#‘how is it related to hotch?’ who knows

[spidercatweb]

Your Embrace and My Collapse ★ Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: fem!bau!reader, migraine!reid, angst, hurt/comfort, tiny bit of fluff at the end, established relationship, Spencer is snippy and a little mean but it's because of migraine, Spencer yells at reader, reader is sad for a bit, non-specific case details, mentions of women being murdered, a hint of misogyny from a suspect, one single swear word, umm nothing else I don't think? lmk if so. this is set in s6 :)

Description: Spencer has a migraine, he yells at r when it gets too overwhelming, he regrets this later, calling to apologize.

Word Count: 3.1k

Request: Hi! First off I loveee your blog!! Second off could I get a spencer reid x fem!reader where they r having an argument about literally anything and then a lot of spencer groveling? thanks for considering

A/n: thank you sm for the request, anon!! I am just now realizing that what happens in this isnt much of an argument 😬, but i quite like how it turned out. I hope you enjoy!! <3 Is it obvious i got carried away w this one?

After four years of working with Spencer, and nearly two years of dating him, it wasn't surprising that you were the first to notice that something was wrong. 

The past few days, Spencer hadn't gone on as many long rambles as usual. Maybe he was just tired this week, cases have been very time consuming lately. Not that they usually aren't.

You figured out what was wrong when you saw him squeeze his eyes shut and rub them with the base of his palms. Three times in an hour. Unusual. 

After the team finished delivering the profile for the current case, you took a moment to pull him aside. 

"Are you feeling okay?" Concern in your voice, you reached gently for his hand. 

He pulled away. "Yeah, I'm fine." His face scrunched up, he shut his eyes tightly and his nose crinkled up. You'd find it cute if it wasn't obvious he was in pain. He pressed into the bridge of his nose with two fingers,clearly trying to ease a headache.

"Okay," you gave him a small smile and nod, "let me know if you need anything, I've got Advil in my bag." 

"I know, thank you." He made an effort to return your smile.

"Reid, Y/l/n, we've got a lead. Garcia's about to fill everyone in." Hotch's commanding voice cut through the calm, quiet bubble around the two of you. 

The team filed into the briefing room of the BAU. Thankfully, the case was local. You were glad to be in a familiar place. 

Garcia was already seated at the small round table, tapping away on her laptop. You sat down next to Spencer, Prentiss sat on your other side.

"Lovelies, we have a small problem. I've found two men who almost exactly fit our profile."

"We'll bring both of them in for questioning, then. What do we know about them, Garcia?" Hotch directs the attention back to her.

"I was just about to tell you that, sir. First up, we've got Landon Adams, 27 years old. His childhood was... less than nice. Plenty of trips to the hospital, poor thing. Lots of injuries consistent with abuse. And I'm assuming everything going on at home was related to the multiple reports of violence towards his fellow students at school. Multiple suspensions, and he was expelled from his highschool." She takes a quick moment to switch the information on her screen.

"Second guy, Cole Parker, 29 years old. Similar childhood to Adams. Frequent hospital trips for supposed accidents, bad behaviour at school, suspensions, an expulsion. Oh and get this! They both work in construction! Different companies, though."

"Do we have home addresses and places of work?" Rossi chimes in.

"We do, sir, I've already sent them to you all." Garcia smiles proudly, always one step ahead.

"Thank you, Garcia. Alright, Prentiss, Morgan. You two go to Adams' home. Rossi and JJ, you go to his workplace. Seaver and I will go to Parker’s home. Y/l/n and Reid, you two go to his workplace." 

Everyone nods at Hotch as they receive their placements. The team splits up accordingly, each pair heading to a different SUV. Exiting the Quantico building, you see Spencer wince at the brightness of the sun. You sigh quietly. You don't like seeing him in pain, but you have a job to do. You'll talk more later.

The car ride is quiet. You drive, Spencer sits in the passenger seat. The silence isn't exactly comfortable, but it isn't awkward. You roll down his window just a little, to give him the fresh air he so obviously needs. You take the time to theorize about the suspect. Will he even be at work? Will he run? Put up a fight? You hope not.

As you pull into the small, gravel parking lot of the construction company, you sit for a moment to prepare yourself to talk to whoever is managing the place. In your experience, people in this line of work aren't often eager to talk to FBI agents. You look over at Spencer, he must have put on his sunglasses when you weren't paying attention. He now looks a little less irritated without the sun in his eyes. Good. 

You gently place a hand on Spencer’s knee, catching his attention. “You ready to go?” 

He brushes his hand over yours, giving it a light squeeze. “Yep.”

You both step out of the car into the bright sun. The sunlight reflects off of tiny, glistening specks in the gravel, and right into your eyes. You squint as you head to the front entrance of the building alongside Spencer, now wishing you’d also brought your sunglasses.

The inside of the building is similar to the outside. Concrete, dusty, smelling strongly of diesel. You noticed how Spencer scrunched up his nose at the pungent scent. 

The only other person inside is an older man who introduces himself as Mark, the manager of the building. 

“You two are FBI? Really? Well what are you two doin’ out here?”

You ignore the man’s questioning of your authority. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about one of your employees, Cole Parker?”

“Ah. Well, he called in sick today, and I’m not one to judge, but he didn’t sound very sick on the phone. If you ask me, he’s ditching work to be with that new girlfriend of his.”

“Girlfriend?” Spencer asks. He glances over to you, the unsub had been killing young women. If Cole Parker was your guy, this new girlfriend of his could be in danger.

“Yeah. He’s been yammerin’ on about her for the past week. Her name is Carol… or Christine? Somethin’ like that. Hard to keep up. He gets tired of em’ fast.”

Interesting.

“Have you noticed any shifts in his behavior lately? Short temper, violent outbursts, things like that?”

“Hm. Y’know I’m really not sure, I’m not around him long enough to notice. Might be better to ask some of the guys. I can give you the address of the site they’re workin’ if you’d like.” He offers.

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose again, his vision beginning to blur. “We’ve already got two other agents headed there right now, but thank you.” 

The man notices Spencer’s clear discomfort, “You alright?”

“Yeah. Fine, thanks.” He runs his hands through his hair anxiously, further tousling his already messy curls.

“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” You hand him a card with your work phone number, “Please call me if you remember any important details about Cole.”

He puts the card into his shirt pocket. “Of course. Have a nice day, you two.” 

As you both exit the building, Spencer stops right outside the door, running his hands over his face with a sigh.

You turn to look at him with concern. “Spence-”

“I just need a minute. I’m fine. I’ll meet you in the car.” His eyes are squeezed shut as he faces the ground, rubbing his temples.

You respond with a quiet “okay”, and silently head back to the car, where you wait for him. You put the air conditioning on blast as you pull out your phone to call Hotch.

“Hotchner.” He answers quickly.

“Did you and Seaver find Cole?”

“Yes, we’re just about to bring him in for questioning. How’s it going over there?”

“His boss told us that he can’t keep a girlfriend for too long, always switching between girls. He didn’t notice any other odd behaviors though. We’re just about to leave.” You spot Spencer walking over to the car.

“Alright, thanks. See you at the precinct.” He hangs up the call.

Spencer slides into the passenger’s seat, looking slightly calmer than before. “Who was that?” 

“Hotch. Him and Seaver are bringing Cole Parker in for questioning.” You turn the air conditioning down a little, so it’s still cool but not as loud, not as irritating for Spencer.

“Good.” 

***

Spencer leans his head back on his seat and closes his eyes. The drive back is just as silent as the drive there. By the time you get to the police precinct, Spencer is half asleep. He opens his eyes slowly. Squinting at the light coming through the windshield, he turns his head towards you.

“Hi.” You huff out a small laugh, earning a small quirk of his lips. “Feeling a little better?”

“Mm.” He sighs with a nod, “a little, I’ll be fine.”

You reach over and comb your fingers through his hair, he leans into your touch. You fix a few stray hairs that stick out, then give him a peck on his cheek. “Let’s go.”

