sweetbuckybarnes

[sweetbuckybarnes]

It’s My Birthday!

It’s my 25th birthday!

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer gets released from prison and decides he can no longer live another day without you by his side

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn’t cry in front of anyone not once. Not JJ, not Emily. Not even Garcia when she pulled you into a thousand hugs during those first few weeks after Spencer was taken into custody.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart. Because if you did who would be strong for him?

You visited every chance you could. You kept your voice steady when you spoke to him, even when his eyes looked so tired and haunted you could barely breathe. You told him about new cases, updates from Garcia, how Henry was doing in school. You wore your best smiles and never let him see the ache.

But behind closed doors , You curled up in his cardigan. You sobbed into your pillow.

You clutched the mug he used every morning like it was a lifeline.

And when you were alone in your car outside the prison, after another too short visit, you’d scream just to let it out. The fear, the rage, the heartbreak.

Because he didn’t deserve this.

And you missed him. God, you missed him so much.

When Spencer finally walked out of prison, he barely made it five feet before you were in his arms.

He’d grown thinner. Tired. But his arms still fit around you like home. You kissed his face, over and over, whispering how proud you were, how strong he’d been, how much you loved him.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” you kept whispering, like if you said it enough, you could make the pain disappear for both of you.

He didn’t say much that first day. He just kept touching you your hand, your cheek, your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. Every time he looked away, his fingers found their way back to you. And every time you looked at him, he was already looking at you.

You stayed home for a few days after his release. The two of you didn’t leave the apartment once. You cooked for him, let him pick the shows, read together in bed. You held him when he had nightmares and never let go.

One morning, you found him standing by the window before sunrise, staring out with tears in his eyes.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek into his back.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t know what to do with all this freedom. But I do know one thing.”

You turned him around slowly, hands on his waist. “What’s that?”

“I’m never letting them take me from you again.” His voice cracked. “I wasted so much time thinking I had more time. But nothing is promised.”

“Spence—”

He dropped to one knee.

“I don’t have a ring,” he said quickly, nervously. “I was going to wait, to make it special. But I can’t wait anymore. I don’t want to waste another second. I need to know you’ll always be mine, because I am already yours.”

Tears welled in your eyes as your hands flew to your mouth.

“Will you marry me, right now? Today? Just us if you want, or the whole team, I don’t care. I just want to be your husband. Please?”

You knelt down in front of him, hands trembling as you cupped his face. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yes, of course, Spencer. I’ve been yours for years.”

Two hours later, in Rossi’s garden you were getting married.

Garcia wore a crown of fake flowers and sobbed through the entire thing.

Rossi stood in the back with a soft smile.

You wore a simple white dress Emily had rushed to grab from her closet, and Spencer wore his best shirt the one you’d gotten him for his birthday last year.

The vows weren’t fancy. They weren’t rehearsed. They were spoken between tears and laughter, whispered promises, and forehead kisses.

When he said “I do,” Spencer looked at you like the sun had finally come out after the longest winter of his life.

And when he kissed you, you knew you’d never have to be strong alone again. Not anymore.

You were home.

He was free.

And you were finally his wife.

Forever.

The first night in prison, Spencer lay awake with your name in his mouth like a prayer.

The bunk was hard, the air heavy. He could still feel your hug the way you held on just a second longer when they led him away. You were trying to be strong. You were always trying to be strong. He hated that he made you need to be.

He kept your face in his head like a reel. The little squint you did when you smiled. The way your hands shook when you were overwhelmed but you always pretended they weren’t. The way you kissed his temple when you thought he was asleep.

He hated that he couldn’t protect you from this.

But worse he hated that you couldn’t protect him from it either.

You came to see him every chance they let you. Dressed in neat clothes, hair pulled back, smiles in place. At first, he thought you were okay.

But Spencer had studied you too long to miss the cracks.

Your eyes were always red-rimmed. You looked thinner. Tired.

And sometimes, when you’d talk about your day, your voice would catch just slightly like you were choking on words you weren’t saying. Like I cried last night or I had a panic attack in the shower or I miss you so much it hurts to breathe.

But you smiled anyway. For him.

You were always strong. For him.

And that’s what broke his heart the most.

He counted days in letters.

You’d leave little notes tucked into books you brought him. One liners. Inside jokes. Sentences that barely filled the margins but filled his chest instead.

“I wore your cardigan all week.”

“Garcia says hi and also to tell you she cried during a cat video yesterday.”

“I love you more today than I did yesterday, somehow.”

He would lie on his bunk and reread them like scripture. Because if he thought too long about what you were going through without him if he imagined you curled up alone in your apartment, trying to breathe without breaking he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

When they told him he was getting out, he didn’t believe it.

When they put him in clean clothes, when they walked him out the gates, his legs barely moved. Every step felt like waking from a coma.

And then he saw you.

You were standing there in a soft sweater, eyes full of tears. And suddenly the weight lifted all at once. It was over. He was free. You were real.

You threw your arms around him and kissed him like the world was ending.

He clung to you like it just started again.

Back home, he couldn’t stop touching you.

Not in a possessive way. Just… grounding. His fingers in your hair. Your palm against his chest. Knees pressed together on the couch. Your heartbeat was the only thing that kept the dizziness at bay.

That first night, when he woke up gasping, you were already sitting up beside him.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. You were crying. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

He nodded, but the guilt curled in his chest. Because you were still carrying it all. You still weren’t sleeping. And it hit him like a flood:

He never wanted to put you through that again.

The next morning, he stood by the window and watched the sky change color. You were asleep in bed, tangled in his shirt, peaceful for once. And it was there, in that quiet, that it clicked.

He needed to marry you.

He needed to make it real needed to tether himself to you in the only way he knew how. Not because he thought you’d leave. But because he needed to stay. Permanently. Legally. Eternally.

He didn’t have a ring. He didn’t have a plan. He barely had himself back together.

But he had love. And he had you.

That was enough.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said, voice shaking as he knelt in front of you.

You gasped, eyes wide and shining.

“I want to be your husband,” he said. “Please. Let’s get married today. I can’t be away from you again. I won’t survive it.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you dropped to your knees and kissed him, laughing through it.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Spencer. A million times, yes.”

A few hours later, surrounded by the team, he stood in Rossi’s garden in front of you in a borrowed tie and his best shirt.

You held his hands with that same steady strength you always gave him. But now he could see the relief in your smile.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

When he said “I do,” he meant it in every way possible.

I do choose you.

I do love you.

I do promise never to make you suffer alone again.

When he kissed you, he finally exhaled.

He was yours.

You were his.

And the rest of his life could finally begin.

Spencer had been nervous walking back into the BAU after prison. But walking in with you, as his wife?

That felt… different. Softer. Full circle.

The elevator doors opened and there you were, fingers laced through his, wedding bands glinting under the fluorescent lights like tiny flashes of rebellion against everything the last year had thrown at you both.

Your badge still sat proudly on your hip. His hung newly reissued around his neck.

And your last name, now officially hyphenated with Reid, looked absolutely perfect in the updated Bureau directory.

The bullpen was already buzzing when you walked in case files being shuffled, Garcia talking a mile a minute to Luke over speakerphone but the moment JJ looked up, everything came to a halt.

“Oh my god” she gasped, standing so fast her chair rolled back.

You barely had a second to respond before she rushed around her desk and threw her arms around both of you. “You actually did it!”

“We did ,” you said, grinning. “Last night in Rossi’s garden.”

“With me crying,” Garcia added, appearing suddenly from behind a potted plant like a pastel fairy godmother. “Like, aggressively crying.”

Rossi was next. He gave Spencer a smile, followed by a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome home. Both of you.”

Emily held your hands up, examining your simple, shining bands. “You two are disgustingly adorable. I hope you know that.”

“They know,” Luke said with a smirk. “They haven’t stopped smiling since they walked in.”

“We haven’t stopped smiling since the wedding,” you corrected.

Spencer just stood beside you, beaming. It was different from the smile he wore for press conferences or lectures. This was his softest smile. The one only you got to see most of the time. Except now? He didn’t care who saw it.

You were his wife. And he was proud.

Later that morning, Garcia showed up in the briefing room with a PowerPoint titled:

Operation: Welcome Back, Dr. and Agent Reid

It had confetti animations. There were cupcakes. A picture slideshow of you and Reid. JJ and Emily brought in a cake shaped like a stack of books. And someone probably Garcia hung up a ridiculous “JUST MARRIED (AND STILL BADASS FBI AGENTS )��� banner across the whiteboard.

You and Spencer sat close during the meeting. His hand stayed on your thigh the entire time under the table. Every time he looked at you, he felt that swell of quiet disbelief.

You were his partner in every way now. In life. In work. In love.

After the debrief, he turned toward you with a smile. “How long do you think it’ll take them to stop making heart eyes at us?”

You grinned. “Let’s hope never.”

He leaned in and whispered, “I love you, Mrs. Reid.”

You squeezed his hand. “I love you more, Dr. Reid.”

And just like that, the world after all its chaos, its heartbreak, its time apart finally felt right again.

Because no matter how dark things had gotten, the two of you made it back.

Together. Married. Whole.Back where you belonged.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Taylor Swift and her Masters. Squeeee!!!

💚💛💜❤️🩵🖤

Forever a Swiftie

You belong with me. 💚💛💜❤️🩵🖤

Letter on my site :)

[sweetbuckybarnes]

just a heads up to my fellow writers out there that AO3 is currently fighting off bots commenting on people’s works to tell them that AO3 will delete their fics “due to the works being deprecated”, and the deletion will affect their accounts unless the authors delete the fics themselves first. IT IS A SCAM. AO3 will NOT delete your works. please do NOT fall for these bots!

I’ve been told the reason why these bots are doing this is due to copyright infringement issue where they’re trying to steal your works (possibly to train AI but this is just a guess) ‼️‼️‼️and once you deleted your fics, it will be either very difficult or impossible for you to claim ownership of your own fics when they were already deleted.‼️‼️‼️

a reminder that AO3 will never contact you through your comments section (in case they claim to be one of the moderators). AO3 will only contact you through your email address which you use to register your account, and it will be from AO3’s official handle. not some sketchy ass @

so if you get a comment telling you you should “delete your works to protect your account because AO3 is doing blah blah blah” report that comment. don’t delete your works.

