bedroom door - completely inviting to any wandering kids.

"Sorry," he grinned, gentleness lining his face. "I can't help myself. You're irresistible."

While you appreciated his sentiment, you peered up at him, still a bit unsure and in need of a little more confirmation. "You mean it?"

"I mean it."

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spencerreidsreads · 8 days ago

Text

glass ( part two ) — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer is out of prison and now you have to tell him that you're 3 months pregnant. content warnings: lots of tears, mention of bruises, baby and wedding talk,reader gets nauseous but she doesn't throw up, mention of headaches a/n: part one is here -> glass - you don't have to read part one to understand this one but i would recommend it :)

You leaned against the cold railing behind you and your fingers curled instinctively around the metal.

The prison loomed in front of you. Three months. Three months of visiting rooms and glass partitions. Three months of planning a wedding alone, of staring at your ring on your finger and his ring on your neck. Your hand drifted unconsciously to your stomach, pressing lightly against the soft swell hidden beneath your sweater.

Penelope shifted beside you, her arm brushing yours. Her breath was fogging as she spoke. “Will you tell him tonight?” Her voice was gentle, but it still made you flinch.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you watched the heavy prison doors for a while. “I have to,” you finally murmured, twisting the engagement ring on your finger. A nervous habit now.

The two of you were waiting outside instead of going in. You couldn’t bring yourself to step inside the prison, not when you knew Spencer would hate the thought of seeing you in one of the suffocating rooms. Even with good news on your lips, you knew the image of you there would haunt him. So you let JJ deliver the news to him.

Garcia reached out, brushing her hands over your arms in a comforting gesture. “Honey, it’s all going to be okay. He’s going to be so happy,” she said, her voice warm and sure.

You let out a shaky breath, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. Thank you,” you whispered.

You swallowed hard. Whether he would be happy or not wasn’t what scared you.

You were afraid of his grief. The way his face would crumple when he realized he’d missed this. The first flutter of movement you’d felt alone in bed, the way your clothes had slowly stopped fitting, the midnight cravings you’d caved to with no one to laugh about it with. Spencer would mourn every second of this he hadn’t been there for.

Suddenly you heard a loud buzz, followed by the sound of heavy doors unlocking. Your head snapped toward it so fast your neck hurt, but you didn’t care. Garcia shifted to the side, her bouncy excitement impossible to hide, even as she gave you space.

Spencer was dressed in the same wrinkled suit he’d been arrested in three months ago. His eyes locked onto yours instantly, wide and disbelieving, as if he’d spent every night in that cell convincing himself he’d never see you like this again.

Then he was moving. Rushing towards you. The distance between you vanished in seconds, and then his arms were around you, crushing you against him. His hands fisted in the back of your sweater. His face buried into the curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, voice cracking.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him just as tightly. Almost immediately, your eyes stung, tears slipping free before you could stop them. Ever since you’d gotten pregnant, your emotions seemed to live right on the surface, and now they overflowed. You clung to him silently, unable to form any words.

But then you remembered your baby bump. Your body instinctively arched back, just an inch, just enough to keep the subtle curve of your stomach from pressing into his hips.

When he finally leaned back, his hands cradled your face, his thumbs smearing the tears across your cheeks. His smile was radiant, his own eyes glistening but refusing to let the tears fall. He wanted this moment, your first touch in three months, to be perfect.

You blinked quickly, trying to clear your vision from your tears. “Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he breathed back. Both his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

The question shattered you. This man, your fiancé, the love of your life, still asking for permission after months of having every autonomy stripped away in that place. You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned in. His lips were soft on yours, just like always, carrying all the sweetness he’d kept bottled up for three long months.

The drive home passed by in a haze.

You remembered Garcia and Spencer's tearful hug, the way she'd whispered something in Spencer's ear that made him nod shakily. Then his hand clutching yours as he led you to the car. In the back seat, you couldn’t tell if you were clinging to him or if he was clinging to you. Maybe it was both.

Before you knew it, you were standing outside your apartment. Your hands trembled as you fumbled with your bag, fingers slipping against the zipper. The keys had to be in here somehwere.

“Your hair’s longer now.” Spencer's voice was soft as his hands slid down your back, carding through the strands you'd neglected to cut these past months.

You finally grasped the cold metal of your keys, turning to face him with a smile. "Well, so is yours," you murmured, reaching up to tuck a curl behind his ear. His eyes fluttered shut for just a second before you swung the door open and stepped inside.

Spencer froze on the threshold, his fingers twitching at his sides. This wasn't just walking into an apartment. This was crossing a line between then and now, between the man who'd been taken from you and the one who was finally, finally home.

You extended your hand, palm up.

His smile was fragile as his fingers slotted between yours, but he stepped forward and the door closed behind him.

For a moment, you just stood there, hands still clasped, letting him take in the space. The couch where you'd spent nights curled in his arms. The kitchen where he'd burned pancakes every Sunday. The bookshelf where his dog-eared paperbacks still sat exactly as he'd left them.

You turned toward him, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. For a second, you just admired him. The curve of his cheekbones, the way his eyes lit up when they noticed the open windows, the smile on his lips. Your chest tightened painfully, you had missed him so much it was almost unbearable.

"You want to eat? Or take a shower? Or just sleep?" you asked quietly.

Spencer's gaze dropped to his wrinkled suit. You saw the shadow pass over his face. "I should shower," he murmured.

“You want to throw those away?” you asked, careful with your tone as you stepped in front of him.

He hesitated, his eyes flickering down to the fabric, and you saw the flicker of discomfort. But then he nodded, because no amount of dry cleaning could erase the memories soaked into these fibers.

"Okay," you breathed, stepping closer. Your fingers made quick work of his tie. Spencer stood perfectly still, his breath coming faster as you slowly took off his jacket. Once it was draped over your arm, he caught your wrist and brought your palm to his lips. You wanted to unbutton his dress shirt but he stopped you.

"I'll do the rest," he whispered.

You didn't need to ask why. There were bruises hidden beneath that shirt. Bruises he didn't want you to see. Bruises that would make your stomach twist with guilt and anger if you caught even a glimpse of them.

You nodded, your voice quiet. “Okay. I’ll throw these out,” you said, glancing at the tie and jacket draped over your arm, along with his shoes by your feet.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his smile warm. His fingers brushed your hair back from your face, lingering for a second before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I won’t take long.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and seconds later, the sound of running water filled the apartment.

You stood there for a long moment, clutching his clothes to your chest. Then, with a shaky exhale, you moved to the trash can, dropping them inside with more force than necessary.

Five minutes later, you were still standing in the same spot. The kitchen counter was cool beneath your palms as you leaned against it. You had already prepared something small for him, just a piece of bread, a few slices of apple, a handful of nuts. You knew his stomach would be uneasy, that three months of prison food would have ruined his appetite. But he needed to eat.

You rubbed at your temple, your headache gnawing at you again. So far, it had been your worst pregnancy symptom. The nausea came and went every few days, but the headaches were stubborn, lingering. And then there was the exhaustion and the way your emotions had been wound so tight lately.

The chair creaked softly as you sat down at the kitchen table, your hands resting on the wood as your thoughts ran in circles. You knew you wouldn’t feel relief, not really, until you told Spencer the truth. But for now, you just sat with the strange, almost overwhelming fact that you were waiting for him again.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of the shower running. It was strange, you thought, how alive the space felt now. For three months, these walls had been hollow, the silence suffocating. But now there was noise. Now there was Spencer.

You closed your eyes, listening to the water behind the bathroom door.

The shower shut off and moments later, Spencer emerged. He was dressed in pants and a sweater you had set out for him. His feet padded softly against the floorboards as he searched for you.