***

The lights in the precinct are bright, filled with the chatter of nosy police officers. They flock around the team as you all enter with both suspects. Hotch and Rossi take on the task of interrogating, with the rest of the team on standby if needed. You stand behind the two-way mirror with Seaver and Reid. You listen intently to every word, you note mannerisms, you profile. That is your job after all.

Cole is becoming frustrated after only thirty minutes of interrogation. Hotch stays calm and collected as Cole’s volume rises. 

“I’m telling you! I was nowhere near there! I was out with some guys from work. Ask ‘em, they’ll tell you.”

“We did. They all had pretty different stories. We also got security camera feeds from the alley that night. Are you telling me that isn’t you?” Hotch slides a grainy photo across the table. The lighting is dark and the quality is less than ideal, but it’s clearly Cole in the photo.

He groans and mumbles something under his breath, “those bitches deserved it.”

“Pardon me?” Hotch prompts him to repeat himself.

“I said they deserved it! Every last one!” He yanks hard at the cuffs grounding him to the table, lunging at Hotch.

Hotch doesn’t move a muscle. “Alright, that’s enough.” He nods to the two officers standing at the back of the room. They move to restrain the man and bring him to a holding cell.

You look up at Spencer, who at first glance, seems fine, like he’s just thinking. But you notice his glassy eyes and flushed face. He tries to inconspicuously shield his eyes from the flickering fluorescent light above his head. Seaver notices this too, she gives you an “is he okay?” look, you give her a shrug and a worried look that says “I have no idea.” She exits the room to go check on Rossi and the others, leaving you and Reid alone.

You hover beside him, not wanting to worsen his pain any more. After a few moments of watching him silently suffer, you hear a sniffle. He’s crying. You get a sinking feeling in your chest, all you want is for him to be okay. 

“Spence,” you whisper. No response. “Do you want to sit down? I can get you some water,” you offer kindly. 

He shakes his head, massaging his temples again.

“Are you sure? The case is pretty much wrapped up. I’m sure Hotch wouldn’t mind.” Your voice stays soft, gentle.

He raises his voice “God, I’m fine! It’s fine! Nothing will help, just… Just stop trying to help me. I don’t need help.” You spot him wiping a tear from his face as he storms out of the room.

You don’t follow. Maybe he needs some time alone. You respect his wishes. You don’t help. Though you’d really, really like to. Instead, you follow Seaver’s trail to the second interrogation room where Rossi is still digging deep into the other suspect’s mind. You watch through the two-way mirror.

“Really, Landon? Were you really stopped on the side of that road for a nap? You were on your way home, weren’t you? Why not wait until you got back?”

“I was tired. I didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Alright. You’re sure you didn’t see anything suspicious? No … man lugging around a woman’s corpse? Burying her?”

“No, man! I was sleeping!” He throws his hands up in the air, as much as one can while cuffed to a table. He sighs defeatedly.

Hotch slides past you and into the interrogation room. He lets Rossi know that while he’d been interrogating, Cole Parker had fully confessed to the murders. He spared no detail, including  ones the police and FBI hadn’t yet shared with the public.

Rossi gives Landon a half-hearted apology and a pat on the back as the officers uncuff him.

***

You help Hotch to get a written confession from Cole, which takes longer than usual, because his handwriting skills aren’t exactly the best. But you sit in the room with him, waiting, as he drops the occasional rude comment directed towards you, his victims, or the police.

While sitting silently, you think about Spencer. You wonder if he’s okay. You think about what he said. He doesn’t need help from you. He doesn't want help from you. Leave him alone for once.

You shake the thought out of your head. He’s in pain. He didn’t mean it. This does little to ease the anxiety spinning in your mind.

“Hey, lady. I’m done writing.” He drops the pen down onto the metal table with just enough force to express his annoyance.

“Good. Did you sign it?” 

“Of course I did. What? Do you think I’m stupid or something?” He’s clearly looking for a fight.

Unamused, you respond. “No. I think you’re a serial killer with a severe lack of respect for women. I was just checking. A lot of people forget.” You slide the paper towards yourself and look it over before placing it into a file folder. You give a nod to the officers in the room and they take him away. You leave the room after them, meeting up with the rest of the team except Spencer, who’d reluctantly gone home per Hotch’s instruction. Thank goodness someone else noticed.

Hotch pulls you aside for a moment. “I wouldn’t mind if you left to help Reid. There’s not much left for us to do today anyway. You’re free to go.”

You hesitate. He doesn’t want help. He doesn’t need you. 

“Okay. Thanks Hotch.” You give him a faint smile as you go to grab your things.

***

Instead of heading to Spencer’s apartment, you go to yours. You want to check up on him, but don’t want to pain him with a blaring ringtone, and he was most likely staying away from screens, so he wouldn’t see a text. You keep him in your thoughts as you change out of your work clothes and settle down for the night. 

***

Spencer lies on his bed in complete darkness. At this point, the pain had brought him to tears. He hadn’t eaten anything due to the nausea looming in his stomach, which only made the headache worse.

He needed something. A distraction. Nothing loud. Nothing bright. Nothing that would irritate him further. He wanted you. He needed you.

He thinks back to what he said to you earlier. Why would I say that? Well, he knew why he said it. Scientifically. Higher sensitivity, more pain, more irritability, this leads to outbursts. He just wanted it to stop. He didn’t mean to yell at you.

He sighs, shifting to be face-down in his pillow. He just wants to feel okay. Why won’t it stop? What’s wrong with me? A pained whine escapes him as he decides to try to get some rest. 

***

Your phone’s ringtone pulls you out of your sleep. You grab it from your nightstand, checking the time first. Who’s calling me at 12:30am? Spencer. You answer with some hesitation, anxiety still whirrs in your mind, residue from hours ago. 

“Spence?”

“I really- I’m really sorry for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it. And I know that’s not a good excuse but-��� His voice is quieter than usual, strained.

“I know you didn’t mean it. You weren’t acting like… you. I was worried.”

“I said I didn’t need help but I’m um- really rethinking that right now. And I’d completely understand if you didn’t want to but um- could you maybe come over? I just really want someone here with me. I want you here with me.” 

You could tell from his voice that he was still hurting, he was scared. You get up without a second thought. 

“Of course, Spence. I’ll be right over.”

He sighs with relief. “Thank you.” 

***

Spencer hears the lock on his door click as you enter. He stays right where he is, in bed. 

You walk in as quietly as you can, leaving your shoes at the door and trying your best to navigate around in the dark. You nudge his bedroom door open and whisper a quiet “I’m here” as you spot the outline of him in his bed.

He sits up slowly with a small hum of acknowledgement. “Hi.” He reaches to turn on the lamp beside his bed.

“No, don’t, you don’t need to turn it on. It’s fine.” You reassure him. “Do you want me to get you anything? Water? Meds?”

“Both, please. Meds are on the kitchen counter.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in two seconds.” You head to the kitchen, spotting the meds once you turn on the lights. You fill a glass with ice, then water, grab the box of meds, then rush right back to Spencer’s room, turning off the kitchen lights as you leave.

You carefully hand him the glass of water, he thanks you, then takes a long sip. You hand him two tablets of his meds, and he swallows them with the water.

“You want to try to get some sleep?”

He nods, “Yeah, but these usually take about half an hour to kick in, hopefully they do kick in. I’ll probably be able to sleep then.” Your eyes have now adjusted to the dark, you can see him give you a small smile.

“You want me to stay?”

“I’d really like it if you did.”

“Alright, move over then.” You don’t wait to slide into bed next to him. It warms your heart to hear him giggle slightly from this.

***

Your next hour is spent with Spencer curled up to your chest, with your fingers carding through his hair. The room is silent, save for your breathing and the sighs he lets out every so often. You stay awake until you’re sure he’s asleep, then for a little while longer, just to make sure. Finally, you can’t keep your eyes open any longer, and you’re pulled into a calm sleep. You hope that when you wake up, everything will be okay. And it will be. Because it always is with Spencer.