PLEASE DO NOT FALL FOR THESE SCAM.

AO3 IS NOT DELETING WORKS.

DO NOT DELETE YOUR WORKS JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE CLAIMS THEY KNOW SOMETHING.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Bravo and thank you, Canada. 🫶

[sweetbuckybarnes]

hi, sorry, I just wanted to ask, and this is prolly going to sound super dumb, are authors chill with people commenting on their old fanfics and stuff?

just want to make sure that I'm not inadvertently being annoying

I believe I speak for most authors when I say they’ll never be annoyed by any positive comments from their readers

authors, reblog if you love receiving new comments on your old works

[sweetbuckybarnes]

a regular day at the featherington household 🪶

[sweetbuckybarnes]

HI!! LOVE YOUR WRITINGS YOURE INSANE!!! could i please request angst/fluff for spencer reid (later seasons) where spencer kinda gets mad at reader and she leaves his place thinking he’s super upset at her and something happens idk she gets in a fender bender or gets sick for a few days and has to go to the hospital but doesn’t answer when he calls bc she thinks he’s so upset he wouldn’t want to know and at some point he finds her in the hospital after he’s been going crazy because he couldn’t get a hold of her i���m so sorry this literally makes no sense i fear this came to me in a dream😣

accident - spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader gets into a small accident, mention of a forehead injury / blood and a headache ( reader is fine though ), reader ends up in the hospital , argument between spencer and reader a/n: hai hai !! hope you like this <3

The silence in Spencer’s apartment was suffocating.

“I said I’m sorry,” you mumbled again, your voice barely above a whisper, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your sweater. The words felt hollow, even to you, but you didn’t know what else to say.

Spencer let out a slow breath, his long fingers raking through his already disheveled hair—a telltale sign of his frustration.

It had been such a small thing, really.

A misplaced book. His book.

One he had lent you weeks ago, one you had cherished, only to accidentally tuck it away in the wrong stack of papers. When you’d finally found it, relief had flooded you—until you handed it back, and instead of the soft smile you expected, his lips had pressed into a thin line, his words sharper than you’d ever heard them.

“You could have been more careful.”

The words stung. You hadn’t meant to be careless. You loved his books, loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about them, loved the way he’d underlined passages just for you to find.

But today, his patience was thin, his tone clipped, and now you stood there, feeling smaller than you had in a long time.

Spencer turned away, his back to you as he carefully slotted the book back into its place on the shelf.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say another word.

Your chest ached.

Swallowing hard, you grabbed your bag from the couch, your jacket slipping silently over your shoulders. “I’m going home,” you murmured, unsure if he even heard you.

But the sharp click of the door behind you? That, he definitely heard.

The sound made him freeze.

For a long moment, Spencer stood there, staring blankly at the spines of his books, his breath uneven. Then, with a heavy sigh, he sank onto the couch, dragging a hand down his face.

What was wrong with him?

It wasn’t about the book. Not really. It had been a long day—no, a long week—of dead ends and sleepless nights on the case, of too much coffee and too little patience. And instead of dealing with it like an adult, he’d taken it out on you. The one person who had done nothing but be kind to him.

Guilt settled deep in his stomach, cold and nauseating.

Outside, the engine of your car rumbled to life. You were leaving. Because of him. Because he couldn’t keep his frustration in check.

Spencer’s throat tightened.

He should call you. Should run after you. Should fix this.

But his pride—or maybe his shame—kept him rooted in place.

Meanwhile, you gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the streetlights blurring as you blinked back the burn in your eyes. You didn’t want to leave. You hated leaving things like this. But you hated upsetting him even more, and right now, space seemed like the only option.

You just hoped he knew you hadn’t meant to let him down.

An hour later, you were in the hospital.

It wasn’t anything serious—just a fender bender, a stupid accident born from exhaustion and bad luck. The woman behind you had been just as distracted, just as worn thin by the day, except she hadn’t braked in time. The impact had been sharp, sudden, your seatbelt locking as your forehead struck the steering wheel with a dull thud.

You’d assured the other driver you were fine, even as warm blood trickled down your temple. And now here you were, lying on a stiff hospital bed, the antiseptic sting of the air making your nose wrinkle.

The lights overhead were too bright, drilling into your already pounding head, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the throbbing to ease.

What a night.

Your phone buzzed against the bedside table. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Spencer.

Of course it was Spencer.

You stared at the screen, his name flashing insistently, the call vibrating through the hospital room. Part of you wanted to answer, to hear his voice—even if it was still edged with frustration. But the other part, the stubborn, bruised part of you, hesitated.

He’d had a hard enough night already. You weren’t going to add to that.

So you didn’t decline. Didn’t accept. Just let it ring.

The call eventually went to voicemail. The room settled back into quiet.

You exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead—gently, careful of the fresh bandages—and tried to ignore the hollow pang in your chest.

Time dragged. The hospital was busy tonight—understaffed, overworked—and what should have been a quick check-up turned into an endless wait. You stared at the ceiling, counting the speckled tiles, listening to the distant beeping of machines and the muffled voices of nurses rushing by. Your phone sat silent beside you. You wondered if Spencer had given up. If he thought you were ignoring him on purpose.

Then—

"Which one?" The voice cut through the noise of the ER.

His voice.

A nurse murmured something in response, and before you could even sit up properly, the curtain around your bed was yanked aside with too much force, the rings screeching against the metal rod.

Spencer stood there, breathing hard, his hair even more disheveled than before, like he’d been running his hands through it the entire way here. His eyes locked onto yours, then dropped to the bandage on your forehead, the dried blood at your hairline that the nurses hadn’t quite wiped away.

His expression did something complicated—guilt, fear, anger (at himself, always at himself)—before settling into something painfully soft.

You swallowed.

"Fender bender," you mumbled lamely, as if that explained everything.

His throat worked as he swallowed. "You should've called me immediately," he whispered, taking another step closer. The fluorescent lights caught the dark circles under his eyes, the way his cardigan was buttoned wrong - one side higher than the other. He must have thrown it on in a hurry.

You shrugged, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the bandage. "You had a bad day. I didn't want to make it worse."

Spencer made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hands finally lifting to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing feather-light beneath your eyes. "That doesn't matter. You matter. You're bleeding in a hospital and I—" His voice cracked. "How could you think I wouldn't want to know?"

A beat of silence.

Then, because you had to know: "How did you even find me?"

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Garcia."

Of course.

"When you didn't answer... I may have panicked. Slightly." His fingers traced the edge of your bandage with heartbreaking gentleness. "She tracked your phone. I owe her approximately twelve favors now."

You huffed a laugh, then immediately regretted it when your head throbbed. Spencer's expression darkened with concern.

"Hey," you said softly, catching one of his restless hands. "I'm okay. Really."

He didn't look convinced. "You're in a hospital bed."

"And you're here," you countered, squeezing his fingers. "That helps."

Spencer exhaled shakily. "Never do that again," he murmured. "Walk out, not call me, take the blame for my bad mood... Any of it."

You closed your eyes, breathing him in - the familiar scent of old books and that terrible cheap coffee he loved. "Only if you promise to talk to me next time instead of biting my head off over a book."

A pause. Then, quiet you almost missed it: "Deal."

The discharge papers took forever.

You sat on the edge of the hospital bed, swinging your legs slightly while Spencer hovered like an anxious shadow, reading every line of the doctor’s instructions twice before reluctantly letting you sign them. His fingers kept twitching toward you—adjusting the collar of your jacket, brushing imaginary lint from your sleeve—as if he needed constant proof you were really there, really okay.

The nurse handed you a packet of aftercare instructions with a knowing smile. “Someone’s eager to get you home,” she murmured, nodding toward Spencer, who was already holding your bag and car keys like a man prepared to carry you out of here himself.

You flushed.

The ride home was quiet. Spencer drove with one hand on the wheel, the other clasped firmly around yours, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin every time you hit a red light.

You watched the way his jaw clenched whenever you shifted in your seat, how his eyes flickered to you every few seconds like he needed visual confirmation you were still there.

"You're staring," he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Am not," you lied, even as your fingers tightened around his.

The apartment was dark when you arrived, the book still sitting innocently on the shelf where he'd placed it earlier. Spencer hovered as you toed off your shoes, his hands fluttering near your elbows like he wasn't quite sure where to put them.

"Sit," he ordered gently, nudging you toward the couch. "I'll make tea."

You wanted to argue—you weren't an invalid, just a little banged up—but the way his voice cracked on the last word had you sinking obediently into the cushions.

Through the kitchen doorway, you watched him move with frantic precision: boiling water, selecting chamomile (your favorite), digging through drawers for the honey bear he kept just for you. His hands shook when he poured.

When he returned, he didn't hand you the mug right away. Instead, he knelt before you, his knees hitting the carpet with a soft thud. The vulnerability of the position stole your breath.

"I was an idiot today," he said, pressing the warm ceramic into your hands. His eyes were liquid in the low light. "Not just about the book. About everything."

You cradled the tea between your palms, letting the heat seep into your skin. "You were stressed."

"That's not an excuse." His fingers brushed the bandage again, so light it barely registered. "I hate that I made you feel like you had to leave. Like you couldn't—" His voice broke. "Like you couldn't come to me when you were hurt."

You set the tea aside.

Spencer didn't resist when you tugged him up onto the couch, didn't protest when you maneuvered him until his back was against the armrest and you were curled into his chest, your ear pressed over his heartbeat. His arms came around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, careful of your injury.

"Next time," you murmured into his sweater, "I'll call."

He exhaled, long and shuddering, his lips pressing to your hairline.

"Next time," he negotiated softly, "I'll do better."

And when you woke the next morning, his arms still wrapped around you, the book was open on his nightstand—a new passage underlined, just for you.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

a fic based on a

"I can do it myself" gf and a "i know you can but let me" boyf

would be so cute (with spencer obvi)

capable — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader is braiding her hair, a/n: haiiii !! hope you like this <3

You stared into the mirror, tilting your head slightly as you tried—and failed—to get a proper look at your reflection from the side. Both hands were tangled in your hair, fingers fumbling as you attempted to weave the strands into a braid.