"Missed you," he mumbled the second he spotted you at the kitchen table. He didn't hesitate, just bent down and wrapped his arms around you.

"Your shower was only ten minutes long," you murmured into his skin, smiling. You didn't mention how that was the exact time prisoners were allotted. Didn't point out how his body had clearly kept count, how the water had shut off precisely on some internal timer he couldn't shake.

"Ten minutes too long," he corrected, his voice barely above a whisper as he pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your temple. Then he dropped into the chair beside you, dragging your seat closer. His knee bumped yours.

"Hi," he said suddenly, as if he'd just remembered his manners.

You laughed softly. "Hi."

For a moment, you just sat there, looking at each other, soaking in the reality of it. Your fingers brushed a lock of hair away from his face. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you whispered, your smile widening. “I can touch you.”

“And I can touch you,” he said, his own smile mirroring yours. “And…” he drew the word out playfully, “…kiss you again.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You couldn't help it, you smiled into it, breaking the contact with a quiet laugh. Spencer didn't seem to mind. He just nudged his nose against yours, his eyes still closed, his breath mingling with yours.

Then you remembered.

"Oh, wait—" You pulled back slightly, reaching for the chain around your neck. Spencer's eyes fluttered open as you carefully worked the clasp.

He held out his hand without a word. His hands were trembling and you had to hold his hand tightly to be able to put his engagement ring back on. He stared at it for a long moment.

"Better?" you asked softly, watching as Spencer turned the ring on his finger absently.

"Much," he mumbled, a small but genuine smile forming. The ring looked right where it belonged, back on his hand instead of hanging between your collarbones.

You slid the food plate on the table toward him. "I made you some food." When he opened his mouth, you held up a warning finger. "And—I'm your fiancée, so you can't say no to me."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, amused at your logic.

“I’m not getting up from this table until you eat something,” you added.

"Got it," he smiled, picking up a slice of apple with careful fingers.

As he ate, you filled the quiet with stories, about reorganizing the bookshelf, about Garcia's latest colorful sweater purchase. His eyes lit up when you mentioned the new throw pillows piled on the couch.

"Since when do we need six pillows?" he asked around a bite of bread.

"Garcia bought them for me," you answered truthfully, omitting how they'd become your nest during long nights when the bed felt too empty, when your back hurt too much to sleep comfortably. You couldn't tell him yet how his child growing inside you had stolen your ability to find rest anywhere but that couch. You couldn’t bring yourself to take the smile off his face yet, not while he sat there happily eating fruit and listening to you with that soft, attentive expression you’d missed so much.

Spencer's shoulders gradually relaxed as he finished the meal. "Thank you," he said for what felt like the hundredth time, his hand covering yours. "For everything. For waiting. For—"

"Stop," you smiled, squeezing his fingers. But your smile faltered as a sudden wave of nausea rolled through you, more intense than anything you'd experienced in weeks. Your stomach clenched violently.

Spencer's brow furrowed. "What? What's wrong?"

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly as you bolted for the bathroom. The steam from Spencer's shower still clung to the tiles as you collapsed before the toilet, dry heaving over the bowl. Warm hands gathered your hair before it could touch the porcelain, Spencer didn't speak, just held you as your body convulsed with empty retches, his other hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But, just like every other night it happened, nothing came.

When it passed, you slumped back against him, your forehead damp with sweat. Spencer's arms came around you, his chest warm against your back.

"Is the nausea still bad?" he whispered into your hair. Gently, he turned you toward him, his fingers trembling slightly as he tucked loose strands behind your ears. He waited until you opened your eyes to meet his. You shook your head weakly.

"Did you eat anything today?" he asked, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "Or did you eat something bad?"

That was when the tears welled up. Your lip quivered under the press of your teeth, but it did nothing to stop the sob building in your throat. "It's not that," you whispered. Your voice stuttered, breaking apart. “I’m—” You couldn’t get it out.

Spencer stilled. His hands, so warm against your skin just seconds ago, dropped away as if burned.

"No," he breathed, the word barely audible.

More tears spilled over, tracking down your cheeks. "I'm so sorry," you choked out.

Spencer didn't move. He just stared at you, his face pale, his breath coming too fast. "How long?"

You couldn't look at him. Instead, your gaze fixed on the tiles beneath you, the ones you'd always hated, the ones he’d promised to replace someday. Your fingers curled against the cold porcelain of the sink.

"Three months," you whispered.

It was like you’d punched the air out of him. A raw, pained sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

"You're three months pregnant?" he repeated, his voice cracking on the last word.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

And then the tears came. They rolled down his face, slipping past the sharp line of his jaw, dripping onto the fabric of his sweater. His hands hung limp at his sides.

The guilt consumed him in waves. It filled him like a flood, black and heavy, pressing down on his chest. It was everywhere, in his lungs, in his head, in the space between heartbeats. It was his fault. All of it. Every second he’d missed, every moment he hadn’t been here. His fault.

He had missed it all.

For one suspended moment, you simply stared at each other. Then, with a ragged inhale, Spencer surged forward, wrapping you in his trembling arms. "I'm so sorry," he choked into your hair. "I'm so, so sorry."

You held him tighter, your palms flat between his shoulder blades, feeling each shuddering breath he took. "Spence, it's not your fault," you murmured against his collarbone.

"Yes it is." The words tore from him as he pulled back just enough to stare at your stomach. Fresh tears tracked down his face.

“No, it’s not.” You reached up, trying to brush away the tears streaking his face, but it was useless, more kept falling.

“Spence,” you said softly, but he was still staring at your stomach in silence.

“Spence, hey—” You placed your hand on his cheek, coaxing him to meet your eyes. “It’s not your fault. You had no fault in this. None. What happened wasn’t because of you. Okay?”

He searched your face, but his head still shook faintly, like the words couldn’t sink in.

“I can’t believe you were alone,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. His gaze flicked over you as if he were cataloging every possible sign of harm.

Then, like a dam breaking, the questions came tumbling out. "Is your body hurting? Have you seen a doctor? What did they say? Have you had an ultrasound?" His hands fluttered over you. "We need to get you a better mattress - ours is too firm - and what about nausea medication? Does it happen often? Should I -"

You squeezed his waist gently, again and again, but he didn’t stop. Spencer's questions came unrelenting. “Spencer!” you almost had to yell his name to get him to stop talking.

His mouth snapped shut.

"Hey, you overworrier," you said softly, taking a deep breath as you brushed your thumb over his tear-streaked cheek, "will you stop talking for a second so I can show you something?"

He nodded, lips pressed tightly together. You led him by the hand to your bedroom, his bedroom again now, no longer just yours, and guided him to sit on his side of the bed. The side that had stayed perfectly made for three months while you curled into a nest of pillows on yours.

"Put your hand under the pillow," you instructed, your own fingers worrying at your nails. "And grab."

Spencer's brow furrowed, but he obeyed, his long fingers disappearing beneath the fabric. When they brushed against the ultrasound photos, his breath caught.

Time suspended as he grabbed the pictures and stared at the first image. His hands shook so badly the paper trembled. "That's... our baby," he whispered.

You smiled through your own fresh tears. "Yeah. It is." You let him take his time. He stared at every single one for at least a minute.

Then, with trembling hands, he set the photos aside. And the dam broke again. "I'm so sorry," he choked out, shoulders curling inward. "I'm so unbelievably sorry."

You sank to your knees before him, gripping his hands. "Spence, please stop apologizing."

"I can't," he gasped, tears dripping onto your joined hands. His mind was already spiraling, calculating weeks, appointments, moments stolen from him. "Did someone go with you? To the appointments?"