Thank you for reading! <3

Feedback is very much appreciated!

My requests are open!

🪻

[maschotch]

If you could write a backstory episode for Hotch, what would it look like?

ah.. the age old question

truthfully im not much of a writer, so id have a hard time condensing everything id want out of his backstory into a 40 min episode (or a 2 part special). i think the simplest way would be something similar to profiler profiled where they take a case close to hotch’s home and he knows the people involved but doesnt want to admit it

tbh i think itd be difficult enough to set up a case like that. jj might have to bring it in—maybe she was surprised when hotch turned down her suggestion to consult and got passionate about it. (hotch can claim to be by-the-book, but when it comes to something he cares about, he caves pretty fast, so i think he’d be too concerned about avoiding reliving decades old trauma maintaining his composure around the team to let them dig around too deep). but jj goes behind his back (well intentioned, not well thought out) to assign the team this case anyway

ive given it a lot of thought and i think itd be funniest for hotch to just pretend not to recognize anyone. he likely hasnt been back since before boarding school, so he’s probably relying on no one recognizing him either. but some of the older folks at the precinct cant help but think of that hotchner fellow when they see the name. hotch does relatively well, but the team begins to notice he’s more tense than usual. theyre not really sure what to think until the sheriff (or someone idk) tells the story of the lawyer hotchner (spittin image of this fbi guy!) and his troublemaker son, and they start putting the pieces together

i think itd be fun to have the team forcibly dig around into hotch’s life. for one thing, it seems like the only way they’d get anything out of him about his past. and two, even if none of them are consciously aware of their own spiteful vindictiveness, it’s lowkey payback for all the times hotch has crossed their own personal boundaries “for the sake of the case.” anyway they find out about what went down in the hotchner household, and suddenly all the pieces come together: all the red flags theyve kinda just ignored until now form an ugly picture of abuse.

god forbid anyone gets closure on this fucking show. inevitably they dont really talk about it and after the case is over its basically never brought up again (unless morgan is mad about something or reid is losing an argument). itd probably end with hotch looking at a picture of his son or some cheesy shit like that. in true criminal minds fashion: hotch gets his trauma dragged up for no reason and then they never deal with or acknowledge it ever

[dearlenore]

YOU NEVER ASKED • S.REID

SUMMARY: when the team requests additional funding from Strauss to upgrade their equipment due to multiple accidents related to their function, you reveal a secret they never would’ve guessed. Over the weeks following they

PAIRING: bau!reader x spencer

tags: cold!reader, established relationship, sugarbaby!spencer, rich reader, needy clingy spencer (even at work),

a/n: this was a request btw thru dm!! If you make a dm request it might take longer or less time entirely depending on if you’ve reposted my work before and I know you or your work and how interesting ur request is, sorry!! My brain is so scrambled

w/c: 1.1K

THE FIRST TIME your co workers saw the extent of your wealth was on a fairly ordinary day.

Spencer’s hand was wrapped around yours under the table.

It wasn’t unusual—Spencer always had to be touching you, whether it was a lingering brush of fingers, his arm slung around your waist, or his head resting against your shoulder after a long day. He wasn’t possessive, just clingy in a way that you had long since accepted, and honestly, found endearing.

Right now, his fingers were loosely laced with yours, thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin as the team sat in the conference room, focused on a discussion with Strauss.

You were only half-listening. As the BAU’s new liaison, you had to be present for meetings like this, but the budget discussion wasn’t exactly riveting.

“We understand the financial constraints,” Hotch was saying, his voice level as he addressed Strauss, “but this is a necessary expense. We’ve had three major equipment failures in the past month alone.”

Morgan leaned forward. “Two of those put agents at risk. We got lucky, but next time? Maybe we won’t.”

Strauss sighed, clearly unimpressed but unwilling to outright deny the request. “The Bureau’s budget is already stretched thin. I’ll bring this to the director, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be approved.”

Without much thought, you spoke. “I’ll take care of it.”

The room went quiet.

Strauss blinked, turning her attention toward you. “Excuse me?”

You scrolled through something on your phone, barely looking up. “I’ll cover the cost. Just send me the final amount, and I’ll handle it.”

There was a brief pause before Morgan spoke. “You’re serious?”

You glanced at him, almost confused. “Yes.”

JJ, seated across from you, furrowed her brow. “That’s not exactly a small amount.”

“I know.”

Emily tilted her head slightly. “And you can just… do that?”

You finally set your phone down. “Mhm.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I gotta ask—how?”

Spencer, beside you, stiffened slightly. His grip on your hand didn’t loosen, but you could feel the tension in his posture.

You sighed, as if this was mildly inconvenient rather than a massive revelation. “My parents have money.”

Hotch studied you. “How much money?”

You exhaled, tilting your head slightly. “Enough.”

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Okay, but what does that mean? Are we talking ‘nice house in the suburbs’ rich or—”

Spencer finally spoke, voice quiet but firm. “…they’re from a long line of friends Ivy league founders”

That sent another wave of silence through the room.

Morgan let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Emily smirked. “That does explain a lot.”

JJ shook her head, laughing. “And you never mentioned this before because…?”

You shrugged. “It’s not relevant.”

Garcia looked vaguely betrayed. “Not relevant? Not relevant? You have generational wealth, and you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

You gave her a flat look. “Would it have changed anything?”

She opened her mouth, then hesitated. “…Okay, maybe not, but still!”

Rossi, who had been listening with mild amusement, finally spoke. “If you’re willing to fund the upgrades, I don’t see why we’d turn it down.”

You nodded. “Just let me know the amount.”

Strauss, looking slightly thrown but not displeased, simply nodded. “I’ll coordinate with the Bureau’s finance department.”

With that, the discussion moved on and everyone but you and Spencer left the conference room.

Spencer, who had been silent throughout the latter half of the conversation, finally exhaled, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

You turned to him, lips twitching. “You okay?”

He huffed quietly, glancing at you. “You could’ve given me a heads-up.”

“Mhm, but what’s the fun in that?” You cooed before kissing his nose sweetly

The second time was when they caught you pampering your hopelessly adorable boyfriend.

Okay well… for the record.

Spencer Reid was not spoiled.

At least, that’s what he told himself. And everyone else.

Sure, his coffee appeared on his desk every morning, still piping hot from the overpriced café down the street. And yes, his wardrobe had significantly improved over the past few months—his old, slightly ill-fitting sweaters replaced with custom-tailored cashmere ones that felt suspiciously nice against his skin.

And maybe the watch on his wrist was worth more than the entirety of his apartment’s furniture.

But he wasn’t spoiled. Not at all.

The rest of the team, however, seemed to have reached a different conclusion.

“You know, pretty boy,” Morgan drawled, leaning against Spencer’s desk with a smirk, “I never pegged you as the type to have a personal assistant.”

Spencer frowned, looking up from his paperwork. “What?”

Morgan nodded toward the cup of coffee sitting on Spencer’s desk. “That your usual delivery?”

Spencer sighed, setting his pen down. “It’s just coffee.”

“From a place that charges twenty bucks for a latte,” Emily added, appearing behind Morgan with a grin.

Spencer huffed. “It’s not twenty dollars.”

“No, but it’s close,” JJ teased, leaning against the desk beside Morgan.

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, the sound of approaching footsteps caught everyone’s attention.

You walked into the bullpen, a small bag in hand, and made a beeline straight for Spencer’s desk.

“Hey,” you greeted, dropping the bag onto his desk before pressing a quick kiss to his temple. “Lunch.”

Spencer’s lips twitched in a smile as he peered inside the bag. His favorite Italian , a side of fruit, and—he pulled out the container—homemade cookies from the expensive French bakery he loved.

His heart swelled.

“Thank you,” he murmured, glancing up at you with something bordering on pure adoration.

You just smiled. “Of course.”

Morgan, JJ, and Emily exchanged a look before Morgan spoke. “Okay, I have to ask—how often does this happen?”