It wasn’t working.

A frustrated sigh escaped you, loud enough to draw attention.

From the bedroom, Spencer paused mid-motion, the pillowcase in his hands momentarily forgotten. He glanced toward the bathroom, where you stood with your back to the door, still wrestling with that stubborn section of hair.

Dropping the pillowcase onto the freshly made bed, he padded quietly toward you.

You caught his movement in the mirror before he even reached you. A small, knowing smile curled at the corner of your lips as you met his gaze through the glass.

"I can do it myself," you said, though your fingers had already stilled, hovering uncertainly over the half-finished braid.

Spencer stepped beside you. His smile was soft, patient.

"I know you can," he murmured, already reaching for the loose strands slipping from your grip. "But let me."

You hesitated for only a second before letting your hands drop, surrendering to his touch. The moment his fingers brushed against your hair, a familiar warmth bloomed in your chest—something giddy and light, fluttering just beneath your ribs.

"When did you learn to braid hair?" you asked, watching as his fingers worked with surprising precision.

He hummed, brows knitting together in concentration as he carefully wove another section. "Did some research."

You snorted. "Of course you did."

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, barely noticeable if you hadn’t been studying his reflection so closely. "I researched it because of you," he admitted, voice low, almost sheepish.

"Wait, really?" You nearly turned to face him, but Spencer nudged you back with a gentle press of his fingertips against your shoulder.

"Don’t move," he chided softly, though his lips quirked in amusement.

"Yeah," he continued, smoothing down a wayward strand before continuing the braid. "You braid your hair at least three times a week, and you tend to sigh at least four times while doing it. Figured I’d help you out." He smiled at you through the mirror, that warm, crooked grin that always made your stomach flutter.

A slow, disbelieving laugh bubbled up in your throat. "You kept track?"

Spencer shrugged, but the way his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary betrayed his nonchalance. "I pay attention."

Your chest tightened at that—because of course he did.

Spencer Reid noticed everything, from the way you tapped your pen against case files when you were thinking to the exact number of sugars you dumped into your coffee.

You smiled to yourself, watching as his long fingers weaved the strands together. When he finally smoothed it down, securing the end with the hair tie you’d been struggling with earlier, you reached up to touch it.

"It’s perfect, Spence," you cheered, twisting your head slightly to admire his handiwork.

He ducked his head, that shy, pleased expression he got whenever you praised him. "It’s just physics, really. Tension and distribution of—"

"Nope," you interrupted, spinning around to face him properly now. "No nerding out. This was sweet. Admit it."

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it, fighting a smile. "...Fine. It was sweet."

A mischievous thought struck you. "Y’know," you mused, reaching up to toy with a loose curl near his temple, "I should return the favor."

His brow furrowed. "What do you—"

You didn’t let him finish. Grabbing his wrist, you tugged him toward the edge of the bathtub, pushing him down until he sat with an undignified oomph. Before he could protest, your fingers were already combing through his hair, separating a small section near the front.

"Absolutely not," Spencer said, though he made no move to stop you.

"Oh, come on," you teased, twisting the strands with far less finesse than he’d shown. "Just one tiny braid. For fun."

He groaned, but the way he leaned ever so slightly into your touch gave him away. "This is revenge."

"It’s bonding," you corrected, grinning as you secured the ridiculous little plait with a bobby pin.

Spencer looked—well, adorable. The tiny braid stuck out awkwardly against his otherwise tousled curls. You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

"You’re never doing this again," he muttered, but when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, even he couldn’t suppress a tiny smile.

(And if he left it in for the rest of the day, well—neither of you mentioned it.)

[sweetbuckybarnes]

hi lovely!! i have a request that could be loosely tied to episode 10x15 where the unsub targets women with low self-esteem, if he doesn’t actually end up doing that im sorry, im literally 15 minutes into that episode and i got this idea (i do remember the unsub hinting that one of the victim’s husbands is abusive, which obviously spence wouldnt be so i guess that’s why it’s loosely tied)

i was thinking established relationship and r is not in the bau, she gets kidnapped by the unsub. spencer panics for ages but they save her and he kinda has a little talk with her to reassure her since he knows the reason what the unsub’s victimology is. (she has low self-esteem)

i know you have plenty of requests right now, so focus on taking care of yourself and don’t be afraid to take breaks!! we love you 💗

- 🐚/ele

self-esteem — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mentions of reading being hurt and having bruises , reader was kindapped ( but theres no details of it ) , mention of a hospital and weapons a/n: hii ele <3 thank you so much ilysm :( and funnily enough i actually rewatched that episode 2 weeks ago ?!?! i didnt dive too much into the kidnapping part but more so the part where spencer comforts reader ( hope thats okay <3 )

The key turned in the lock with a soft click, and Spencer shouldered open the door to his apartment, his arms weighed down by both his bag and yours, his fingers still laced tightly with yours.

He hadn’t let go—not in the car ride home, not when Hotch had dismissed the team, not even when you’d stopped for coffee and the barista had given him an amused glance at his refusal to release your hand. 

You didn’t mind. 

After the past two days, you understood. 

The bags hit the floor with a thud, and Spencer turned to you immediately, his gaze flickering over your face like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. His fingers twitched against yours, restless, as if even the idea of breaking contact was unbearable. 

It made sense. Forty-eight hours ago, an unsub had taken you. 

Forty-eight hours ago, Spencer had nearly lost his mind. 

It had only been a few hours —barely enough time for the team to figure out where you were, to pinpoint the abandoned warehouse, to storm in with weapons drawn. But for Spencer, those hours had stretched into an eternity. He could still see your state when he found you. Still see the way you had reached for him with tears streaming down your face. 

And now you were here. Safe. With him. 

You shifted slightly, detangling your hand from his to shrug off your jacket, and he moved before you could even lift your arms, his hands already at your shoulders, easing the fabric down with care. His breath hitched when you winced, his eyes zeroing in on the bruises circling your wrists—ugly, violent imprints left by rope. His jaw clenched. 

"Are you hungry?" he asked abruptly, his voice softer than usual. "I could make you something. A sandwich, or—or soup. If you’d prefer that." 

His hands lingered, brushing over the scarf at your neck, his touch feather-light as he unwound it. The pads of his fingers skimmed your skin, where there were light bruises.

His thumb stroked over them before he could stop himself, his chest tightening when you exhaled shakily. 

"Spence," you murmured, turning to face him fully. His name was barely more than a whisper, but it snapped his attention back to your eyes. 

He swallowed hard. "I’m sorry," he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure what for. For not protecting you sooner? For not being faster? For the way his hands trembled now, desperate to pull you close and terrified of causing you more pain? 

You reached up, cupping his face, and he leaned into your touch instinctively, his lashes fluttering shut for a brief, stolen second. 

"You don’t have to apologize," you said gently. 

His throat worked. "I know."  

His arms came around you, carefully , his nose burying in your hair as he held you. The scent of his shampoo mixed with the lingering traces of antiseptic from the hospital. 

"We can just go to bed if you want," he mumbled, his voice quiet and hesitant. 

You nodded against him, your fingers still loosely curled around the fabric of his cardigan. "I’d like that." 

He pulled back just enough to guide you towards his bedroom, his fingers ghosting over the small of your back.

When you slipped beneath the covers, Spencer was right there, his arms instinctively pulling you closer. Your head found its place against his chest, where his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear.

You let out a slow breath, your fingers tracing absent patterns over the fabric of his shirt. Since the moment they’d pulled you from that house, the only place you’d felt truly safe was here. With him. And right now, you couldn’t have felt any safer. 

Spencer shifted slightly, his fingers mirroring yours, tracing lazy, feather-light shapes against your back. His touch was delicate.

Then, softly, he spoke. 

"You know I love you, right?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Your lips curled into the faintest smile, still weak but genuine, and you patted his chest lightly. "Yeah, I do, Spencer." 

For a moment, there was only silence—comfortable, warm. Then he exhaled, his fingers stilling against your spine. 

"I know why he chose you," Spencer murmured, his voice quieter now, careful. "The unsub. I read his profile over and over again. He—he targeted women who didn’t see their own worth. Who doubted themselves. Who thought they weren’t enough." 

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight.  

Spencer’s arms tightened around you, like he could shield you from the weight of his words. "He looked for kindness. For vulnerability. And he used it against them, made them feel small, made them believe they deserved what happened to them." He shook his head, his fingers pressing gently into your back. "But he was wrong. About all of it. About you." 

You stayed quiet, not because you didn’t want to argue—but because a part of you still wondered if the unsub had been right. Maybe you were weak. Maybe you were nothing special. Maybe— 

Spencer’s voice broke through the spiral of thoughts before they could consume you. "You are not weak," he said firmly, like he could hear everything you weren’t saying. "Do you know how strong you are? How incredible?" 

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except it wasn’t. "Spence—" 

"You are," he insisted, shifting so he could look at you. His eyes were serious, burning with something fierce. "Do you know how terrified I was? How the thought of losing you—" He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment before pulling back. "You survived something horrible. You fought. And you’re here. And I don’t ever want you to think that you’re anything less than extraordinary." 

You bit your lip, blinking rapidly. "But what if—what if he was right? What if I—" 

"He wasn’t," Spencer interrupted, his grip gentle but firm. "I see you. Every day, I see you. I see the way you care, the way you love. The way you make the world better just by being in it." His fingers traced along your jaw, tipping your chin up slightly. "You matter. Not because of what happened to you, not because of what someone else believed—but because of who you are. And who you are is someone I love. More than anything." 

Your breath hitched, something breaking open inside you—not in a painful way, but in a way that let the light in. 

Spencer pulled you closer again, his lips brushing your temple. "And if you ever forget that, I’ll remind you. As many times as it takes." 

A small, wobbly smile formed on your lips. "That might be a lot of reminders." 

His own smile was soft, warm. "Then I guess I’ll be talking for a very long time." 