His hands tightened around yours, hauling you up onto the bed with surprising strength. He rearranged you against the headboard with pillows at your back before you could protest, his movements frantic with the need to do something, to care for you in ways he hadn't been able to.

"Garcia came to the first two," you said, letting him fuss. "JJ took me to the last ones."

Spencer nodded jerkily, but his eyes were distant, seeing all the empty spaces between those visits. All the nights you'd spent alone with no one to hold back your hair when nausea struck at 3 AM, run out for whatever bizarre craving hit ,rub your lower back when it ached from the changes, whisper reassurances when the fear crept in.

"I was being taken care of," you insisted, leaning forward to catch his gaze. "I wasn't alone."

"You were alone in this apartment every night. I know what that does to someone." His voice dropped to a whisper.

His prison had bars of concrete while yours had been these four walls, but they'd been prisons all the same.

"When did you find out?" he asked as fresh tears continued rolling down his face silently. His fingers moved automatically to fix your sleeves, rolling them down over the goosebumps that had risen on your arms.

You hesitated, but his eyes held yours and you knew you had to tell him the truth.

"It was two days after you—" Your voice broke. "After you were put there."

Spencer recoiled slightly, as if struck.

"Two days?" His whisper was fragile. "I missed finding out by two days?"

You had no words that could soften that blow. No platitudes that could erase the cruel timing. So you pulled him against you instead, letting his face press into the curve of your neck, feeling the damp heat of his tears against your skin.

Two days.

Two days that could have been three months of joy. Instead, they'd been three months of torture.

You carded your fingers through his hair, the strands soft against your fingertips. "I wasn't alone," you murmured. "I had our baby." His breath hitched against your collarbone. "It's a part of you."

Spencer's body shook with silent sobs for one long moment before he slowly pulled back. His eyes were red-rimmed and his lashes clumped with tears.

"What are you craving?"

The question was so abrupt it took you a full second to process. "What?"

"What cravings do you have?" he repeated, swiping roughly at his cheeks.

You let out a surprised laugh. "Why are you asking me that?"

"So I can get it for you," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Spence," you said slowly, "it's late. And need I remind you, you just got home after three months in prison?"

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "So? I can walk to the grocery store."

"You are not walking to the grocery store," you said firmly.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you pressed a finger to his lips. "Stop. There's no walking anywhere," you murmured, catching his restless fingers in yours. "Just stay here with me." A soft pause, then with a teasing smile: "Well, us."

Spencer looked down at where your joined hands rested, his thumb brushing absent circles over your knuckles.

You studied his profile. "You wanna touch my baby bump?"

Spencer's head snapped up, eyes widening like you'd offered him the stars. "Can I?" The question came out hesitant.

A laugh bubbled up in your chest. "Well obviously. You're the dad."

Dad.

Spencer's lips parted around some unvoiced thought. For a suspended moment, he simply stared.

"So?" you prompted softly.

"Yes—" His voice cracked. "Yeah, I'd love to."

You shifted onto your back, adjusting the pillows beneath your head. Spencer scrambled to sit beside you, his movements clumsy. When you lifted your sweater, his gaze dropped instantly to the gentle swell of your stomach.

"It's not much yet," you admitted, suddenly self-conscious under his rapt attention. "But it's something."

Spencer didn't seem to hear you. "Hey Spence," you whispered, reaching to guide his hand to your stomach. "You can touch me."

His fingers were cold against your stomach, drawing a slight shiver you couldn't suppress. Spencer opened his mouth, probably to apologize, but you squeezed his wrist in reassurance.

"You're actually pregnant," he breathed, his voice filled with awe. The pad of his thumb traced the faint curve beneath your navel.

"Congratulations, Sherlock Holmes," you teased, watching his expression soften.

A teary chuckle escaped him, but when he looked up, his eyes were shining with joy. But also something else. And you knew exactly what.

"Say something other than sorry," you pleaded. "Please."

Spencer swallowed hard. Carefully, he tugged your sweater back into place before cradling your face between his palms. His thumbs brushed the apples of your cheeks, his gaze searching yours.

"I love you so much," he whispered, the words rough with emotion. "You know that?"

Your smile came unbidden. "I love you more."

"Never." His nose bumped against yours. "I'll always love you more."

And then he was kissing you, like he was trying to pour every unsaid thing into the press of his lips. You hummed against his mouth, knowing full well he'd done it just to shut you up.

"You're freezing," Spencer murmured against your lips when he pulled back, his breath warm on your chilled skin. His hands framed your face.

You chased his mouth with yours, stealing another kiss. "It's fine—you're here to warm me up."

But before you could deepen the kiss, Spencer was already standing, moving toward the closet.

"Wait—no!" The words burst from you louder than intended, making Spencer freeze mid-step, his hand hovering near the closet door.

He turned, brow furrowing. "What?"

"My wedding dress is in there," you admitted, fingers twisting in the sheets. "Don't—don't open it."

Spencer's expression softened. "Oh." His hand shifted to the other side of the closet. "This one?"

You nodded, watching as he retrieved one of his warm cardigans one you'd stolen countless times before. "Come here," he murmured, holding it open for you. You sat up, letting him guide your arms through the sleeves. His fingers were careful as they buttoned it up your front.

"Wedding dress, huh?" he asked softly, his knuckles brushing your collarbone.

"Yeah," you smiled, reaching up to smooth his still-damp hair. He leaned into your touch like a sunflower toward light. "You still need to go buy a suit." A pause. "Morgan came to visit last month. Said he wants to take you when you're ready."

Spencer's hands stilled on the last button. "He did?"

"Mmhmm." Your fingers traced the shell of his ear. "Savannah couldn't visit, but Morgan brought me pages of pregnancy advice she wrote for him to deliver."

A quiet chuckle rumbled in Spencer's chest as he finished buttoning. "That's...good." The words came out filled with gratitude for the family you'd built beyond these walls.

You studied each other in the quiet that followed, Spencer's hands coming to rest on your thighs, tracing absent circles through the fabric. The touch was a simple pleasure that had been stolen from you both.

"You know," you ventured, catching one of his restless hands, "we could go cake tasting next week. If you want."

Spencer's thumb brushed your knuckles. "That sounds nice."

"Unless you need more time?" You would wait forever if he asked.

Spencer's fingers stilled against your thigh, his gaze dropping to where your hands played with his ring, the metal warm now from your skin. "No, it's just...it feels weird," he admitted. "To have so much good happening all at once."

You sat up straighter, your thumb brushing over his ring. "Why? You deserve this, Spence."

His breath hitched. "I hurt you."

"Spence—"

"You bought a wedding dress alone," he continued, the words spilling out like an indictment against himself.

"Which I'm supposed to do," you countered gently. "And Garcia came with me."

Spencer's jaw worked. "But there was no traditional 'close your eyes' moment when you brought it home." His voice cracked on the last word, the image clearly haunting him, all the little rituals and joys that had been stolen from you both.

You squeezed his hand, forcing lightness into your tone. "Well thank god for that, because we both know you would've peeked."

A startled chuckle escaped him. "No, I wouldn't have." You arched a brow, and when he met your eyes, the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Okay...maybe," he conceded, the admission soft.

You knew the truth, knew Spencer would've followed your wishes to the letter, no matter how curious that brilliant mind of his grew. But you loved picturing it anyway: his nose scrunched in feigned innocence, his fingers twitching with the effort not to touch the fabric, the way he'd inevitably cave and ask just one tiny question about the lace or the sleeves. The fantasy faded as his expression sobered. You brought his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before guiding it to rest over your stomach.