You tilted your head. “How often does what happen?”

“This.” He gestured to the coffee, the lunch, everything. “Bringing him food, buying him clothes—spoiling him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t call it spoiling.”

Emily scoffed. “Oh, it definitely is.”

Spencer crossed his arms, shifting slightly in his seat. “I am not spoiled.”

JJ smirked. “Reid, when was the last time you paid for your own coffee?”

Spencer hesitated.

Morgan grinned. “Exactly.”

You chuckled, crossing your arms. “What, am I not allowed to take care of my boyfriend?”

“Oh, you definitely are,” Emily said. “It’s just funny watching him try to pretend he’s not completely pampered.”

Spencer huffed. “I am not—”

“Pretty boy, you don’t even drive anymore.”

Spencer scowled. “That’s just practical. Why should I drive when I can be chauffeured—” He stopped, realizing his mistake immediately.

Morgan grinned. “Chauffeured?”

Emily outright laughed. “Oh, that’s rich.”

Spencer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate all of you.”

JJ patted his shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s okay, baby. Let them tease.”

Spencer groaned, but his cheeks were already tinged pink.

Yeah. He was never going to live this down.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 8

it's the morning after. spencer reid suspects you’re left with some doubts after losing your virginity to him. he has to figure out why—which is hard when you're keeping secrets.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, blood related to losing virginity (dramatized for the drama duh), super vague allusions to the BAU being hungover, mild blasphemy if anyone even cares, pondering god bc am I really a fanfic writer if I don’t get a little religious w it, emily AND hotch are here and nobody knows why pls don't pay attention to that bc we are imagining like season 11/12 spencer and I'm inconsistent w who is unit chief in this series apparently, spencer slut lore, spencer emotional wounds lore, Spencer is a traumatic situationship survivor a/n: DADDYS HOMEEEEE (me and dybmn not spencer) anyway missed these little guys and am happy to be writing for them again!! idk what my upload schedule will becoming back to this but pls lmk what u think of this part, I have no idea how you will respond but I'm being brave and ily

Friday morning Spencer comes into the office fifteen minutes late (he tried his best), in yesterday’s suit (everything in his go-bag had been too wrinkled), hair messy (no doubt from your fingers), coffee cold (he’s exhausted) and overall, in an excellent mood.

The rest of the team isn’t faring quite as well—Spencer gathers they stayed at the bar celebrating Derek’s birthday a lot later than he had. It shows through sallow skin and dark circles and the grimaces he receives on the way to his desk that are probably supposed to approximate good morning’s. 

Honestly, he doesn’t mind the dull mood—he doesn’t need the teasing and the prying questions that would be sure to come if his co-workers were at peak performance and were able to put together his unusually perky demeanor and disheveled appearance. At least Prentiss doesn’t appear to be paying him any mind. She’s always the one who can read him like an open book and has no shame in doing so aloud. Echoes from years of, ‘so who was the lucky girl, last night, Reid?’ Still ring through his mind and it’s like he can feel her finger prodding at his side. 

The Emily of it all makes him smile, though the rest of the memory leaves a metal tang in his mouth. Back in those days, there were sometimes a lot of girls, but even then he was consciously aware he wasn’t necessarily doing something he enjoyed. He spent a lot of time, actually, staring at his bedroom ceiling, psychoanalyzing himself. Repetition compulsion. The insatiable desire to repeat or reenact emotionally painful experiences. Maybe he thought if he could teach himself to subsist off of emotionless hookups, he could in some way heal from his experience with Elle. Though, he’s hesitant to think of it now as healing—it’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing when a few nights after she said I don’t feel the same I’m sorry he opened up his front door for her. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing every time after that. So, maybe heal isn’t the right word, when one doesn’t have the right to be injured. Or when the injuries are, in a manner of speaking, self-inflicted. At the very least he could tell himself that this time around, meaningless sex was a choice he was making for himself. Spencer hates when things just happen to him. 

But you—you’re different. You were a complete surprise. At first, a cute and unexpected complication. After a few painful and short-lived attempts at real relationships, Spencer decided he was simply not to be trusted with emotional intimacy of any kind, including that which inevitably develops from physical intimacy, and would resign himself to a life of celibacy. He tried not to like you, but you were just so damn likable. Magnetic, to use a trite and perfectly honest turn of phrase. All that to say: he doesn’t regret you at all. There is no filter of putrid shame or anguish over his memories of last night. 

Just you. Perfect. Starlit. Glowing softly around the edges like you’re not even real. 

I love you I love you I love you. A hymn with no melody. You, always reminding him exactly why he is decidedly not a man of faith. At least, not in the typical sense of the word. 

How God became the idol and not Mary is lost on him. That’s why, Spencer supposes, tapping an eraser on his desk, marriage and sex were forbidden for so many ecclesiastics. After all, if they knew what it was to love a woman, specifically to love you, he doubts they’d feel like spending much time in the pulpit. Love. Humans had that long before they had any gods. It’s primeval. It’s the most natural manifestation of devotion and worship. It will always have come first. Isn’t it a better kind of religion when a man realizes he can kneel in front of a woman rather than an altar?

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder jolts him from his theological musings—which are in all practicality useless. What’s that saying about blasphemous thinking on the FBI’s dime? Right. There isn’t one. 

“I’m scared to ask,” Morgan says as Spencer jumps slightly in his chair. 

“What?” He mumbles, looking up from the document he’d only sort of been reading.

Morgan just looks at him, strong brows furrowed and a ditch between them, angles his head and glances to the side as if Spencer is missing the obvious. He almost follows Derek’s eye-line. When that doesn’t work, Derek just says your name. Like your status is somehow in question. 

“Did you two work things out, or not? It looked pretty bad when you guys were leaving last night.”

People often misunderstand an eidetic memory. It’s not like things can’t slip his mind—Spencer can actually be quite forgetful. It’s made worse by the fact that last night at the bar feels like months ago. For a moment, he has no idea what Derek is referring to. 

“Oh. Oh! Right, we—right. Yeah, we, uh—we worked it out.” Before Derek has a chance to read his face, no doubt as incriminating as his fumbled speech and an ill-timed throat clearing, he turns back to his paperwork. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her at the bar. I appreciate that.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Spencer’s lips twist as he can feel the incoming inappropriate comment. 

“Is that the same suit you were wearing last night?” Morgan quips, his wide grin audible. Spencer can practically hear the cartoon gleam of his friend’s bleached teeth. 

“No.”

“You dog.” Derek is still smiling as he claps Spencer’s shoulder again. “What did you say to her that worked so well?”

Spencer clears his throat again and tries to look extremely involved in logging onto his computer, speaking quickly as if he’s beyond disinterested and can’t wait for the exchange to be over. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m actually trying to work so if you wouldn’t mind going back to your desk that would be great.” 

“Uh-huh. I’ll let you work. But I see you, pretty boy.”

Spencer tries not to blush like a teenager as he refuses to look up. 

Naturally the rest of the day is a slow descent into dread and madness as all those good feelings with which Spencer had started his morning begin to harden into something much worse, chilled by your lack of response to the text he sent you earlier. Which was essentially a rehashing of the note he left on your bedside table. 

Maybe it was too much. It should’ve been one or the other, but not both. He’s overwhelmed you. 

Okay, so maybe this is what religion is for. A last ditch effort when you can’t talk to your girlfriend so you have to try talking to God. 

But Spencer knows you, and he knows something is wrong. You wouldn’t just ice him out so blatantly if everything was okay. He catches himself glancing up toward Hotch’s window to see if the blinds are drawn, and considers faking an illness to get out of work early and go check on you. But he powers through the remaining hour and a half that he is obligated to stay at work, he bounces a pencil between his fingers, drums at his desk, and gets nothing else done. As soon as 4:59 rolls around, he’s out. 

Spencer can hear shuffling on the other side of your door as he stands in the hallway. A pot clatters. The walls hum with the rush of water through the pipes to your sink. He knocks, relieved that you’re okay and at the same time struggling with that weight on his chest—something cold that leans over his shoulders and whispers into his ear—so she just didn’t want to talk to you. 