[sweetbuckybarnes]

hi!! so, i was watching the office and pam and jim were reading each others palm lines and i couldn’t help but imagine reader and spencer in a similar scenario; successfully flirting with each other while thinking they’re being discreet about it. of course, spencer doesn’t believe in that sort of thing but humors reader anyway. could you write something based off that episode, something to that effect? i think this could be a cute idea😅 thank you thank you!! xx

palm reading — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: fluff a/n: hi hi !! i love this idea more than anything ( biggest jimpam fan here !!!! )

“Oh, come on, Spencer,” you teased, the corners of your mouth tugging into a grin. “You don’t have to believe in it for it to be fun.”

The bullpen was quiet for once—no urgent cases, no ringing phones.

The perfect time for a little distraction.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you gave him your best set of puppy dog eyes—an expression you knew he found impossible to resist. You were trying to convince him to let you read his palm, but, true to form, Spencer—ever the scientist, ever the skeptic—wasn’t exactly jumping at the opportunity.

He blinked at you, momentarily thrown off. He didn’t believe in palmistry, not even a little bit.

But your eyes were wide and full of playful determination, and your smile… God, your smile made something flutter unexpectedly in his chest. He tried not to stare too long at your lips, tried to ground himself in logic, but when you looked at him like that?

Well, logic didn’t stand a chance.

He sighed, more for dramatic effect than anything else.

“Fine,” he said, voice laced with exaggerated reluctance.

You grinned, triumphant. “Bring your chair over here.”

He rolled his chair across the floor until he was beside you. Close—but not quite close enough. So you reached out, grabbed the edge of his seat, and tugged him forward.

He let you, of course. Always would.

Now, your knees were brushing—his slotted between yours, yours nudged between his. The space between you all but vanished, and suddenly the air felt warmer. Neither of you mentioned it.

You simply extended your hand, palm up, expectant. “C’mon, give me your hand.”

Spencer hesitated for only a second, then placed his hand in yours. Warm. Solid. His fingers twitched slightly as your fingertips ghosted over his palm, tracing faint lines he had never bothered to study.

Germs? They didn’t exist when it came to you. At least, not in the way they usually haunted his mind.

You focused intently, brows furrowed like a fortune teller, the tip of your finger dragging lightly over his heart line. He watched your face—your expression, your lips, your eyes—anything but his hand.

But eventually, reluctantly, his gaze dropped back to his own hand—though it twitched slightly beneath yours as if reacting on instinct.

“Hmm,” you murmured thoughtfully, still dragging your finger across his skin. “This line right here? It means you’re secretly a hopeless romantic.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, skeptical but amused. “That’s not what it means.”

“You sure?” You leaned in, your knee nudging his under the desk. “Because it’s very deep. Very intense. Very… emotional.” You punctuated each word with a slow stroke of your finger, watching with delight as his throat bobbed.

He chuckled softly, his head tilting as his eyes followed the curve of your smile. “You’re making that up.”

“Maybe,” you said, voice dropping into something softer, more teasing. You winked. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He was too busy watching how your hand fit so naturally in his, how easily your fingers curled around his own.

His heart beat a little too fast for comfort.

You cleared your throat and returned your attention to his palm, biting your lip in thought as you continued your "analysis." Spencer noticed the way your teeth tugged at your lower lip and had to look away—back to his hand, back to the lines that suddenly felt like more than just skin.

“And this one,” you began again, voice dramatic. “This one means that you’re—” You gasped suddenly, sharply, like you'd discovered something scandalous.

Spencer’s eyes widened, startled. “What? What is it?”

You looked up slowly, lips pressed together in mock seriousness. Your eyes locked with his, unreadable for just a second before you leaned in closer.

“A nerd,” you said flatly, and promptly bopped him on the nose with one finger.

The look on his face—pure, deadpan confusion—was too much. You burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up from your chest as you leaned back slightly, shaking your head.

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between offended and endeared. “Seriously?”

“I mean,” you shrugged with an impish grin, “the lines don’t lie.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile pulling at his lips gave him away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” you said, still laughing as you held his hand a little tighter, “are stuck with me for at least one full palm reading.”

He let you keep tracing the lines on his palm, your touch slower now, more deliberate.

“Okay, so this line here,” you began, your tone shifting into something warmer, more sincere, “means you’re incredibly smart.”

Spencer quirked an eyebrow. “Shocking revelation.”

“Shh,” you grinned, “let the professional work.”

He chuckled under his breath, but didn’t interrupt again.

He just kept watching you, his eyes impossibly soft, like he was memorizing the way your expression shifted as you spoke.

“And this one,” you continued, your touch lingering a little longer over the curve of his palm, “shows that you’re thoughtful. You care more than you let people see. About everyone. About the team. About…” You hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Well. Everything.”

Spencer didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Because to him, it didn’t matter whether you believed in palmistry or not. What mattered was the way your voice softened when you described him, like you saw something in him that he sometimes forgot was there. This wasn’t just pretend anymore. This was you, telling him who he was through your eyes.

And God, he loved hearing those things.

Not because he needed validation.

But because it was you saying them.

Your thumb brushed lightly over his skin as you looked at his palm like it held all the answers you already knew by heart.

“I think your hands have very flattering opinions about me,” he said quietly, the hint of a smile on his lips, though there was something softer behind his eyes now.

“They’re just the messengers,” you replied, matching his quiet tone, your thumb absentmindedly brushing across his knuckles. “You’re the one who makes them true.”

A beat of silence. Spencer could hear his own heartbeat drumming in his ears.

Then, he let out a quiet breath. “You know palmistry is a pseudoscience, right?” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

You smiled, meeting his gaze. “Maybe. But sometimes the truth hides in things we don’t believe in.”

And then you added, softer, “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to hold your hand.”

There was a pause—brief, breathless.

So, Spencer gently turned your hand over in his, his fingers now tracing your palm.

“Then maybe,” he said, voice low and warm, “you should let me read yours next.”

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Okay, sure.” You held out your hand, now resting in his.

His fingers were warm as they wrapped around yours, a contrast to the coolness of the room.

“So,” you tilted your head, giving him a playful glance, “are you just going to make things up now? Considering you don’t believe in this?”

Spencer’s gaze flickered to your hand before he began tracing the lines on your palm, his touch light. “Oh, you mean make things up like you just did?” His voice was teasing, but his eyes met yours with a slight glimmer of amusement.

You bit your lip, pretending to think for a moment. “I didn’t make anything up,” you said with a shrug and a sly grin, your eyes locking with his. “I was being insightful.”

He chuckled, a soft, warm sound. “Yeah, okay,” he said with a playful roll of his eyes, though his fingers never stopped their slow, careful movement across your palm.

You leaned back slightly, watching him as he studied your hand with more attention than you’d expected.

"You're kind," Spencer murmured, his fingertip following the gentle curve of your heart line.

The bullpen's fluorescent lights caught the gold flecks in his eyes as he glanced up through his lashes, that familiar half-smile playing at his lips.

You shook your head, but couldn't suppress your grin. "Wow," you teased, "look who's starting to become a believer."

His responding chuckle was warm, vibrating through where your palms pressed together. "Empirical observation," he countered, but his thumb brushed your skin with deliberate tenderness that contradicted his scientific detachment. "This crease here? Textbook definition of compassion."

The way he said it - so matter-of-fact yet impossibly soft - made your breath catch.

Spencer Reid might claim he didn't believe in palmistry, but in this moment, he was reading you with terrifying accuracy.

His fingers lingered where your life line curved, tracing the path like he was committing it to memory.

"And this one," he continued, voice dropping to that quiet, intimate register that made your pulse stutter, "indicates someone who's far too patient with skeptical geniuses."

You giggled, your heart fluttering at the way his words, though playful, held a deeper meaning.

“I agree,” you said softly, your smile widening. But the weight of the moment wasn’t lost on either of you.

Spencer smiled back at you, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed to pause, his gaze lingering. He thought for a second about making more things up—just to keep his fingers wrapped around yours.

Honestly, there was a part of him that could have kept talking forever, spinning stories about palm lines, just to have an excuse to hold your hand forever.

Instead, he grinned, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips. “Seems like I’m a believer after all.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words. “Who knew?” you teased, squeezing his hand slightly. “You’ve got more of an open mind than you let on.”

Spencer chuckled. “Guess I’ve been misjudging things,” he replied, the playful edge in his voice softening, his thumb now moving in slow circles over the back of your hand.

You were both still, caught in a small, quiet world that only existed between the two of you.

He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

For the first time, Spencer doubted his doubt in palm reading.

Because he was a hopeless romantic. Even if it was just with you.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Spencer and His Popstar Girlfriend

Summary: Spencer had always kept his love life on the down low at work. Well, that was until he started dating one of the most influential artists in the music industry...

Inspired by Busy Woman by Sabrina Carpenter (which has been played on repeat for the past month or so...)

1k words

Spencer had always kept his love life on the down low when he was at work. They only found out about Maeve about a month or so before she tragically died. There was the mess and torture that was Cat. Nothing really happened with Max.

He never thought he would ever settle down, find someone to love and love him in return.

But then he met Y/N, and that all got turned on its head.

When he first met her, completely by accident. Unsurprisingly in a coffee shop. He had accidentally bumped into her as she was leaving, and he was picking up his coffee, but it was her drink that went down his shirt.

"Oh my God! I am so sorry!" She exclaimed, setting her now empty cup down as she reached over for some napkins and started dabbing at the stain on his shirt.

"Oh!" Spencer jumped; after all the years of working with Penelope (who was like an animated hug machine), he still wasn't used to the touch of other people. "I-It's okay," he stuttered.

The young woman with the incredible curls pulled away for a moment. "I can get it dry cleaner for you, if you want? It was my fault after all," she says.

Spencer shook his head. "No, I wouldn't want to put you out."

She giggles a little. "You wouldn't be putting me out. It was my drink that landed on your shirt."

They exchanged a few more words before exchanging names and phone numbers so she could pick up his shirt after work, and then give it back to him when it was clean.

Little did they know, that moment would be the start of their relationship.

Spencer never interfered with Y/N's songwriting (despite being the inspiration for a song or two that had gotten pretty high up the charts). Likewise, although she knew what Spencer did for work, she never asked for in-depth details on the cases he solved.