"You deserve to go suit shopping," you began, your voice steady. "You deserve to try cake with me until we're both sick from sugar. You deserve to sit through my doctor appointments and fuss over me until the nurse kicks you out."

Spencer huffed a laugh at that, but his eyes remained glassy.

"You deserve to feel this baby kick," you continued, your hand covering his. "To wake up at 3 AM because I'm craving something ridiculous. To panic with me when we realize we haven't bought a single onesie."

His fingers flexed against your stomach, his breath coming quicker.

"And Spencer?" You waited until his gaze lifted to yours. "You deserve to be a husband. To be a dad."

Spencer's face crumpled as he pulled you into his arms, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You felt the exact moment the first sob tore through him. You let him cry in your arms. You even took his tears as an acceptance of your words.

After a while, the tears ebbed slowly. He pulled back slowly and with an exhale, he collapsed onto the mattress, pulling you into the curve of his body. Silence settled over you both.

Suddenly, guilt curled its fingers around your throat. You tilted your head back just enough to see the shadow of his jaw. "I'm sorry," you murmured. "For hiding the pregnancy. For not telling you sooner."

Spencer didn't answer at first. His lips brushed the crown of your hair, once, twice, before his voice rumbled through you. "I understand why." His fingers traced idle patterns over your shoulder blade. "Finding out while I was...in there?" A shaky exhale. "It would've been torture."

You felt him swallow hard against your temple. "You did the right thing," he whispered. Then, as if suddenly realizing—"That's what you've been worried about all day, isn't it?"

Before you could answer, his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his. "Hey, look at me." His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. "You did nothing wrong." His thumb swept over your cheekbone. "You know that, right?"

A shaky nod.

"Yes, I was—" He huffed a watery chuckle. "Okay, I am emotional. But that's not because you didn't tell me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's because you had to do this alone. Because I wasn't here to—" His breath hitched. "To hold your hair back. To rub your back. To freak out with you over every little symptom."

You blinked against fresh tears, but Spencer was already kissing them away.

"You protected me," he murmured against your skin. "Saved me from my own mind in there." Another kiss, this time to the corner of your mouth. "You did a good thing. The best thing."

"Okay," you whispered. You closed your eyes taking his words in. While the guilt didn't disappear, it felt lighter in your chest. Not so much eating you alive anymore.

"We should sleep," you murmured, patting his chest. "You’ve had an exhausting day."

Spencer’s arms tightened around you, his cheek pressing harder against the crown of your head. "You did too," he whispered, his breath warm in your hair.

It was silent for a while. "What do you wanna do tomorrow?"

You couldn’t help the sleepy giggle that escaped you. "Spence, seriously?"

"What?" His voice was insistent, his fingers tracing patterns over your hip. "I have you all to myself now. I missed you." A pause. "And I wanna prepare for our wedding."

The giddy warmth that spread through your chest had nothing to do with the blankets tangled around you. "We can work on the wedding invitation list if you want," you offered around a yawn. "And maybe… prepare the nursery."

"The nursery," Spencer repeated. In the dim light of the nightstand lamp, you could just make out the way his face lit up. The light caught the curve of his mouth, the damp tracks still visible on his cheeks and the flecks of gold in his tired eyes. "I can’t wait," he whispered, his thumb brushing over the jut of your hipbone.

You curled closer, tucking your face into the hollow of his throat. "Neither can I."

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spencerreidsreads · 8 days ago

Text

glass — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you visit your fiancé in prison. content warnings: s12 arc but no spoilers for any specifics, established relationship, some tears, spencer has bruises, sort of shy reader ? a/n: i loved writing this. i hope you enjoy this <3

You bit your lip, as you waited for the heavy doors to unlock.

The buzz finally echoed through the corridor, signaling that visiting hours had begun. You found a seat quickly, choosing one near the center. Your fingers tapped anxiously on the table before you, then drifted to the ring on your finger. You twisted it, up and down, again and again. Minutes passed like hours.

Then, finally, Spencer appeared. The grey-blue jumpsuit was something you'd sadly grown used to, but the bruises were new.

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t stand. There was no point, you couldn’t hug him. He hadn’t expected you. You could tell by the flicker of surprise in his eyes as they met yours. For a second, he even looked disappointed, not in you, but in the fact that you were the one who came first. He’d hoped someone else might visit first. Someone he could ask to delay you. To protect you from seeing him like this.But not all wishes can be granted.

You blinked quickly, willing your tears not to fall. You hadn’t come here to cry. Whatever had happened to him, it was already done. Your tears wouldn’t heal his wounds. They wouldn’t take away the pain. Still, you wished someone, anyone, had warned you.

"Hi," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Spencer offered you a soft smile. "Hi."

His brows pinched together gently when you didn’t meet his eyes, when your gaze drifted past him, focusing somewhere on the wall instead of his face.

"I missed you," he added after a beat, his voice slower this time, almost coaxing. He was trying to draw your eyes back to him.

"I missed you too," you replied, but your voice cracked on the last word.

He waited a few seconds before asking, gently, carefully, "Can you look at me, please?" He needed to see your eyes, his favorite part about you, truth be told. Maybe it was because they always held so much love in them. No matter what the world threw at him.

And when you finally did look, your eyes filled with tears. You saw the bruises. The one on his temple especially, yellow and green, the colors of fading pain, but pain nonetheless. That wasn't fresh. That had been there a while. Long enough to heal, but still there. Still visible. You felt sick.

"Spence, I don't—" Your eyes locked on the bruise, and your words caught in your throat. "I don’t want to cry." You looked away again, fast. Like if you didn’t see it, it wouldn’t be real. Spencer bit his bottom lip. His fingers curled slightly in his lap on the other side of the glass, aching with the need to reach out. You shook your head and corrected yourself quietly. "I don’t want you to see me cry." You tried to smile, brushing your tears away with the back of your sleeve.

"That’s okay," Spencer whispered, his voice so gentle it felt like a hand against your cheek. "I don’t mind." God, how he wished he could wipe those tears away himself. And he knew why you were trying so hard to stay composed. Not for yourself, but for him. Because you refused to add to his guilt. Because if he saw you cry, he’d blame himself more than he already did. "Suppressing emotions isn’t healthy anyway," he said softly.

You gave a watery laugh through your tears, the corners of your mouth twitching up. “Funny, coming from you.”

That made him chuckle. You looked up again, catching the soft curve of his lips as they turned into a small smile and your own expression softened in return. Spencer caught the change in you instantly, his heart lifting. It meant the world to him, seeing love in your eyes instead of just the shine of fresh tears. Even though the tears were still there, clinging to your cheeks, this was the kind of look that made him feel human again.

“You’re wearing my sweater,” Spencer said softly, nodding toward the oversized brown one hanging loosely on your frame.

You glanced down. “Yeah,” you said with a small smile, wiping at your cheeks with the edge of your sleeve. “I missed you,” you added, your voice steadier this time, though your hands clutched the sweater a little tighter. It was strange how he could be sitting right in front of you, but feel galaxies away. And yet this piece of clothing made you feel closer than the glass ever would.

Spencer looked down at his hands, twisted slightly in his lap, still bruised, before raising his eyes back to you. He remembered that sweater. How could he not?

It was the one he’d worn the first time you ever stayed over. The way you’d turned over halfway through the night, murmuring something incoherent before pressing yourself into his chest. He hadn’t slept a second. Not because he wasn’t tired, but because he was so nervous. So in awe. You were there, next to him. He remembered how you’d mumbled. “Go to sleep, you night owl,” without even opening your eyes. “You’re warm. I like this sweater,” you’d yawned before going completely still. He’d smiled so wide in that moment, it had almost hurt. He'd never felt anything like it.