Suddenly all sound from inside your unit ceases. For a few long seconds, Spencer’s confusion only grows exponentially. 

“Who is it?” You finally call, voice wavering. Also odd. Usually you just open the door. 

“Um… Spencer?”

“As in my boyfriend Spencer?”

He frowns, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he tries to decipher your sudden paranoia. “I hope so?”

The click and jingle of several locks precipitates your much-anticipated reveal. 

“Come in,” you say breathlessly, more harried than usual and not giving him the tender greeting he’s selfishly become accustomed to—barely even giving him a second to look at you. But he steps inside, watching on in concern as you do up every single lock—the one on the knob, the deadbolt, even the chain. Is this really all because of his little comment last night about anyone being able to get in? He certainly hopes not. He didn’t mean to terrify you. 

When you finally turn, he takes stock of your appearance. Big hoodie, pajama pants patterned in little hearts. Hair pulled back hastily. Your skin is sort of dull where you normally glow. But you’re beautiful, like always. It always aches just a little bit to look at you. Spencer’s always been like that. Going breathless at a particularly good piece of art or pretty girl. Like yourself. Mostly you. 

You quickly turn to hurry back into the kitchen. “I was trying to make dinner, I—”

“Hold on,” he interrupts, stopping you with a hand on your stomach that is so non-demanding it’s really mostly a suggestion. He tries to clear his head, though you make it hard. “You didn’t talk to me all day. Not that you have to, but… I was worried.”

You glance at the floor and mumble, “I lost my phone,” with so much embarrassment he believes you’re telling the truth. “Did you, um—did you text me?”

Insecurity. Spencer knows well what it looks like on you. He softens. You weren’t ignoring him—but you’d been left in a vulnerable state without any ability to contact him or anyone. That couldn’t have been comfortable. 

“Of course I did.” He pauses to observe you. Still anxious. Still prepared to run at any second. Something, and he’s not sure what, did a number on you today. Maybe it’s sheer exhaustion, maybe it was the anxiety of not having your phone. But he has to figure out what it is so he can undo it. “What? What’s wrong?”

He watches your breathing pause—watches your eyes gloss over with tears and a frown contort your features. Oh, god. He’s done something terribly wrong. It’s been thirty seconds and he’s done something wrong. 

“Can we sit down? I don’t feel very good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can. Whatever you need.”

You cast a baleful look at him and now he has to wonder what that means. Spencer sets his bag on a pulled out dining chair and follows you to the couch where you settle on opposite sides—you’re curled up in the far corner, hugging a pillow to your chest with your legs folded in front of you. Spencer’s heart is beating fast. He doesn’t know what’s going on with you and he can’t figure it out just by looking and you don’t seem eager to tell him. 

He’s exhausted all his typical ways of collecting information, and now he’s at a loss. 

Eventually, the anxiety comes bubbling up. 

“Please talk to me,” he pleads. And you do. Almost instantly, like he stepped on some sort of landmine. 

“I know it’s my own fault for not having my phone on me and not being able to see your texts, but it really sucks that I had to find out from my creepy neighbor that you snuck out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.”

The whiplash is so strong it’s almost a broken neck. Spencer reels, frowning deeply as he tries to process your impromptu speech, the sudden confrontation. What creepy neighbor?

“I… didn’t. I went to grab my stuff from the car around one, but I came right back. I left at 7:30. You don’t remember me saying goodbye?”

Your brow furrows, and your eyes dart over the design on the rug like you’re watching memories go by. He sees it in your eyes when you recall some hazy image of him holding your face, kissing your cheek more times than was necessary and whispering sweet things against your lips before he had to go. You shrink into the couch, clearly struggling under the combined weight of relief and embarrassment. 

“I forgot. I thought… he said…”

A moment passes and it’s clear you’ve abandoned the sentence. Spencer is concerned about this shadowy male figure who put malicious untruths into your head. He slides his hand under yours and twines your fingers together. Finally, finally you meet his gaze. 

“Someone made you believe I left without saying goodbye.”

And he almost wishes you weren’t looking at him as more tears pool before falling down your cheeks. You nod, and don’t make a sound. 

“No, honey. I didn’t do that. I’m sorry that’s what you’ve been thinking all day.”

“I was worried that you… or that I wasn’t…”

His chest aches. You’d woken up alone, no recollection of his goodbye, and without the comfort of even a text. 

“You didn’t see my note?”

The way you look at him then is heartbreaking. Eyes wide and wet and sad, lip trembling. 

“You left a note?”

Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will. 

It must’ve fallen off the bedside table, or maybe he just hadn’t positioned it obviously enough. 

A lost phone, a missed note, and not even a memory of his departure. While none of these things are verifiably Spencer’s fault, he feels so, so guilty. 

“I did,” Spencer says gently, scooting closer and pulling you into him, head pressed to his shoulder as you try not to cry, and he rubs your back slowly. 

Your sulky words are muffled by his shirt. “I didn’t see it. What did it say?”

“A lot of very nice things about you,” he whispers. Spencer thought maybe he could get away with giving you all the sincere compliments you can’t accept face to face through a note you could read while he wasn’t around. That way you couldn’t refute them or stop him. It was a good plan. 

He feels the sigh of relief leaving your body against his neck. 

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. That’s not… I should’ve just stayed. This is my fault.”

You keep your cheek pressed to his shoulder as you speak. 

“It’s not. You have a job. A really important job. You can’t just call out whenever I want you around.”

Logically he knows you’re right, but he doesn’t always think logically around you. 

“I could’ve made it work. I could’ve come in late, or the team could’ve called me if there was a case, which there wasn’t—”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it.”

He pulls back slightly, frowning at your tone. You do look relieved, much less plagued than you’d been when he arrived minutes ago, but something heavy still weighs you down. The burden of it darkens your eyes and dulls your expression. When he cups your cheek, you glance up at him, and then away once more. 

He speaks softly. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” 

Again he earns a moment of your eye contact, but it’s fleeting. He watches the words spin around your head as you try to figure out what to do with them—and then choose to remain silent. 

There is in fact something you’re keeping from him. 

Spencer hates to use work tactics on you, but he doesn’t speak either, hoping that you’ll feel compelled to fill the silence with the truth. Knowing how you’re not entirely comfortable with quiet. 

And you try, lips parting and the sound delayed as you wrestle with something you clearly don’t know how to talk about. 

“I… my neighbor,” you say, frowning like you don’t quite know why you’re speaking. “The one who told me he saw you leaving in the middle of the night. He also—he said…”

Spencer brushes hair away from your cheek with a thumb, stroking the high point in gentle passes as your words taper off. Now that he’s thinking about it, he did encounter a man in a dumpy robe standing in the courtyard and smoking a cigarette when he left you tangled in sheets and dozing contentedly to get his bag from the car. In fact, they rode back up to your floor in the elevator in mostly awkward silence. Spencer was sure his outfit told a story—shirt untucked and hastily buttoned only partway, no belt, shoes barely tied, duffel slung over his shoulder—he wasn’t really expecting to run into anyone at such an hour, to be honest, but he hadn’t particularly cared what this man thought of him, so it didn’t cross his mind again.

Now he remembers. 

Long night, huh? I remember those days. 

It was an inappropriate comment, but given his job he’s used to ignoring those. Mostly his mind had been preoccupied with the idea of returning to you, who gave him such a warm and sleepy welcome when he climbed carefully back into your arms several minutes later that it was like he’d never known anyone else at all. 

Now he resents that he hadn’t said anything, he hates the idea that you spoke to this man and he said something to upset you and Spencer wasn’t there. Usually he tries not a judge a book by its cover (metaphorically, of course) but he’s been around enough bad men to know when he’s looking at one. Last night he hadn’t even been cognizant enough to realize they got off on the same floor. 