What he didn't know, was her song Espresso, which she had written 'just for fun' - it turned out to be a massive hit. Catapulting her into the spotlight.

So much so that even Penelope and JJ at work had heard her song. Which wasn't unusual, Penelope had played a few of her songs before. But, Espresso was being played on a continuous loop (which makes Spencer think Penelope had a fairly big hand in getting the song to the number 1 spot).

"JJ!" He heard Penelope call from her den, waving over the resident genius. "I got the special edition of Y/N's album! You need to hear this one!" She exclaimed, dragging her fellow blonde into the den.

When Spencer heard the intro to his current favourite song on her album (she has yet to play him the duet she was working on and was going absolutely crazy over whenever she came home), he couldn't help but smile a little on the inside.

"I'm so mature, collected and sensible, except when I'm hit with rejection. To turn me down, that's just unethical, I'll turn into someone you're scared to know," Spencer's girlfriend sings.

"But if you need my love, my clothes are off, I'm comin' over to your place! And if you don't need, my love, I didn't want your little bitch-ass anyway! Yeah, I'm a busy woman, I wouldn't let you come into my calendar any night. But if you want my kisses, I'll be your perfect Mrs. 'til the day that one of us dies," In the last line, Spencer couldn't help but smile to himself; after Maeve died, he never thought he would love again, but Y/N turned all that he thought on its head. As he could very easily see himself spending the rest of his life with her - if she wanted.

"Busy woman, all the time. Busy woman," Spencer couldn't help but sing it to himself under his breath. Which happened to catch the attention of Penelope.

Penelope made her way out of her den before Spencer could open the glass doors to the BAU. "Spencer Reid, you march yourself back here, right now," she demanded.

Spencer slowly turned around like he was an unsub and looked slightly wide-eyed between JJ and Penelope. "Morning," he greets.

Penelope wafts her hands to stop him from speaking any further. "How is it possible you know that sing? It was released this morning. More to the fact, you don't like pop music, you like classical music written by old dead white guys," she states.

JJ took a few steps closer. Analysing Spencer's face with her sharp eye. "Have you noticed how happy Spencer has been recently?" She questioned, which was answered by a sassy butter of "Thanks, JJ," from Spencer.

"Yeah, he has. And it has something to do with..."

Busted.

"Are you seeing one of the producers that worked on her album?" Penelope asked.

Maybe not...

"I wouldn't have thought producers could play songs to people not working on the album, Pen," JJ comments, turning around to look at the blonde.

Well, the cat is escaping from its bag. Might as well let it loose.

"It's not one of the producers I'm seeing..." he trails off, leaving them with that, wondering if the pair could possibly (easily) work it out.

Not two seconds later, just as he had set his bag down on his desk, Penelope came flying into the bullpen. "Oh my God!" She shrieked loudly, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

Emily had come rushing out of her office, hearing the commotion. "Penelope? What are you doing?"

Penelope was practically vibrating with excitement. "Spencer's got a girlfriend!" She loudly declared the poor man's face flushed bright red.

Tara couldn't contain the cheer as Matt clapped Spencer on the back. "Atta boy, Reid," he says.

"Who is it?" Emily asked, leaning over the railing and looked down into the bullpen she once occupied.

"The popstar Y/N! The one that did the song Espresso!" Penelope says, not giving Spencer a word in edgeways.

Tara raises an eyebrow at Spencer, wondering how it was possible he could have met the new global pop star who could possibly be in the running for a Grammy! "I met her in a coffee shop, her drink spilt on my shirt," he explains.

Penelope clasps her hands over her heart. "Oh my God, a meet-cute!" Spencer looks at Penelope, confused over the word.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[sweetbuckybarnes]

"Answer to Garfield or little fucker" - I LOVE IT!!

would you write something where Spencer finds reader's lost cat and brings it back to her then they keep in touch + they both develop a little crush on each other?

your writing is wonderful!! <3

-🪲

tags: fluff fluff fluff but there's making out (?) idk if that counts as anything; also lots of cursing lowkey; reader is lowk penelope garcia coded

w/c: 1.8k

a/n: tysm for the req that's an adorable idea unfortunately not such great execution from my part also I wrote this in like an hour I'm so exhausted I should go to sleep but whatever I also don't know if this what you meant anon I'm sorry if it's not 😭 yeah I hate this sorry idk what to say it sucks

MISSING CAT

orange, green eyed, really chubby cat, last seen at ~3:30pm on november 9th. he will answer to garfield or little fucker; most likely the latter, despite that not being his name. he's very clingy, he’ll probably come up to you and start rubbing on your leg like the little freak he is but he's actually just a baby who needs his mom (me) so please call this number if you find him.

reward: $10 and a kiss maybe if you’re nice enough

spencer chuckled when he reached the end of the text and saw the adorable picture of a ginger fat cat. he read over the number on the poster, making sure to keep it stored in a folder at the back of his head along with the image of garfield as he returned to his walk.

not even an hour later, when walking past a not-so-nice smelling trash can, he heard some loud purring coming from one of the boxes surrounding it.

if it were any other day, he would have ignored it, guessing it's just another stray cat, but he was still thinking about garfield and his seemingly interesting owner.

“garfield…?” spencer called out from afar. silence. he took a few steps closer, trying to peek over the box while keeping his distance so as to avoid getting jumped at and attacked. “little… fucker…?” he choked over the nickname.

immediately, the animal that had been in his mind since seeing his picture jumped out of the box, purring louder as he started rubbing on spencer’s legs. he chuckled despite being scared.

garfield wasn't nearly as well kept then as he was in the picture, due to the days he had been on the streets. still chubby, but dirty and with a few patches of dried blood in his fur. spencer tried to move away, seeing his pants getting smudged, but the cat just started following him.

spencer pulled out his phone and started dialing the number seen on the poster, still trying to avoid the animal. after a few rings, you picked up.

“hello?...”

“hi, is this garfield’s, uh… owner?”

“yeah, why? have you found him...?”

“i think i did, yeah.”

“oh my god, wait, actually? is he okay? are you serious?” you mumbled excitedly, sitting up from the position you were comfortably lying in, the show on your tv already forgotten.

“i am serious, yeah. i'm just out on a walk, and, uh… he was in a box near a trash can. he's all dirty and bloody, but he seems okay.”

“my poor baby” you said with a pout “where are you? wait– who are you? who do i owe my son’s life to? my savior, my hero?”

“oh, i’m just… just spencer, really.” he said with an awkward chuckle, giving in and leaning down to caress the cat, who immediately leans into his hands as if he's never been pet before, “spencer reid.”

“mm, cool. anyway, where are you? i’m going to pick him up. tell him mommy’s coming. actually maybe don't. don't refer to me as mommy, please.”

“uh, well, i wouldn't mind dropping him off at your place, if you want.”

“i thought you were on a walk? you're gonna walk all the way to my apartment with that fucker in your arms?”

“yeah, so… yeah, actually. does he… is he fine with being carried?”

“oh, totally, he loves uppies, but it's–”

“sorry, what? uppies??” he cut you off, confusion and disbelief clear in his voice.

“yeah…? uppies… like… when you carry an animal? in your arms?...” a bleach and tone, like???

“oh, okay…”

“yeah, so, he loves uppies. but it's just inconvenient, no? carrying him like that? where even are you, dude? is it not far?”

after you tell him your address, spencer decided it's close enough to walk there with an overweight cat in his arms. however, when he took forty minutes to show up at your door, panting and sweaty, you realized that probably wasn't a good idea.

“jesus, man, you could've just said you can't walk that long with this fucker.” you said as you opened the door, letting him in and taking the cat in your arms, talking to him in that tiny, baby voice. “oh my god, my baby, thank you so much. you poor thing. where were you, sweetheart? i missed you so so so much…”

spencer stood awkwardly in the doorway, wiping away the dirt that the animal left in his shirt, as you kept mumbling to him.

it must have been around another half hour before you set him down on the ground again, but when you did so, you looked at spencer and gasped, “oh, where are my manners? i'm so sorry, i forgot you were there. come in, jesus, come on in.”

he walked in, and after offering him a glass of water, you led him to sit on the couch. settling awkwardly beside you, he said “so, uh… is he alright? hurt..?”

“no, he's okay. i mean, as far as i can tell. not a vet, or anything. i don't think the blood is his… although that doesn't make it any less worrying. i'll give his vet a call. maybe stop by the clinic. yeah, i should probably stop by the clinic, shouldn't i?”

“yeah, probably. does he have all his vaccines?”

“of course.”

“still, there's a chance he would have caught a disease or eaten something that could have been infected. it's always good to make sure.”

“yeah, i know. i’ll give them a call, see if they can see us today.” you said, to which spencer replied with a nod, the two of you falling silent for a moment. “oh, right, the reward.”

you stood up and walked to the table, taking your wallet and a $10 bill from it. “there's no need, really… it's okay. don't worry about it” he argued, shaking his head when you offered him the money.

“no, oh my god, no, this is the least i can do. you walked so far, with that little heavy fucker. please, just take this. actually, you deserve more. i can barely handle to hold him for more than a few minutes, i'm not sure how you–” you look him up and down “–managed to walk with him for so long. just take the money.” you mumble, taking another bill from your wallet and handing it to him.

"no, no, really, it's fine, i swear."

"no, stop it. you're not leaving until you take this money."

he took it with a scoff, seeing how you won't take no for an answer.

“i should give you the other part of the reward, too.” you said with a chuckle as you sat back down beside him.

“what, the kiss?” he stammered, shaking his head as his face goes red and his eyes widened slightly.

“yeah, you want it?” he started stuttering when you said that, so before he got a proper word out, you added “nah, man, i'm just joking. i put that there to be funny, i'd never kiss a stranger like that.”

“oh, yeah, that… that makes sense.” he laughed shyly, nodding.

the cat showed up again, and you went back to talking about him, until spencer decided it's time to go home, which was only around a few hours later.

now, you're not sure when that turned into what it is now, but you're glad it did.

maybe it was the day after that, when you took garfield to the groomers, and sent spencer a picture of him when he got home, wearing the cute tie they always give him.

maybe it was when you started sending every picture you took of garfield to spencer.

or maybe it was when you started talking about things unrelated to the animal.

you're not sure. but now, spencer reid is at your place again, wearing a colorful hat and singing happy birthday to your cat.

of course, he's the only other person at the party. he's the only friend you were certain would show up. and that he did, after rambling about how the cat didn’t even know it was his birthday.