Now, as your eyes met through the glass, both of you clearly remembering the same thing, you both smiled.

“How was your week?” Spencer asked.

He’d told you during your very first visit how much he loved hearing about your days, every mundane detail, every moment that reminded him of normal life. Of you. It gave him something to hold onto when the nights were long and the prison too loud. It gave him something nice to imagine when he was laying in bed alone.

You glanced down, fingers automatically toying with the ring on your hand. “I went dress fitting with Penelope,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Spencer’s eyes widened instantly. “You found something?”

You nodded, eyes glistening again. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I found a wedding dress.”

You reached up and touched your ring lightly, letting your fingers rest over your heart. Spencer’s eyes followed the movement and caught on the way your sweater shifted,just enough to reveal the chain around your neck. You gently pulled it free. His ring hanging onto the silver chain. Where it had stayed since the day they took him away.

“Your ring is safe with me,” you said, holding it up for him to see.

Spencer’s chest tightened. His throat burned. But he smiled. “Did you have fun dress shopping?” he asked, eyes never leaving the necklace.

You nodded, but didn’t add anything more. What you didn’t say was how you’d spent half of that appointment crying in the dressing room, trying to smile through the pain in your chest. Trying to imagine Spencer standing at the end of the aisle when he wasn’t even allowed to stand beside you now.

Spencer knew. He didn’t have to ask. He could see it in the way your shoulders held just a bit of weight, in the way you smiled weakly despite the happiness at finding your dress.

You giggled softly. “Do you think you’ll cry when I walk down the aisle?” You already knew the answer. So did he.

“I could cry right now,” he mumbled, shaking his head with a helpless little laugh. Spencer stared at you like you were the only good thing left in the world. “I can't wait to marry you.”

“And I can’t wait to marry you,” you said softly, twisting the ring on your finger once more.

Spencer watched you for a long momen. Then he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, “I miss kissing you.”

You immediately sat up straighter, flustered, your eyes widening as the heat bloomed across your cheeks. Spencer caught your reaction instantly and chuckled. He tilted his head playfully. “No reply?” he teased, grinning. “Do you not miss kissing me?” He gave a dramatic little shake of his head. “Wow. That hurts.”

“Spence, stop,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. But your voice was muffled when you mumbled through your fingers, “Yes, I miss kissing you.”

Spencer’s smile softened, stretching across his face. He loved that after all this time, even after getting engaged, you still got flustered over something so simple. “Our first kiss anniversary is coming up,” he said.

You looked up at him and shook your head with a disbelieving smile. “I can’t believe you remember things like this.”

“You’re telling me you don’t remember our first kiss?” he asked, raising an eyebrow knowingly.

You hesitated, but only to be stubborn. “No, I remember,” you admitted, fingers toying with your ring again. “Hard to forget.”

Spencer’s smile widened. “You squealed.”

“I did not!” you countered, eyes narrowing.

He laughed, shaking his head. “You did. A little.”

It had been a warm afternoon. Spencer had been so excited to show you a hidden little library he loved. You had followed him in, trailing your fingers over old spines and gasping excitedly every time you found a book you loved.

Then, there was the moment. You’d both been standing between two dusty shelves. He’d looked at you and for a second, it was like the world stopped. Spencer didn’t lean in right away. He waited, asking you the question without saying a word. And you’d nodded. So he leaned in and kissed you, just a quick, shy peck. Barely a second long. When he pulled back, you just stared at him Spencer had frozen, immediately panicking inside. God, was it bad? Was he bad at kissing? Was that not okay? But then, slowly, you had raised your fingers to your lips. “Oh my God,” you'd whispered, stunned.

Spencer’s eyes had widened with concern. He was about to apologize, until you'd surged forward and pulled him into another kiss. A longer one. Which, of course, only lasted a few seconds, because you broke away giggling, hiding your face in his sweater.

Back in the visiting room now, the two of you caught each other’s eyes again, grinning.

“I definitely didn’t squeal,” you insisted.

Spencer smirked. “No, you definitely did.” You laughed, and even the glass between you couldn’t dull how warm it sounded. Spencer closed his eyes for a second, soaking it in. He could survive a lot, if he just got to keep hearing that laugh. And if someday soon, that glass disappeared for good.

Then came the sound you’d been dreading, the security guards calling time. A stern voice echoed across the room, signaling that the visit was over. That it was time for the prisoners to return to their cells.

You didn’t move at first. You just stared at Spencer. He smiled softly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite the sadness in his eyes. He was always so good at that, smiling just enough to make you feel like things might still be okay.

“Be careful, Spence. Please,” you said, your voice tight. You hadn’t asked about the bruises. But now, with him about to walk away, you couldn’t hold it back. You had to say something.

He nodded gently, the look in his eyes telling you he understood exactly what you meant. “I will,” he promised. “I love you,” he said as he slowly got to his feet, every movement reluctant, like he was trying to make time stretch just a little longer. As the other prisoners began filing out, one by one, Spencer lingered, not moving yet. He just stood there, watching you.

He wanted to memorize you. The way your sweater bunched at your sleeves. The way a loose piece of hair fell across your forehead. The way your fingers unconsciously touched his ring around your neck. He locked all of it away in his mind, like he always did, so he could hold onto you in the dark. So he could see you again in dreams.

“I love you too,” you whispered. Quiet, but loud enough for him to hear.

Spencer smiled again. “I won’t miss anything else,” he said quietly. “I promise.” You knew what he meant. He wasn’t just talking about anniversaries. He was talking about everything, about all the little and big things he’d missed since being taken from you.

The next milestone would have been the anniversary of when you moved in together. And you both knew what was supposed to follow: booking the honeymoon, finalizing the wedding guest list, cake tastings, writing invitations, choosing a hotel. A life you were building piece by piece.

You nodded silently, not trusting your voice. Just watching him as he finally began to walk away. He looked back once. Then again. And one last time, mouthing the words, I love you, just before he disappeared behind the door.And then he was gone.

You slouched into your seat, your hands resting over your stomach,

Spencer had made a promise. And he meant it with every piece of him. But what he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was that he’d already missed something.

He had already missed the first month of your pregnancy.

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spencerreidsreads · 10 days ago

Note

spencer reid and pink frosted donuts, can be nsfw or sfw doesn’t matter

this turned out to be more of a variety of donuts instead of pink frosted, hope that's alright 😅

Theme week main post

It was a rough case, bad enough that the plane ride home was almost completely silent. Derek had his headphones on, Hotch and Rossi were looking over files, JJ was texting her husband, Emily sat across from her staring out the window. You and Spencer were in the back, as distanced from the others as you could be, so as not to disturb their quiet.

“Are you okay?” You asked, noticing the way he stared down at his lap where his hands fiddled with the rings on your fingers.

“Mhm. Just thinking.” He murmured.

“You always are.” You smiled softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Is it about the case?”

“Yeah. I just… I should have figured it out sooner. It was so simple and I couldn’t-”

“Hey, hey… it’s not your fault. It was a hard case, and there was no way you could have known, okay?” He nods, still looking down, his throat tight.

“Yeah….” Your hand squeezes his reassuringly and he leans into you. “Thank you.” He says, his voice almost a whisper.

“There’s no need to thank me, Spence, I’ll always be here for you.” The plane landed half an hour later and everyone descended, heading back up to the office.

No one spoke all that much as you packed up, silently agreeing to go your separate ways until Monday. Spencer waited for you by your desk, twisting the strap of his satchel in his hands.

“You ready?” You nodded, both of you heading down to the parking garage.

As you drove home, you stayed pretty quiet, not even having the radio on in the background. The neon lights of the stores blurred past your windows, creating streaks of color in your peripheral.