“What did he say, angel?” Spencer whispers, incapable of being anything but soft with you at the moment. Even though he senses something a lot like a tide of preemptive anger rising in his chest, painted over with layers of anxiety and guilt. He should’ve found a way to stay with you this morning. 

You sniffle and let your head fall again, forehead resting against his collar. Instinctively his hand slides to the back of your neck and even at the awkward angle he finds a way to press his lips to yours hair. “Can we talk about it later? I don’t feel good.”

If it’s making you this uncomfortable, Spencer really wants to know what passed between you and this neighbor. In fact, he’d be willing to bet a lot of your strange behavior this evening stems from something that occurred which you don’t feel comfortable telling him yet. But he manages to bite back anymore questions. He doesn’t want to make you feel interrogated. 

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” he says eventually, kindly, hand tracing down the length of your back and up again. “Why don’t you feel good?”

He doesn’t miss the way you reach up to discreetly wipe your cheek. But he won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about until you’re ready, and it seems like you’re already having a rough day. Which is not what he wanted. This is so far from what he wanted for you. He’s cursing himself for how he handled this whole situation. 

“Um, I just… I don’t know. I feel… bad. I’m sorry I’m being so weird.”

“You’re not being weird, honey. You had a hard day. You’re having a normal reaction to an abnormal set of circumstances.”

You sit up, sniffing and wiping your tears like you can just make the whole thing go away. 

“No, I am. I am. It’s all okay now, right? So I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He watches helplessly. “Nothing is wrong with you. We’ve… it’s been a big couple of days. Mostly good, but I think you’re probably really tired. Emotionally and physically.” 

You bury your face in your hands and nod silently. He still feels like he’s shooting in the dark, but you’re not entirely comforted yet, and it’s killing him. 

“Whatever you’re feeling is okay. If this is… about last night, or this morning, or something entirely different—regardless of what it’s about, you’re not going to be… in trouble with me if you’re having complicated feelings. And you can talk to me. But it doesn’t have to be right now. We don’t have to figure it out all at once, okay?”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, and for a moment, his words sink into silence. When you do raise your head, nodding, the evidence of your discomfort is all over your face—reddened eyes, cheeks polished with wiped tears. But you take a deep breath and try to project whatever it is you think he wants to see. 

The back of your hand is soft under his thumb as he sweeps it, as if he could draw forth more information that way. People speak when they’re ready.

“Is there anything I can do?” He tries, all ramped brow and soft spoken. 

You’re looking at where he’s tracing swirls on your hand as you swallow and blink the last of your tears away. 

“Um… you can say no, but—do you think it would be okay for you to maybe stay again tonight?”

Spencer sucks in a breath, painfully aware that he’s about to let you down. 

“I… I haven’t been home in a week. I’ve been wearing this suit for two days straight and I don’t think I would want to share a bed with me again until I shower.” He watches you wilt and lifts a hand to stroke your hair. “But I do want to spend time with you… do you maybe want to come stay with me instead? No pressure—”

“Okay. Yes. Is that okay?”

Spencer’s brow knits. You seem even more enthused about the idea of going to his apartment, like now that the opportunity has presented itself you can’t wait to get out. Maybe you have some sort of black mold problem. 

“Of course. Do you wanna grab a few things and then we can go?”

“Um—I also haven’t showered today. Do you mind waiting?”

“Sure. Or you could use mine. With supervision, this time.”

Spencer is attempting to make a joke about your unplanned (and unmoderated) stay at his apartment last week after he left—but looking at your face now he’s wondering if he touched a nerve. 

“Like… one at a time? Or…”

He thought maybe you’d be more comfortable around him after last night—and it’s not like he hadn’t seen you naked before then, either.

“Do you wanna do it one at a time?” He asks gently. 

There’s this sparkly sort of longing in your eyes that he’s seen before, but you tamp it down like always. You’re so cautious. About everything. Even the things you’re curious about. It’s sweet and a little sad. 

“I’ve never… showered with anyone.”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches as he pushes hair over your shoulder. “I know. You don’t have to. We could save like 100 gallons of water depending on how long your showers typically last, but—”

“Spencer—”

“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not trying to pressure you. You absolutely can take your own shower. You can go first so you get the hot water.”

“No,” you laugh, and it’s like a sparkling cloud of gold has settled around you, fractals bouncing off the shine of your cheeks and eyes—the sound of your laughter, the look of it, is such beautiful relief he can’t believe how good it feels, but it fades from you quickly. “It sounds… I think I want to, I just… I don’t wanna, like… do… anything.”

For a split second your veiled language mystifies him and then he realizes what you’re trying to say without saying. Something has changed since yesterday, when you brazenly referred to it as fucking, and today, when you can’t even say sex. He’s gotten as far as it being something your creepy neighbor said. Maybe. He needs to know what. 

But that’s not the topic at hand. 

“We don’t have to. I didn’t mean to imply that we would do anything like that. I don’t expect anything from you.”

You swallow. 

“Okay. I wasn’t sure.”

About what?

He says your name. No response. 

“Can you look at me, please?”

It takes you a moment, and your head raises like you might need some oil in your hinges, but eventually you manage. Spencer hopes the way he’s rubbing your leg is comforting. 

“You know I’m never, ever going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, right?”

To his horror, your answer isn’t an immediate and resounding yes. Instead you look back down and cover his hand with your own, fiddling nervously with his fingers. 

Eventually, you reply, “Yeah… I know. I just thought… I’m not sure. Maybe it’s supposed to be different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Nothing has to be different. We’re still doing everything on your schedule, okay? And as for the next few days, at least—I think it might be a good idea to take sex off the table altogether.”

Your eyes narrow and you hesitate. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you worrying about it. And I don’t think it would feel good for you right now. I think there are things we need to talk about, but… we’ve probably tried enough for a while, hm?”

You give him a shy nod and hum your agreement. For a moment he lets his hand linger on your leg and then pulls it back. 

“Okay. Do you want my help packing a bag, or should I wait out here?”

“You can wait. It should only take a minute.” You pause, halfway up to look pensive. “Um, Spencer—do you think it would be okay if maybe I… if I stayed tonight and tomorrow? I just—I wanna get out of here, for a bit.”

He frowns but doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Can I ask why?”

“It’s just… suffocating sometimes,” you call as you turn and hurry down the hallway to the bedroom. “Feels like my neighbors are on top of me, like they’re… breathing down my neck, half the time.”

Sure, bigger apartments exist—but it’s not like you’re in a studio. And you’ve never mentioned feeling that way before. That bad feeling is starting to come back—like you’re not telling him something he needs to know. But is it worse to let you deal with it yourself until you’re ready to talk or to force it from you?

A few minutes later you return, a duffel of your own over your shoulder and full to bursting. 

“So I’m an idiot. My phone was literally in the pocket of my jeans on the floor.” You drop the bag as you bend down by the door to pull on your favorite slippers. “Oh—I think I forgot my charger, can you grab it? It’s by my bed.”

Spencer of course obliges, and is secretly pleased to be in your room again, in the light this time, so he can see better. It’s sweet. The pictures on the walls, the plants and the knickknacks and the sticky notes scrawled with messy reminders on every surface and the sweater hanging over the back of a chair—the one you’d been wearing at the cafe all those months ago—it all feels so you. He wonders why the two of you don’t spend more time here. 

He lets himself linger for only a minute before remembering his task, but as he reaches down to unplug your charger, whatever dopey smile he’d been wearing evaporates. The sheets have been stripped from your bed, and he can see why—there’s a striking stain of dried blood, and several surrounding dots, soaked into the mattress. Not much, but enough to make him feel horrendously guilty. He cringes, imagining what it must’ve been like to wake up all alone to nothing but your own blood. Poor girl. Of course he’d noticed some, last night when he was doing his best at cleaning you up, but it had been dark, and he was exhausted, and he hadn’t done enough. 

“Where’d your sheets go, baby?” He asks once back by the front door with his own bag on his shoulder, setting a gentle hand on your lower back and holding out your charger for you. You jump slightly, and he makes circles on your back, wishing there was something he could do to settle you. 