“woo hoo!! happy birthday, baby!” you exclaim when the song is over, taking the cat in your arms and giving him kisses.

“yay, happy birthday, garfield!” he says with a chuckle, petting him.

as soon as he starts getting fussy, though, you put him back down on the ground with a giggle, “yeah, yeah, off you go.”

“i did tell you he doesn't know the date he was born in.”

“well, yeah, but at least he's getting plenty of treats.” you shrug as you throw yourself on the sofa along with spencer, taking off the birthday hats and tossing them to the side. “he knows he's loved.”

“i'm sure he does” he mumbles, smiling at you softly.

“thanks, by the way” you mutter after a beat, turning to him and giving him a nod.

“for what?”

“finding him.”

“that was ages ago, you've thanked me 63 times since then.” he says with a laugh.

“it's not enough, though. he's a stupid little cat, i doubt he would have survived more time out there. you saved his life, probably.”

he nods, staying quiet for another moment.

“y'know, there is one way you could thank me.”

“yeah…?” you already know what he's talking about, he already knows that you already know. the blush in his cheeks that showed up as he said that, his fidgety fingers, the way he started avoiding your gaze.

“the, uhm… the other part of the reward…”

you'd tease him, make him actually say it, if it weren't for how anxious he looks. it physically hurts, how awkward he is.

so instead, you move your hands to his shoulders as you lean in to press your lips to his. for a second, you're scared this isn't what he was talking about. you're wondering if you've just screwed up a friendship, until he moves a shy hand up to your face.

he feels scared, at first. he holds your jaw, fingers gently tangling in your hair as he hesitantly kisses you. but when a moment goes by like that, and you move to sit on his lap, straddling his hips, it's like something within him changes.

he starts kissing you like you're the first and last thing he'll ever touch, his hands roaming down your body as he slides his tongue into your mouth. he bites and sucks at your bottom lip while his arms wrap around your waist, and your own arms go around his neck.

but a man can't live only off of his beloved’s lips. unfortunately, humans do need oxygen. so when he needs to pull away to breathe, he does so with a groan.

panting, you stare at each other with a smile, and pressing one quick peck to his lips, you whisper, “thank you.”

"no, thank you.”

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Precious cagey Spence! My girl's done it again!

hi! love your fics so much <3 i was wondering what do you think of sunshine!reader and post-prison spencer... like that man is so wary about everything after what he'd been through and sunshine!reader was just being the goodness incarnate, breaking down his walls one by one 🙏🏻

sunshine — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: spencer having a cut on his forehead , mention of spencer having nightmares , mention of germophobia a/n: hiii !! this made me realize how much i love writing sunshine!reader x postprison!spencer <3 hope you like this

Spencer’s gaze lingered on you as you laughed with Penelope, your bright energy filling the room like a warm sunrise. The corners of his mouth twitched—just barely—but as soon as he felt it, he forced himself to look away, focusing on the coffee he was pouring.

But then, like clockwork, you shattered through them. 

“Spencer!” Your voice was light, cheerful as you entered the breakroom. “Hi! Good morning! I haven’t seen you all day.” 

You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing against his in an innocent touch, but one that sent a ripple of warmth through him. He straightened slightly, tightening his grip on the coffee cup.

“Morning,” he murmured. “Yeah, I woke up a little late today.” 

What he didn’t say—what he never really said—was that the nightmares had stolen his sleep again, twisting through his mind until exhaustion finally won out, making him oversleep. 

You tilted your head. “You know, my alarm clock is pretty amazing. Hasn’t failed me once,” you said, watching him take a sip of coffee. Then, almost as an afterthought, you mumbled, “Except maybe once or twice…” 

A sheepish grin spread across your lips before you perked up again. “But I can totally give you the brand name! You should definitely get one.” 

Spencer looked at you, really looked at you. The way you stood there, all warmth and light, as if the world hadn’t touched you with the same cruelty it had touched him. A part of him wanted to let that warmth in—just a little. 

Instead, he gave you a small, wary smile. “No, it’s fine… but thank you.” You flashed him a bright smile.

“Okay,” you said simply, turning to grab a cup and start making your own coffee. 

Spencer lingered for a moment, watching as you hummed softly to yourself, completely absorbed in your task.

He exhaled quietly, forcing himself to turn away. But as he reached the doorway, something pulled at him.

So he glanced back. 

Just for a second. 

You, still oblivious, stirred your coffee, completely unaware of the way his gaze softened—just barely—before he shook his head at himself and disappeared down the hall. 

He wasn’t sure why he looked back. Maybe that was the part that scared him the most. 

That wasn’t the first time moments like this had happened. 

Like that one evening on the jet. 

The case had been brutal. He sat in his usual spot, silent, lost in thought. 

And then there was you. 

Sliding into the seat next to him, your knee brushed against his, a casual, fleeting touch that sent a ripple of awareness through him. You didn’t pry or push—you never did.

You simply pulled a small Sudoku book from your bag and flipped it open. A quiet invitation. 

Spencer wasn’t sure why he kept sneaking glances at you as you worked through the puzzle, pencil tapping idly against the page. Maybe it was the way your lips quirked in concentration, or how you absentmindedly twirled the pencil between your fingers when you were thinking. 

You were stuck—long enough that he finally caved. 

“Four,” he murmured, tapping his finger lightly against the empty square, his arm brushing against yours in the process. 

Your head snapped up, eyes meeting his, and then came that smile—the one that made something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

“Thanks,” you said. For some reason, that made him feel lighter. You bit your lip surpressing an even bigger smile at the realization that your plan was working.

At some point, you shifted the book between the two of you, an unspoken offer to let him join in. He could have filled out the entire page in seconds—he already had the answers mapped out in his head—but he waited, watching you work through each number, patient in a way he rarely was. 

And when he saw it—that telltale little pout, the way your lips puckered just slightly when you were stumped. 

Without a word, he would lean in again, pencil grazing the page. 

“Seven,” he murmured. 

Your smile was even brighter this time. You always had a way of brightening his day, even when he least expected it. 

Some mornings, Spencer woke up convinced that smiling was out of the question. And yet, somehow, you always managed to prove him wrong. 

Like today. 

He stepped into the bullpen, his eyes catching Emily and JJ standing by a small pink bakery box, happily grabbing donuts from inside. By the time he walked closer, the box was already half-empty. 

Typical. 

Spencer barely had time to process his disappointment before your voice chimed in from behind him. 

“Spencer!” 

He turned just as you appeared, a small box in your hands. Without hesitation, you pressed it into his. 

“Here.” 

He blinked down at it, fingers curling around the edges. “Hi. What’s this?” 

“Open it,” you urged, practically bouncing on your feet. 

Lifting the lid, he found a single chocolate-sprinkled donut inside. His favorite. 

“I knew the team would finish them all,” you said, nodding toward JJ, who—right on cue—grabbed another donut with a sheepish grin. “So I thought I’d get you one in a separate box.” 

You smiled, and Spencer found himself just… staring. 

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” he said softly, offering a small but genuine smile before taking a bite. 

You and he both knew why you’d gone out of your way to do this. It wasn’t just because he was often late these days, dragging himself in after nights spent wrestling with his own mind. It wasn’t just because the team had a tendency to wipe out the treats before he even got a chance. 

It was because you’d noticed. 

Noticed the way he hesitated before grabbing food that others had already touched. Noticed that, despite his insistence that prison had forced him to overcome his germophobia, old habits still lingered. 

But neither of you said anything about it. 

Instead, you just smiled at each other before heading to your desks, like this was normal—like it wasn’t something small and kind and significant. 

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Spencer started to believe that kindness didn’t always come with a catch. 

That's when things started to shift.

One morning, as you were settling in at your desk, a cup appeared in your line of sight. 

You blinked, looking up—only to find Spencer standing there, his expression unreadable but his gesture speaking louder than words. 

“Oh.” A flicker of surprise crossed your face before it melted into a bright smile. “Thank you.” 

You took the cup carefully, warmth seeping into your palms, trying to pretend like this wasn’t a big deal. Like your heart hadn’t skipped a little at the thought of Spencer Reid going out of his way for you. 

Spencer shifted slightly on his feet, glancing away as if regretting the decision to linger. “I, um… You always bring everyone else coffee. Thought I’d return the favor.” 

Your fingers curled around the cup a little tighter. 

“Oh, so you do notice,” you teased lightly, taking a sip. It was exactly how you liked it. Of course it was—Spencer noticed everything. 

He gave a small, almost imperceptible huff of amusement, shaking his head. “I notice a lot of things.” 

Something in the way he said it made your stomach flip. 

But before you could respond, he cleared his throat and tapped the file on your desk. “We have a briefing in five minutes.” 

And just like that, he was walking away, as if this was nothing. As if he hadn’t just let his walls slip, even for a second. 

You watched him go, a knowing smile playing on your lips. 

Little by little, he was letting you in. 

And he probably didn’t even realize it yet. 

The next instances were small, almost imperceptible, but to anyone paying attention, it was clear Spencer was letting his walls down bit by bit.

He’d consistently choose the seat next to you in the bullpen, even if there were other open spots. He’d find himself working alongside you—no matter what the task was.

And it wasn’t just in the office. Spencer’s schedule seemed to align with yours more often than not. He’d find himself finishing up work at the same time as you and walking out alongside you.

The way he would stand near your desk, leaning in just a bit to hear your voice, was becoming something he almost looked forward to. 

There was no grand moment of confession, no flashing neon sign that screamed, Spencer is letting you in, but it was happening in little gestures, in the softening of his gaze when he looked at you.

Maybe he wasn’t fully aware of it, or maybe he was too guarded to admit it, but it was happening, and that was enough for you. 

But one particular day, the usual rhythm shifted. The case they’d been working on had taken its toll on everyone, but Spencer had been especially distant.