Spencer let his temple rest against the cool glass as he watched the passing sights. You had kind of zoned out, just letting the muscle memory bring you home until you spotted something. A donut shop.

You quickly changed course, pulling into the parking lot. Spencer lifted his head, turning to look at you.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re going to get a little treat, We deserve it.” You turned the car off, stepping out onto the asphalt. Spencer quickly followed, walking with you into the donut shop.

The interior was brightly lit, pink and blue booths lining the walls, donut decorations galore. The floor was a pretty blue, pink, and white tiled design.

You stepped up to the display, bending slightly to examine the shelves of treats.

“What do you want- who am I kidding, I know what you want.” You grinned standing to face him. “Chocolate with sprinkles.”

“You know me so well.” He smiles, leaning down to peck you on the lips. Normally he wouldn’t be so outward with PDA but the shop was virtually empty.

A few minutes of browsing later, a woman stepped out of the back office, meeting you at the counter.

“Welcome in! What can I get you guys?” You ordered a pack of six, two chocolate sprinkles, a glazed, a pink frosted, an apple flavored, and a cream filled donut.

Spencer tried to dig out his wallet but you’d had your card out before he could even blink. He took the liberty of carrying the box out of the building.

“You didn’t need to do this, you know.” Spencer said, one you were both back in the warmth of your car, the box of donuts on his lap.

“I know.” Those two words said more than you even realized. He smiled, carefully lifting the cover off the box and angling it towards you, so you could take your pick.

Naturally, he takes the chocolate sprinkled while you take the pink one. The two of you sit in the near empty parking lot for hours. Or maybe it was only a few minutes.

Quiet conversation came easy, though you found comfort in the silence that followed, not bothering to fill it with meaningless thoughts like usual.

The weight of the case lifted slowly from your shoulders, each other’s presence easing the sting of the loss. Right now, the rest of the world is miles away, the two of you in your car sitting on the edge of the universe, the stars a backdrop for the rest of the night.

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spencerreidsreads · 12 days ago

Note

Hey, for the food theme how about tofu?

I'm the anon that's been sending the Spencer asks for a female reader with masculine descriptors. I think this might be the third?

thank you for the request! Just to let you know, I usually prefer to write for a feminine reader because that's what I'm most comfortable with so it might take me a while to get around to those requests 😊

Theme week main post

Spencer was coming over tonight. Your boyfriend was coming over and you couldn’t wait. It was your first time spending the night together, and you were planning to make a special dinner, just for the two of you. And maybe a bit for your cat.

Speaking of him, Bandit, a passive aggressive, Siberian munchkin cat, brushed up against your leg, clearly wanting attention. You had found him one day on your walk home, without a collar, and named him Bandit because of the pattern of his fur: black and white spotted with a black stripe over his eyes like a mask.

“Are you hungry Bandit?” You cooed, slipping him a small piece of the tofu you were cooking on the stove. Another thing about your cat, he loved tofu. For some reason, he was absolutely obsessed with it.

He nipped it from your hand, scampering off to his cat tower, something you’d splurged on just because. Your phone buzzed on the counter beside you and you wiped your hands on your apron (a gift from Penelope, dark blue and stained) before picking it up.

Spencie: I’m on my way over. I can’t wait to see you.

You smiled, a blush spreading over your face.

You: Me too

Spencie: I packed my nicest pajamas

You: Ooh, I’m excited to see them. Do they have dinosaurs on them?

Spencie: maybe…

You chuckled out loud, setting your phone down. Five minutes later, there was a soft knock on your door and you were rushing to answer it.

“Hi, angel.” Spencer’s smile is reverent as you let him inside, ushering you into his space so he can plant a kiss on your lips.

“Hi.” You looked up at him like he hung the moon, already giddy just at his presence in your home.

“I, uh, I got you these.” He lifts a bouquet of flowers, holding it out to you, something you hadn’t even noticed until now.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do this.” You take the paper wrapped flowers from him, admiring them as you took them to the kitchen. “They’re very pretty, thank you, Spence.”

You grab a vase from your cabinet and set the flowers out on your counter. They made you feel warm inside just looking at them.

“What are you making?” Spencer asks, making his way to your side, peering into the pan on your stove.

“Grilled tofu.”

“Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever had tofu before.”

“No? It’s really good. Bandit loves the stuff.” Spencer hums, making his way through your apartment to find the cat. He reaches up to where Bandit is sitting on top of the cat tree, scratching the fur behind his ears.

“Hi Bandit. Did you miss me?” The kitty purrs, bumping his head into Spencer’s palm. Your boyfriend returns to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder. “Did you miss me?” He asks cheekily.

“I saw you yesterday.” You chuckled and he humphs, nosing at your jaw.

“I missed you.” His voice is small as he kisses at your neck. You reach up, scratching at his hair before patting his head twice.

“Alright, dinner’s ready. Do you want to set the table?” He took the dishes from your cupboard and set them out for the both of you.

You brought the pan over to the table, serving up the grilled tofu and caesar salad. You had made a homemade spicy honey sauce to go with the dish.

Bandit leaps off his perch on the tree, meandering over to the table to scrounge for scraps that you were sure to drop for him.

“Okay, okay, try it, I wanna know what you think.” You urged him. He put a piece in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as you sat in anticipation.

“It’s good.” He hums.

“Just good?”

“Well, tofu is typically known for being bland-”

“I know, that’s why I seasoned it. And I made sauce.” Spencer winced at the pout on your lips.

“It’s great, angel, I meant great. Honestly.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He takes another bite, humming approvingly as if to show you. In truth, he didn’t hate it. He actually did enjoy it, it’s just not something he would make for himself. “It actually has a lot of health benefits. It’s been known to reduce the risk of heart disease, lower cholesterol, and improve bone health.”

“Mhm, and it’s also pretty sustainable and environmentally friendly.” You hummed, digging into your own meal. Spencer lights up.

“Yes! Because it requires less water and land to produce than animal-based products!” You beamed at him.

The two of you chatted over the course of the meal, you slipping some tofu to Bandit as Spencer explained why some cats have ‘favorite foods’. Something about early experiences influencing future preferences. They were actually very similar to humans in that way.

After dinner was over, you both got ready for bed. You shuffled under the covers while waiting for Spencer to come out of the bathroom. When he did, you smiled softly at him, flicking the comforter back and patting the spot next to you.

He climbs in and the two of you shift around so that you’re laying next to each other.

“I was expecting dinosaurs.” He looked down at his pajamas, plaid pants and an old fading band tee.

“What, you don’t like The Beatles?”

“I love The Beatles. But I was promised dinosaurs.” His eyebrows furrowed playfully.

“By who?”

“The insinuation in your text!” You giggled.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” He grinned and you rolled your eyes, snuggling closer to him.

The next morning, you woke up to the sun beaming in and the covers half kicked off your body. A glance over told you that Spencer was the culprit.

You turned on your side to admire his sleeping figure and you caught a glimpse of something. He was wearing mismatched socks. But that wasn’t what made you grin. It was the pattern.

Dinosaurs.

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

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spencerreidsreads · 13 days ago

Note

Love the theme! Sushi and Spencer?

PS - I sent you a nsfw one before (nantaimori) but just sfw here. Would be extra nice if one was a sequel to the other?

of course! for some reason my inbox isn't showing me the other request you mentioned by the way, maybe you could send it in again?

Theme week main post

You couldn’t stop staring at Spencer. You couldn’t help it, he was adorable. The team was all out to dinner together, celebrating after a case. Everyone had agreed on sushi after the incredibly sweet police chief you were working with recommended a place.