“Oh! They—they got ruined. I threw them out. It’s fine. I have others.”

So you didn’t have enough energy this morning to walk a few feet to your shower, but stripping your bed, getting dressed, and walking down to the trash chute at the end of the hall had been top of your priority list. 

You swallow as he undoes the locks and holds the door open for you, and pretend like you’re not doing surveillance to either side as you stand in the hallway, locking your door again like you can’t get out of here fast enough. 

Spencer casts a sidelong glance at you and wonders if you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact. He tries not to think like a profiler. He tries not to assign meaning to your actions, but he can’t help it. He can’t not notice. 

He can’t not worry. 

And he can’t not wonder what you’re not telling him. 

-

part nine

[beenreidingaboutyou]

When I'm Down on My Knees, You're How I Pray

who? Spencer x afab! reader

content warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+ content, unholy use of bible verses, inaccurate use of religious themes, oral (m), fingering (f), reader has hair that can be pulled, mention of religious trauma, Jesus Reid, please let me know if I've missed anything else!

a/n: Believe it or not, I actually toned down the blasphemy in this fic. Huge thank you to @minswriting for answering my 20 million questions about this because I've never written smut before and that's the majority of what she does. (Also she came up with the title, it's a Lana lyric)

thank you to @cafekitsune for the MDNI divider and @saradika-graphics for the stained glass divider

word count: 1.3k

You’ve spent your adult life avoiding anything related to church and religion. Growing up in an overly religious household and being forced to attend church services twice a week, in addition to the Bible study and choir practice, meant that anything related to religion left a bad taste in your mouth. While you’ve never outright mentioned this to Hotch, he seemed to pick up on it and respected your wishes, never sending you to interview priests or visit cathedrals that had been the scene of a crime. At least, until he had respected your wishes until this case. He paired you with Spencer and sent you both to investigate an older crime scene at a nearby church. Despite your best efforts, you were unable to weasel out of your assignment, so here you were, stuck thinking about the fact that you were going to church with the one person you’d always been attracted to since joining the BAU.

You were oddly quiet as the two of you walked through the building

“So, what are your thoughts?” Spencer asks, breaking the silence.

“Being here brings back all of the religious trauma I endured as a kid and you looking like Jesus is certainly not helping.”

You see Spencer furrow his brows in confusion, his gaze shifting from the church to you, “I-I’m sorry, did you just say I look like Jesus?” 

“Yeah, I did. Except you’d be the one I’d get on my knees for,” you say teasingly, shooting a wink in his direction.

He chokes on air, “e-excuse me?”

“Anyways, let’s go check out the confessional,” you reply, wanting to get out of the church as soon as possible.

As you step into the cramped confessional, you can feel Reid close behind you. You can feel the effect your teasing remark had on him as his bulge presses against your back, though you’re sure the action is unintentional on his part. 

You turn to face him and glance down at the tent his pants, “do you want some help with that?”

His face flushes, “w-what?”

“Shhh, let me take care of you,” you mumble as you get down on your knees in front of him. 

You hear his breath hitch in his throat as you undo his belt. You quickly unbutton and unzip his pants, pulling them down and leaving him in his boxers. You palm his bulge and glance up at him, “Looks like you enjoyed the idea of me worshipping your cock.”

He whimpers and nods. You slowly pull his boxers down, freeing his length. He whimpers as you run your thumb over his tip, collecting the leaking precum. “You like that, baby?” you ask, looking up at him. 

He nods his head pathetically in response. You bite your lip and wrap your hand around his length, giving a few experimental tugs. The sound of his whimpers went straight to your cunt, leaving you desperate to hear more.

“My heart is glad and my tongue rejoices, Psalm 16:9” you recited before you slowly lick the underside of his cock, going from the base to the tip. You can’t help but smirk slightly at the moan that escapes his mouth. You wrap your lips around him, only taking a little more than the tip into your mouth. You look up at him as you swirl your tongue around his length, loving the way he’s reacting to your teasing. His eyes are dark with lust as he looks down at you, enjoying the view, but clearly wanting more. You slowly take more of him into your mouth and you feel him tangle his fingers in your hair as he lets out a loud moan. You keep going until he hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag slightly. Spencer gently caressed your hair, a subtle way of telling you to be careful.

You start to bob your head, going at a teasingly slow pace, savoring the moans and whimpers that he lets out. You hollow out your cheeks around him and he groans in response, bucking his hips slightly. You pick up your pace as he grips your hair, gathering your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He groans and uses your hair to guide you, forcing you to go faster. You moan around his length and something in him snaps. He holds your head still and starts bucking his hips, thrusting into your mouth, causing you to gag each time he hits the back of your throat. You look up at him with tears in your eyes, loving the sight of him with his head thrown back and mouth open. He moaned your name so prettily, the sound echoing around the church.

You feel his cock twitch and he starts to pull out, but you grab his hips and hold him in place. He cums with a loud groan, shooting his seed down your throat. You eagerly swallow his load before leaning back, a trail of spit and cum. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand as you stand up. You can’t resist the urge to wink and say, “Amen” 

He takes your face in his hands and pulls you in for a rough, needy kiss. His tongue slips past your lips and he groans at the taste of himself on your tongue. His hands move down to your thighs and he picks you up, placing you on the prayer ledge without breaking the kiss. 

“From the fruit of their lips people are filled with good things and the work of their hands brings them reward, Proverbs 12:14,” Spencer whispers in your ear as his hands slowly trail under your skirt, his fingers tracing your thighs as they get closer to your core. You moan softly as his fingers brush against your panties and he starts pressing open mouth kisses to the side of your neck. You let your head fall back, giving him more room to kiss and suck on your neck and collarbones. He smirks and gently sucks a mark on your pulse point as he pushes your panties to the side.

“You’re so wet, angel,” Spencer murmured against your skin. “Did you get all worked up using your mouth on me?” 

You whimper quietly as he uses one of his fingers to spread your wetness around. He doesn’t tease you for long, within moments you feel the tip of his finger brushing against your clit. You moan in response, his touch sending sparks all over your body. He begins to gently rub your clit in a circular motion, working you slowly.

You gasp loudly when he slips one of his fingers inside you, his long, slender finger reaching far deeper than yours ever could. He slowly pumps his finger in and out, letting you get used to the sensation before adding a second finger. His pace increases and he curls his fingers, brushing against your g-spot. You moan his name, causing him to pick up speed. 

“Does that feel good, angel?” Spence asked lowly, watching the way you fell apart under his touch.

 “Uh-huh, so good, Spence”

He smirks as you clench around his fingers. His thumb moves to rub your clit as he continues thrusting his fingers. 

“You gonna cum for me?” 

“Yes, yes, ohhh god.” You moan loudly, shaking as you let go, your thighs squeezing around him. 

“I wanna be inside you, angel,” Spencer mumbled, pushing your skirt up. 

You nod and lift your hips to make it easier for him. You can hear a low moan slip from his mouth when he exposes the lacy panties you’re wearing that day. He hooks his fingers in the waistband to pull them down, but gets interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

He reluctantly answers the call, “Reid.” 

You listen quietly as he speaks, trying to get your breathing back to normal. He hangs up the phone and pouts, “Hotch wants us back at the station.”

“I gathered,” you mumble as he steps back, giving you room to stand up and fix your skirt.

“If you want, you can come by my hotel room later? Finish what we started?” He offers as he pulls up his pants.

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

[rynwritesreid]

I wanna know you, honey| Spencer Reid

A/N: I will be continuing mind games soon I promise, that’s all :)

Summary: Spencer’s wanted since the first time he had seen you, but he is was always to scared to admit his feelings.

Content: idiots in love basically. Smut. 18+. Fem reader. Fluff. Munch! Spencer. Creampie. No mentions of contraception. P in V. Semi dom spencer. Sub reader.