No one had missed the way he’d brushed off the slight injury to his forehead, a thin cut from the struggle during the case.

It was barely noticeable at first, but under the harsh lighting of the bullpen, it was impossible to ignore. 

“Spencer.” Your voice was soft but firm. He turned slowly, his expression unreadable, but you could see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. 

You were already reaching into the drawer of your desk, fingers brushing over the familiar cool metal of your first aid kit.

It was instinct, really—an automatic response to someone else’s pain. 

“Come here,” you said, motioning toward the chair beside your desk. Your smile was warm and reassuring.

“I’m fine.” His voice was quiet, dismissive. A reflex, more than anything. 

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Spencer Reid,” you said gently, and something about the way you spoke his name made his resolve waver. “You’re not fine. Come here.” 

For a moment, he didn’t move. You saw the conflict flicker across his features, the instinct to withdraw battling against something else—something softer, something that looked a lot like longing. 

Then, with a quiet exhale, he relented. 

You resisted the urge to let out a relieved sigh as he sat down, watching as he brushed his hair back from his face.

“You should’ve taken care of this before we got on the jet,” you murmured, pulling out disinfectant and a clean cotton pad. Your hands worked steadily, but your heart was another matter entirely.

It always seemed to race when he was close like this. 

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh, though there was little humor in it. “There were more important things to worry about.” 

You frowned. “That doesn’t mean you don’t get to take care of yourself.” 

He didn’t respond, but you could feel his eyes on you as you stepped closer, standing between his legs without thinking twice about it. It wasn’t until your fingers tilted his chin gently upward that you realized how close you were. 

Your breath hitched. 

Spencer, for his part, remained still. If he was aware of the proximity, he didn’t say anything. But you saw the way his lips parted slightly, how his gaze flickered from your hands to your face like he was memorizing the details of the moment. 

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. 

“This might sting,” you warned softly. 

He gave a small nod, but his eyes never left yours. 

The moment the antiseptic touched his skin, he barely reacted. But you felt the sharp intake of his breath, saw the slight twitch of his fingers where they rested on his lap. 

“You’re really bad at this whole ‘letting people take care of you’ thing, you know that?” you said, attempting to lighten the air between you. 

Spencer exhaled a small chuckle, and the sound made your chest feel warm. 

“I’m aware.” 

You smiled despite yourself, shaking your head as you pressed a bandage carefully over the cut. “Yeah, well. Lucky for you, I’m stubborn.” 

Something flickered in his eyes—something almost too vulnerable to name. 

“I’ve noticed,” he murmured. 

Your fingers lingered against his skin for just a second too long before you forced yourself to take a step back, clearing your throat. 

“There,” you said, suddenly feeling breathless. “Good as new.” 

Spencer didn’t move right away. He just sat there, watching you in a way that made your stomach twist into knots. 

Then, finally, he spoke. “Thank you.” 

You nodded, offering him a small smile. “Anytime.” 

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, Spencer did something that surprised you. 

He stood up and reached out, hesitating only for a second before his fingers wrapped around your wrist. The contact was fleeting—just enough to make your breath catch—but then, in a single motion, he pulled you forward. 

Before you could fully process it, you found yourself wrapped in his arms. 

Spencer was hugging you. 

It wasn’t a quick, polite embrace. It was full-bodied, desperate in a way that made your heart ache. His arms tightened around you as if he was afraid you might slip away, and when you felt his lips rest against your shoulder, you thought you might actually break. 

You exhaled shakily, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around him in return. You felt the tension in his frame, the way he held onto you like he didn’t want to let go. 

One of your hands moved up, fingers threading softly through his hair in a soothing motion. You felt him exhale against your skin, the tension in his shoulders melting little by little as he leaned into your touch. 

When he finally pulled away, it was slow—like he wasn’t entirely ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt.

His eyes, usually guarded, were soft in a way you rarely got to see. 

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at the sight of it. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” you interrupted gently. “Not for that.” 

He blinked at you, something unreadable passing through his gaze. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just nodded. 

And then, to your surprise, he lifted a hand, hesitating for only a moment before brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was barely there, fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine. 

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of just how close you still were. 

“I should probably—” Spencer started, but he didn’t move, his eyes locked onto yours. 

“Yeah,” you whispered, but you didn’t move either. 

Neither of you did. 

Not yet. 

And in that moment, you knew. 

The walls he’d spent so long building were finally beginning to come down. 

[sweetbuckybarnes]

hi lovely,

i hope you enjoyed your birthday :D

i’ve had this idea for a while but i don’t think i’ll personally be able to write it so i thought you possibly could, it’s where spence and reader sit on the same seats on the jet every time they fly and it’s always next to each other, and reader is on his left. the whole team knows about their relationship and they think it’s really cute. the thing is, both spencer and reader are left handed so they can never hold hands under the table if they need to write on their files, because of this, spencer learns to be ambidextrous so he can write with his right hand and hold reader’s right hand with his left simultaneously. i’ve always found this really cute but i never knew if it would work.

again i hope you enjoyed your birthday :) thank you so so much for everything you’ve done for me and everyone else, you’re a star !!

- 🐚

ambidextrous — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing ! a/n: hiii !! thank you so so much !! this is such a sweet idea and soooo spencer <3 i love it and i hope you like this <3

Every time you boarded the jet, you always sat in the same seats—Spencer on the right, you on the left. You and Spencer didn’t even need to discuss it. It was simply tradition.

At first, the team had noticed. They'd raised their eyebrows, made a few teasing comments, but over time, it had become a familiar scene.

Now, it was just the way things were.

No one ever mentioned it anymore—there was no need. A glance, a small, almost imperceptible smile from the others when they saw the two of you settled in your spots was enough.

Yet, there was one small problem.

You were both left-handed.

It wasn’t a big issue, not really. It was just one of those small quirks of life that made the otherwise easygoing routine of the jet slightly…awkward at times.

It first became apparent the time you tried to hold Spencer's hand during a flight. You’d been reading through your notes for the case when you found yourself glancing at him. You’d reached out absentmindedly, your fingers brushing against his. He froze for a second, looking down at your hand before lifting his gaze to meet yours.

"Just need to finish this," he’d murmured, offering you an apologetic smile of his.

You’d nodded, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Oh, right. Sorry,” you’d muttered, settling back into your seat with a soft sigh.

The problem, however, became more noticeable the more time you spent together on the jet. When you’d be deep in thought, scribbling down notes, you’d often catch him doing the same.

But then, you’d both hesitate, realizing what was happening at the same time.

“Oh, sorry, just—” You’d start, only for him to quickly reassure you with a quiet, “It's fine. I'll wait until you're done.”

At first, you didn’t realize what he was doing. You started catching little things—him writing slowly with his right hand while reading something, small scribbles in the margins of his notebook in a shaky, uncertain print.

You thought maybe he was just testing something out, or maybe he was bored.

But then one day, Spencer casually reached over with his left hand and took your right one, lacing your fingers together under the table.

Your heart fluttered, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips.“You don’t have to stop writing just because of me,” you whispered, keeping your voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

“I’m not.”

You blinked, glancing down at the open file in front of him.

Sure enough, Spencer was still writing.

With his right hand.

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“Since when do you write with your right hand?” Spencer’s lips twitched.

“Since I realized I couldn’t hold your hand if I didn’t.”

Your breath hitched.It took you a second to process what he had just said. “You learned to be ambidextrous? Just so you could—”

You broke off, warmth spreading through your chest so fast it almost made you dizzy. He had changed something about himself—something as basic and fundamental as the way he wrote—just so he could hold your hand.

Spencer flushed slightly but held your gaze. “I mean, it’s not perfect yet,” he admitted, glancing at his writing. “My handwriting is kind of terrible like this, but I figured with enough practice…”

With a smile, you squeezed his hand tightly.

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” you mumbled, your voice thick with emotion.

Spencer’s shy smile widened, and he squeezed your hand back just a little tighter.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

I really shouldn't be smiling this much at work, but this is so sweet!!!

birthday — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you show up at spencer's door, ready to celebrate his 30th birthday, which he thought everyone forgot about content warnings: best friends who are in love with each other , literally just pure fluff, tiny mention of spencer saying he hasn't eaten dinner yet , reader is sort of bubbly ! , a/n: hiii !!! i was scrolling through tumblr and saw the gif of spencer celebrating his birthday and then felt inspired to write this !! <3 i hope you all like this :)

You let out a loud sigh as you reached the top of the building, breathing heavily. Why did Spencer have to live on the top floor? You thought to yourself, momentarily pausing to set the bag down and catch your breath.

You glanced down at the bag you were holding, checking to make sure everything inside was intact. You had spent hours preparing this surprise for Spencer, and you didn’t want anything to go wrong. 

Taking a deep breath, you picked the bag back up and walked the few remaining steps to his door. You knocked twice—long, deliberate raps—and then a quick one, the pattern you'd always used when it was just you and Spencer.

It was your little code.

You'd requested the day off from Hotch, making up some excuse about needing a mental break, but in reality, it was because you had something special planned for Spencer.

Moments later, you heard the familiar sound of footsteps approaching the door, and then, there he was.

Spencer opened it, his usual surprise at seeing you evident, but something seemed a little off.

You greeted him with your usual cheerful grin, “Hellooo!” 

Spencer’s smile was there, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hi... What are you doing here?” He brushed his hair out of his face.

You grinned wider, trying to lighten the mood. “Celebrating your birthday, silly!” you teased, as you stepped closer. You slipped your arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “Happy birthday.” 

At first, Spencer stiffened in your embrace, his body unmoving.

He had been confused earlier when he’d seen you had taken the day off. More than confused, he was hurt. He had hoped, that at least you would remember his birthday.

Because, everyone else hadn't.

As you held him, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, you could feel his body slowly warming up against yours. His hands, at first unsure, finally found their place around your waist, pulling you in closer. It was an awkward hug, with your right hand still holding the bag, but you didn’t mind.

For a moment, you both just stood there, until you felt his hands slowly loosen around you. You leaned back, resting your hand gently on his cheek, your thumb brushing over the soft skin of his cheekbone. 