Currently, the clumsy man sitting next to you was attempting to pick up another sushi roll with chopsticks that he had no clue how to use.

You giggled and he glanced over, brows furrowed, tongue poking out unconsciously as he focused.

“What?”

“I thought you were like a genius or something, you don’t know how to use chopsticks?” You said through chuckles.

“Don’t make fun. Only thirty four percent of Americans can use chopsticks with some degree of skill.” He mutters, a small pout on his lips and a blush forming on his cheeks.

“I’m not making fun, I’m not-” A laugh cuts off your sentence as he tries again, the Sushi roll propelling out of his loose grasp and shooting away from his plate. He lets out a startled little giggle, giving up on even attempting to use them as he drops his chopsticks on the table.

“No- no, Spence, wait, let me help.” You reached over, picking up his chopsticks and taking his hand in yours.

He immediately flusters, his eyes finding the side of your face as you situate the sticks in his hand.

“Okay, you hold them like this… put your thumb there.” Your fingers are warm on his, your murmured voice in his ear, soft breath on his arm as you lean closer. “So you’re only going to move the top one, and you just pivot it like that.” You place a sushi roll where he can reach and guide his hand.

He doesn’t do much of the work, too distracted by your proximity to him, your arms brushing. You’re practically using him as a puppet to pick up the sushi.

“Spence! Are you paying attention?” You’re looking at him now, eyebrows furrowed slightly, grinning up at him.

“Yes.” He looks at the chopsticks, noticing that they’ve slipped out of his hands, the sushi halfway off of his plate. “Maybe not fully.” You laugh again, letting your head fall onto his shoulder as your shoulders shake.

He’s tensing and then quickly forcing himself to loosen up and then he’s all in his head and, great, now he’s wondering if his shoulder is comfortable enough. But then you’re leaning off of him and he’s already missing your presence.

“Let’s try again, come on.” You fit the chopsticks back in his hand. His brain, apparently overwhelmed by his sudden desire for you, careens in a different direction.

“Have you ever heard of nantaimori?” Or maybe just a freudian slip.

“No, what’s that?”

“It’s a Japanese practice of serving sushi on the body of a naked man.”

“Oh!” Your eyes widened, expecting anything but that to come out of his mouth. “Have you… you know… tried it?”

“Wha- no!”

“I was just asking!” You said through laughter, your arm finding your stomach that was beginning to ache with all the giggles.

“Well, I haven't!" His face is beet red as he starts fiddling with the chopsticks.

“Awfully defensive there, Spence.”

“It’s not like that, I only know a lot because I just-”

“Spencer, I’m kidding! I’m teasing you, silly.” You cut off his sudden ramble, putting a gentle hand on his arm, grinning at his blush.

Now, you had forgotten all about the sushi on his plate and the chopsticks he still didn’t understand, instead looking at each other.

Spencer didn’t feel as embarrassed with you as he usually would. You never made fun of him like everyone else did. With you, he knew, it was always just light teasing, just so you could see him blush.

“Would you ever want to try it?”

“I- I don’t know. What do you mean? Like… I would be the one… you know.. Naked?” He says ‘naked’ in a whisper as if it’s a curse word, making you start laughing all over again.

“Would you rather eat sushi off of a different naked man?”

“No- well, maybe- I don’t know!”

“Honestly, I think I’d rather be the naked one.” You said, turning to your neglected plate of food, only now remembering it was even there.

Apparently, Morgan had decided to eavesdrop on your conversation at the exact wrong time, only catching your sentence.

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Derek says. You and Spencer just look at each other, bursting into a fit of laughter, leaving the rest of the team confused.

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spencerreidsreads · 13 days ago

Text

Phone Call - Spencer Reid

REQUESTED!

The Request: Remembering the time spence gave a girl his number in morse code because "if she figures it out, shes worth it" SOSOSOSOOOOOOO spencer give his number and a few days later he gets a call from an unknown number and its us and we're like "is this dr. Reid? Ive already tried six other numbers and im kinda close to giving up" and its just xksifuwkxykwjsJDIAGISNSSAJ because he thought she wasnt interested and here she is racking her brain

CW: mention of a drug deal, language. also my memory is bad and i dont even remember that episode so I made up the scenario where he gives her his number in morse code lol

_____

Words: 2.2k

The music was so loud, a headache was beginning to form.

Spencer was only in the club for a few minutes yet he felt his head pounding and his brain was seconds away from exploding.

Being the youngest member of the BAU had its downsides. This was one of them. He was the one who had to “interact with the youngsters”, as Rossi called it. During investigations, if the team had to interrogate young adults in a way that didn’t scream “interrogation”, they sent in the member who would fit in the most with the young adults.

“Fit in the most”. He was like a fish out of water right now.

He was seated at the bar, fiddling with his drink. Running his index finger over the rim of the glass in circles, trying to not die.

Dramatic, yeah. Whatever,

He decided to turn to the woman next to him first. “Hey,” he flashed her a smile, though the corner of his lip twitched in a way that probably revealed the agony he was in at the moment. “Do you go here a lot?”

“Buzz off,” she scoffed, promptly leaving her seat. Well, damn. Maybe he smiled too much.

They should have sent in Morgan. As if anyone would be able to resist the charms of a slightly older guy who had the gift of gab.

Spencer then turned his head to the man sitting to the other side of him, a Spanish guy with a precisely done fade and a hooked nose. “Come here often?”

“Feels like most nights, brother,” the man sighed out, resting his chin on his palm, “I can’t ever catch a break. Heart broken, heart broken, heart broken,”

Okay, he didn’t need to know all of that.

“I’ve never been here before. Is it always like this? Or is it ever more… entertaining?” He was sure the loud music and (pretty decent) alcoholic drinks were entertaining enough, but he was hoping his wording would get the man to talk about anything out of the ordinary.

The man took a sip of his beer, thinking for a moment, “Yeah, two nights ago, I think there was a deal going on, y’know what I mean.”

“Like, a drug deal?” Spencer asked.

The man shot him a glare, “Keep your voice down, man, you know how suspicious that sounds? Spanish guy talking about drug deals?” he rolled his eyes, “It was these white guys, actually. I don’t remember exactly what happened; I was honestly just stumbling around at that point in the night. But they were doing a drug deal, and the one who I think was the dealer was giving the other guy shit. Not enough money. Something like that. I don’t remember.”

“A drug dealer,” Reid repeated, “Did he seem aggressive?”

“Definitely. Fists balled up and everything. Even after the other guy coughed up all the money, he still seemed pissed. Probably got anger issues or somethin’,” the man took another swig of his beer, shrugging. “Anyway, that’s all I remember. I don’t think I’ve seen either of those guys at the club before that day. Then again, it was a Wednesday, and I don’t usually come on Wednesdays. Maybe they come weekly.”

They spoke a bit more, until the man decided he had to head home, he had work in the morning. Spencer eyed the rest of the club, pondering who he should question next, when there was a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, looking at him almost expectantly.

“Um, hello,” Spencer replied, “...you come here often?” he couldn’t help but eye her. Not even in a profiling way. No, not at all. His brain was short circuiting, looking at her beautiful hair to her eyes to her lips and he was too much of a gentleman to even comment on her body. Not like his brain was working well enough to form thoughts.

“Not really,” she took a seat next to him, “Do you?”

“No, not at all.”

“I can tell,” she laughed, “I’m Y/N. And you are?”

“Spencer,” he said politely.

“...are you in a relationship, Spencer? Should I fuck off?”

His jaw dropped. Was he getting asked out? In the fucking club? Him? The one who looked the most out of place? Like a fucking idiot?

And he definitely looked like a fucking idiot right now, staring at her like she had three heads. Until he finally spoke: “No, I’m not in a relationship.”

“Oh,” Y/N sighed in relief, “Okay. Got nervous for a second,” she laughed awkwardly, “...you look a little out of place here,”

“Oh, that’s because I am,” he replied, “This isn’t exactly the kind of place I like to be.”

“You look the type. What would you rather be doing?”

He thought for a moment, “Reading at my desk at home. Or playing Sodoku in bed,” Oh, how he yearned to be in bed with his nightly tea solving easy (well, easy to him) Sodoku puzzles.

“Ah, so you’re the introverted type. You would rather be alone,”

“Sometimes,” he shrugged, looking at his hands on the bar table, “I like being with my friends a lot too. They’re like family,”

“I get that,” Y/N nodded in agreement, “I love being with my friends. However, they are always late. I’m waiting for them right now,” she laughed, “We club a lot,”

“I hardly go to clubs, unless one of my friends drags me to one,” Spencer said, referencing Morgan, “I prefer quieter places. Like dinner. Parks. Even a bar,”

“I think clubs are fun. I like to dance. Raves too.”

Shit, the pretty woman already lost interest in him. Her eyes wandering around, tapping her fingers on the hardwood of the table.

“Reid, head back. Garcia did some digging, we got a few matches,” JJ said in the earpiece carefully nestled in his ear, hidden by his hair.

“I’d love to stay and chat, but I gotta head out.” Spencer said, beginning to stand up. He felt a tad bit disappointed. Part of him wanted to focus on catching the unsub, but the other part wanted to sit and stare at this woman like she was a model in a magazine.

Obviously, catching the unsub was more important.

“Wait!” she exclaimed, holding out both of her hands in an effort to keep him seated. He froze, looking at her in confusion as she awkwardly dropped her hands to the side. “Um… can I get your number?”

Get his number?

“Sure,” he didn’t see why she would want his number, considering how uninteresting he must be to her. So, he decided to test how interesting she might be to him. Opening up his journal and scribbling, he tore out the corner (much to his dismay, it didn’t look neat at all), handing it to her, “Here you go,”

A big smile formed on her face as she bid his farewell, only looking down at the paper when he was gone, and to her confusion, seeing the scribbles on it. What the hell kind of handwriting is this? It didn’t even look like numbers!

“Fuck, he tricked me,” she huffed, crumbling up the paper. He must have just scribbled gibberish so it looked like he gave her his number so she’d leave him alone long enough for him to make his escape.

She let the now crumbled up paper fall to the table as she ordered a drink, feeling a bit defeated. He was really cute! She was sure they’d find some things in common if they tried hard enough. But now she knew he didn’t want to bother.

Was she too forward? Did she scare him off? Maybe she was just plain ugly?

A soft sigh left her lips as she took a sip of her drink. She looked down at the crumbled up paper, before slowly reaching out and picking it back up.

_____

“...you know, I was planning on spending my day off at home,” Spencer grumbled, following Garcia throughout the maze that was the local mall. She was already holding a hefty amount of bags despite them being there for only an hour, moving along quickly.

They had just finished the case, coming to the conclusion this “dealer” was killing his clients, racking up a count of five (that they know of) before geting caught by the team. The jet landed back yesterday morning, and Garcia was already calling Reid up to hang out.

“Oh, stop complaining!” she waved him off, rolling her eyes playfully, “You need new shoes anyway. You always wear the same ones!”

Spencer took a moment to glance down at his beaten up black Converse. She wasn’t wrong there. He did wear the same shoes all the time. “You didn’t bring me to the mall just to get me to buy new shoes.”

“Nope,” she mused, “I’m in the mood for some chicken teriyaki as well,”

“I suppose I am too,” his lips curled up into a small smile as he continued to follow behind her, “I also need a new sweater for fall.”

“Oh, yes you do,” she nodded in agreement, which made him think that perhaps his sweaters were noticeably dingy or something of the sort. Damn.

They walked a few steps further, until Spencer’s phone rang. If it were Hotch with a new case, he might just drown himself in the fountain. “One moment,” he muttered, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Flipping it open, he eyed the caller. Unknown ID. “...hello?”

“Um,” the person on the other line began, “Is this Spencer? The one nerdy looking guy att he club?”

“I…” his mouth went dry. She actually bothered to figure it out? She realized he didn’t just scribble on the piece of paper, but actually wrote his number in Morse code?

“Who wrote their number in Morse code? I’ve already tried, like, six other numbers,” she continued to babble. Y/N then stopped herself. “Shit. Sorry. Um, so… is this Spencer?”

“...yes,” he breathed out, looking over at Garcia. She had a questioning look on her face, wondering who he could be talking to that could cause his face to become such a red color.

“Oh!” Y/N exclaimed, “I did it?! I did it! I found you! Oh, wow, hi there.”

Spencer bit his bottom lip, his genius brain melting within seconds as he tried to find the right words to say. “...hi there,” he echoed back, “I didn’t think you were actually interested in me,”

“What?!” she replied in shock, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just assumed…” he paused, “I assumed you would find me quite boring,”

“I don’t think you’re boring at all, Spencer.”

His cheeks reddened even more. He must be a tomato at this point. “We didn’t even talk much,” he pointed out, “And in our short conversation, we just found we enjoy different things,”

“Well, it was a short conversation, like you said. I’m sure we have plenty of things in common. Do you like ramen?”

“I mean, it’s okay,” he answered, “I’ll eat it.”

“Good enough for me,”

The corners of his lips twitched up at her words, “You sound easily pleased,”

“I am! Do you like Italian food?”

“I sure do. One of my coworkers makes the best Italian cuisine.”

“Wonderful! Let us wed, then I could meet him,”

“I think you could meet him beforehand.”

She dramatically sighed, “I suppose so. However, I would like the pleasure of meeting you a few times before I meet your lovely coworkers.”

“You’re right. We should probably hop onto that first,”

“And you mentioned liking Sadoku, right?”

He was surprised she remembered, “Yes, I do.”

“Ah, you see, I bought a Sadoku book a few days ago, and God this game is so boring. And you do this all the time? For fun? This could be capitol punishment.”

Spencer found himself laughing at that comment, “I think it’s relaxing,”

“I think getting teeth pulled would be more relaxing. Y’know what I think is pretty relaxing? Watching Gossip Girl in bed.”

“I’ve never seen it before,”

“Good god, what is going on here?” She was definitely very dramatic, and honestly, Spencer was loving it. He loved her personality. “You have a mission now. You need to go watch Gossip Girl. Right now.”

“I’m at the mall at the moment.”

“Damn. Oh shit, I’m like, literally bothering you right now,”

“No, you’re not,”

“Yes, I am! Shit! I’m sorry, go have fun. Buy a pretzel or something.”

“I’m going to buy chicken teriyaki,”

“Oh. Buy a pretzel too.”

He laughed, “Okay. I’ll buy a pretzel too. I’ll call you later.”

“Joy, I must not have completely embarrassed myself if you’re willing to call me again later. Unless you actually plan on blocking me after you hang up.”

“No no, I like talking to you. I’m definitely going to call you later.” He assured her, glancing at Garcia again. Now she looked curious, shuffling closer to him. “I promise.”

“If you don’t, I’ll find you. I’m worse than Gossip Girl.”

“I believe you.” She was silly, if he wasn’t in public, he’d probably be giggling and kicking his feet like a teen girl. He liked her silly.

“You better. Okay, I’ll leave you alone now. Have fun. Get the pretzel.”

“I’ll go get the pretzel,”

“As you should,” she giggled out, “Goodbye, Spencer,”

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