“You’re an old man now,” you chuckled softly, teasing him lightly, and then letting your hand fall from his face, still smiling. You playfully poked him in the ribs, hoping to draw a smile from him. 

Spencer’s lips quirked just a little at the teasing. He glanced down at the bag you were holding, and then back at you, curious. 

You tilted your head with a grin, raising an eyebrow. “You going to invite me in?” 

Spencer finally stepped aside, motioning for you to come in, a faint, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Of course,” he said quietly, his voice a bit softer now. “Come on in.” 

You stepped into Spencer’s apartment, kicking off your shoes by the door. “I hope you haven’t eaten dinner yet,” you said, already heading toward the kitchen with the bag in hand.

You’d been here so many times that you didn’t even have to think about where anything was anymore.

It felt like home in a way.

Spencer followed behind you, still processing the fact that you remembered his birthday. There was a quiet confusion in his eyes.

“No, I haven’t yet,” he replied, watching you with a bit of hesitation. 

As you set the bag on the counter, you mumbled quietly under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, “I hope they’re still okay.” 

Spencer’s curiosity piqued, and he leaned forward slightly. “What is?” 

You didn’t immediately answer. Instead, you began pulling out items from the bag, setting them down on the counter one by one. First, chocolate donuts, then chocolate chip cookies, and finally, some fresh muffins. Spencer’s eyes widened as he took in the spread. 

“Do you know how hard it was to not eat these on the way here?” you said, half-laughing, half-complaining. You smiled up at him, the excitement of the day bubbling out in every word. 

Spencer still didn’t say anything, though he continued to watch you intently. You, on the other hand, had been so excited for this moment that you just couldn’t stop talking. 

“The guy at the counter was so rude,” you continued, shaking your head as you opened the box of donuts. “He kept huffing and puffing every time I told him what I wanted. Honestly, I don’t know what his problem was.” 

You handed Spencer a donut, watching him take it silently. “I was perfectly nice to him, too. I think,” you added, pausing to reflect. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly smiling,” you muttered, “but I had been searching for your gift all day. I was absolutely exhausted.” 

You looked over at him now, your smile widening as you leaned against the counter. 

“My gift?” Spencer asked, his voice slightly confused.

“Yes,” you said, your tone playful as you tilted your head, as if the answer should have been obvious. “You know how on birthdays you usually receive gifts?” 

Spencer shook his head, a grin finally spreading across his face as he took a bite of the donut. “Yeah, I know,” he said, the happiness in his eyes undeniable. 

You watched him eagerly, a smile tugging at your lips. “Good?” you asked, your voice light with amusement. 

“Perfect,” he replied, his eyes softening as he swallowed. He paused for a moment, his expression shifting as the smile faded into something more sincere.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, a beat of silence passing between you. 

Your heart fluttered as you smiled at him. You shook your head, brushing aside the compliment.

“Don’t thank me,” you replied, your voice gentle. “I’m sorry for not being at work today.” You glanced at the clock on his kitchen wall. “I was just trying to get everything ready on time.” You paused, offering him a soft smile. “And I did.” 

“I know you like to watch Doctor Who at 7 p.m.,” you continued, your grin widening. “So I thought you should at least get to open your gift and have some food before then.” 

Spencer was quiet for a moment, his gaze locked onto yours. His heart seemed to skip a beat as he stared at you, breathless, like your words had left him momentarily speechless. 

Without warning, he lowered the donut and stepped toward you. The sudden closeness caught you off guard, but before you could react, he engulfed you in a tight hug. His arms wrapped around your waist as his face buried into your shoulder.

The suddenness of the embrace made your breath catch, but you relaxed into it, your hands instinctively finding their way to his back. 

“Thank you,” he whispered again into your hair, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. You smiled softly.

Without thinking, your hands gently moved to his hair, the same comforting habit that had developed between the two of you over time.

You remembered the first time you had done it—how he’d stiffened at the touch, his face turning bright red when you’d leaned back to look at him. You’d teased him playfully, but in the end, he had admitted that he liked it. And ever since then, you found yourself doing it without a second thought. 

His grip on you tightened, and you felt a surge of tenderness wash over you.

Then, as if to reassure you, Spencer pulled back slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. His hands lingered on your shoulders.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing.  

“You should open your gift,” you said, nodding toward the bag on the counter. Your words were light, but there was a slight nervousness behind them.

Spencer’s hands slowly dropped from your shoulders, and he turned to the bag, carefully opening it. He started pulling out the wrapped gifts, one after another, each one more awkwardly wrapped than the last.

You couldn’t help but shrug your shoulders with a small, embarrassed smile. 

“I gave it my best shot,” you muttered, pointing at the lopsided, crumpled paper and the hastily taped corners of the packages.

You tried to mask your discomfort with a laugh, but Spencer's gaze softened as he glanced at you.

With a loving, almost amused look, Spencer reached for one of the smaller gifts. He carefully untaped the edges and pulled it open, revealing mismatched socks. Each one was unique, some with strange patterns, others with quirky designs.

One sock had the Star Trek symbol, another had Doctor Who references, one was Halloween-themed, and the last one had books printed all over it.

"All mismatched," you said nervously, but there was pride in your voice. “The Star Trek one… that one took me ages to track down,” you added, pointing at the sock with the iconic symbol. 

Spencer couldn’t help but smile, glancing from the socks back to you. “Feel how soft it is,” you encouraged, still a little anxious but excited to show him the thought you’d put into it. 

Spencer did as you suggested, rubbing his fingers along the material, and he looked up at you, his expression brightening with genuine appreciation. “This is really nice,” he said softly, his voice filled with admiration. He looked at the socks again, and you could see the happiness behind his eyes.

You smiled, watching him as he took in the gift. “I thought they were fun,” you said with a playful grin.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and full of gratitude. "I love them," he said, shaking his head with a soft laugh. 

“Open the next one!” you urged excitedly, practically bouncing on your heels as you pointed at the second gift. 

Spencer chuckled at your enthusiasm and carefully tore the wrapping paper apart, letting it fall onto the counter. His hands stilled when he saw what was inside—a navy blue candle. He lifted it out of the box, his fingers tracing the smooth glass. 

“It’s supposed to smell like libraries and books,” you explained, grinning. 

Spencer immediately brought it to his nose. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment before he exhaled, a small, content smile forming on his lips. “It really does,” he murmured, sounding almost in awe. “This is amazing.” 

Also tucked inside the wrapping were new knitting needles and a bundle of deep red yarn. Spencer’s eyes lit up as he gently pulled them from the box. 

“You told me you were going to that Doctor Who convention in a couple of weeks, so I thought you could use these,” you said, watching his reaction closely. 

His head snapped up, his face beaming. “Yes! Yes, I wanted to knit the Fourth Doctor’s scarf!” His grip tightened around the needles and twine, a spark of pure excitement shining in his eyes. “This is the perfect color.” 

You let out a relieved sigh at his words, your smile widening. Seeing him so happy made all the effort worth it. 

“Okay, last one!” you clapped your hands together, your excitement peaking. This was the gift you were the most proud of—the one you had spent the most time on. 

Spencer set the knitting supplies aside carefully before reaching for the final gift. He unwrapped it quickly, revealing a small notebook with a simple but elegant cover. He flipped it open, and as his eyes scanned the pages, his entire body seemed to still. 

Inside, the pages were filled with your handwriting. Some contained quotes—ones he had mentioned in passing, ones he had shared with you before, ones you knew he loved. Others had fun facts, little puzzles (which you knew he’d solve in mere seconds, but still), and inside jokes scribbled along the margins. But what stood out the most were the pages filled with descriptions of your favorite memories with him. 

Spencer was speechless. 

His ability to read at lightning speed meant he was able to skim through much of it quickly, his eyes flickering across the words. But even though he could read the entire thing in minutes, he didn’t. Instead, he slowed down. He flipped back to the first page, going through it with real intent now. 

You stood there impatiently, watching him, waiting for his reaction. You had spent weeks working on this, carefully picking what to include.

Each page was scattered with stickers, each one tied to a specific memory.

One page had a small sticker of a horse. You bit your lip to hold back a laugh, remembering why you had put it there. It was from that case you had worked together on a farm—when Spencer hadn’t realized a horse was standing right behind him. When it nudged his shoulder, he had jumped nearly a foot in the air. You had laughed about it for ages. Spencer had let you, despite his embarrassment, because he secretly loved hearing you laugh. 

Another page had a small rainbow sticker. That one was for the night you had walked back from Penelope’s Halloween party together.

It had started raining just as the sun peeked through the clouds, creating a perfect, vivid rainbow in the sky. You had gasped in excitement, pointing at it, taking in the beauty of the moment.

But Spencer… he had been staring at you. You hadn’t noticed at the time, too caught up in the sight before you, but in that moment, he hadn’t cared about the rainbow at all. He had been memorizing the way your eyes lit up, the way you looked when you were truly happy. 

Spencer continued flipping through the notebook, his fingers brushing over the pages, over the words you had written just for him. His lips parted slightly, his breath a little uneven, his emotions evident in the way his hands trembled slightly as he held the book. 

Finally, after a long, stretched-out silence, he looked up at you. His eyes were glassy, his expression unreadable at first, like he was struggling to find the right words. 

“You…” His voice faltered for a second before he swallowed thickly and tried again. “You made all of this for me?” 

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little nervous under his intense gaze. “Yeah. I—I wanted to make something special,” you admitted, brushing hair out of your face nervously. “Something that—” You hesitated, feeling vulnerable now. “Something that reminds you of how much you mean to me.” 

Spencer blinked, his jaw tightening slightly as if he were trying to keep his emotions in check. Then, without saying a word, he set the notebook down and took a step toward you. And then another. 

Before you could react, he pulled you into another hug—this one different from the last. It wasn’t hesitant or brief.

It was firm, filled with love and adoration. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. 

You felt his breath hitch slightly against your skin. 

“I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “This is… this is the best gift anyone’s ever given me.” 

Your heart clenched at his words, and you exhaled softly, wrapping your arms around him in return. “You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you held him just as tightly. “Just… happy birthday, Spence.” 

Spencer didn’t let go. And honestly, you didn’t want him to.