Masterlist| request are open| Navigation

Spencer knew you were so far off limits; it was almost humorous, but he couldn’t get enough of you. He didn’t love you, because he knew he couldn’t love you, but he would give everything he could, including his sky-high IQ, for you two to be in love with each other.

 

Spencer wanted everything from you, he wanted to know what you tasted like, he wanted to know what you looked like first thing in the morning or just after a shower, and he wanted to know what did when you were alone.

 

He often found himself daydreaming about doing mundane, everyday things with you. But shamefully, he also thought what it would be like to have sex with you. He believed you would taste like honey, and if he ever did get a taste of you, he didn’t think he would be able to ever stop himself. He wanted to know how you sounded, what kinks or fantasies you had.

 

Spencer couldn’t shake the thought of you, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. “Spencer, you either need to tell how you feel, or get a grip man.” Derek stared at Spencer, with a mix of concern and amusement.

 

*

Spencer had neither told you about his feelings, nor got a grip. Instead, he found himself slipping deeper into his fantasies about you. The thought of your smile, your touch, consumed him day and night.

 

“Spencer, have you told her yet?” JJ interrupted his thoughts, her concern evident in her voice. Spencer shifted in his seat, his mind racing with all the possible outcomes of revealing his true emotions to you.

 

He had rehearsed the conversation a million times in his head, each scenario ending with a different reaction from you. The fear of rejection gripped him tightly, paralyzing him from taking that final leap of faith.

 

"I... I haven't found the right moment yet," Spencer stammered, avoiding JJ's piercing gaze. But deep down, he knew it wasn't about timing. It was about finding the courage to lay bare his vulnerable heart before you, risking it all for a chance at something more. And the fact that his boss, saw you as his daughter.

 

You weren’t biologically related to Hotch, but while you attended Georgetown University, you had become Jacks nanny. Hotch was the one who had pushed you to join the FBI and become a profiler. He had become overly protective off you, knowing the dangers of their line of work all too well.

 

“Is it really because you haven’t found the right moment yet, or is the fact that she is that close to Hotch scaring you off?” JJ watched Spencer carefully, knowing there was more to his hesitation than just timing.

 

*

All of Spencer’s thought now were consumed by you, he wanted you, he wanted you more than anything he has ever wanted before. “Hey, Spence. Are you okay? It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.” You whispered, there was a hint of sadness in your voice.

 

"Hey," Spencer replied softly, his heart racing at the sound of your voice. He couldn't bring himself to meet your eyes, afraid that you would see right through him. "I... I've just had a lot on my mind lately."

 

You moved closer, concern etched on your face. "Is there anything you want to talk about? You know you can always confide in me, right?"

 

Why did you have to be so friendly, and genuinely nice and caring. “It’s… its nothing. I know I can always talk to you don’t worry, but there isn’t anything to talk to you about right now.” Spencer swallowed hard, the words he longed to say caught in his throat.

 

“Okay. But if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you.”  Your voice was calming to him, it was something he wished he could listen to constantly. As you walked back to your desk, he noticed Emily and JJ glaring at him.

 

*

You don’t know what time it is, but you hear a light knocking at your door. Before you even start moving towards it, you hear Spencer’s voice, “Hey it’s me.”

 

Without hesitation, you opened the door to find Spencer standing there, his hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still.

 

"Spencer, what are you doing here so late?" you asked, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest at his unexpected visit.

 

He didn’t answer though, he just moved closer to you. His hand cupped your cheek, making you look directly at him. This is the first time you had seen Spencer this close, you could see how plump his lips, how his hair perfectly framed his face, and how his face looked like it had been created by a Greek god.

 

Before you knew it, and before you could ask him again what he was doing here, his lips were on yours.

 

Passionate and intense, his kiss sent a jolt of electricity through you. Spencer's lips were soft yet urgent against yours, as if he had been holding back this desire for far too long. You melted into the kiss, your hands instinctively reaching up to tangle in his hair.

 

“Do you know how long I have wanted to do that?” Spencer whispered against your lips, his breath warm and sweet. His eyes bore into yours, searching for any sign of rejection or hesitation. But all you could see reflected back at you was longing and raw emotion.

 

“How long?” is all you could manage to say. Spencer's answer came in the form of another searing kiss, his hands pulling you closer to him. As you melted into his embrace, you started to wonder if he had wanted this as long as you had. But you didn’t really care, you were just happy it was happening now.

 

As Spencer pulled away from the kiss, all you wanted to do was pull him back into it, you didn’t want the kiss to end. “Which way is your bedroom?” Spencer asked, his voice husky with desire. You raised your arm, and pointed out your bedroom door, and before you could say or do anything else, you felt Spencer pick you up and place you over his shoulder.

 

"Spencer! Put me down, I can walk!" you giggled, feeling a mix of excitement and shock at his actions.

 

"I know, but I don't want to take any chances. Besides, I like carrying you around." he replied with a playful smirk.

 

You had never really thought Spencer would be strong enough to carry you like this. Derek and Hotch certainly looked like they could, but not Spencer. Spencer carried you to your bedroom with ease, though.

 

As he gently set you down on the bed, a rush of anticipation filled the room. His eyes met yours, a mix of adoration and desire swirling in their depths. “Do you want to know what else I’ve wanted to do to you?” Spencer whispered, his voice low and filled with longing. Without waiting for a response, his lips captured yours again in a fervent kiss that left you breathless.

 

His hands wondered your body till he found the hem of your pj shorts. “Is it okay if I take these off?” Spencer asked, his eyes searching for your permission. You nodded slowly, your heart pounding in your chest as you gave him the go-ahead.

 

He slowly pulled down your shorts, revealing your soft skin beneath. Spencer trailed his fingers along your thighs, something he had dreamed off so many times. You felt goosebumps rise on your skin as his touch sent shivers down your spine. He palmed your breasts through your t-shirt, sparking waves of pleasure that left you gasping for air. His lips found your neck, trailing soft kisses that sent desire coursing through your veins.

 

His hands pulled your t-shirt off you, revealing your bare skin. He paused for a moment, taking you in with a mix of admiration and hunger. His lips moved from your necks and down towards your breasts, kissing each one gently. You arched into him, feeling his tongue traces the outline of your nipple, making you moan softly.

His lips then moved on to your stomach, and finally they found their way to your clit.

 

His touch was expertly gentle, yet firm, and you could feel his intense focus on you. You let out a string of moans, your body tense with the desire he was unleashing within you. You could feel your arousal building, the intensity of his fingers and lips working their magic on you.

 

You could feel your orgasm building, the intensity growing with each passing second. It hit you like a tidal wave, waves of pleasure washing over you, your body tensing and then relaxing with each powerful contraction. You cried out, your voice ringing out loud and clear through the room.

 

You tasted as sweet as he thought you would, but he wanted more. He wanted to feel you around him, he wanted to hear you begging for him. As he drew his fingers out from your damp centre, a satisfied smile graced his lips, he knew he had made a profound impact on you.

 

Without missing a beat, he rose above you, his eyes scorching into yours, and positioned himself at your entrance. You looked up at him, fear and anticipation dancing in your eyes. He glanced down at your face, reading your emotions, and caressed your cheek.

 

“Don't worry,” he whispered, aiming to quell those fears gleaming in your gaze. “I'll be gentle, and I'll take care of you.”

 

You felt his warm, hard length nudging against your entrance, and your breathing hitched. He gently pushed himself inside you, and you felt like he was filling you in a way no one else ever could. Your eyes widened in a mixture of shock and pleasure.

 

Slowly, he began to move, thrusting into you with a steady rhythm. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into you with each movement. The sensation was indescribable, like fire and ice coursing through your veins.

 

Your fingers dug into his back, pulling him closer as the pleasure built within you. “Harder, please.” You begged; your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart.

Spencer, not one to deny you anything, increased his pace, driving into you harder and faster. His eyes locked onto yours, and you could see the raw passion and need reflected back at you.

It wasn't long before the tension within you reached its peak, and you cried out as you collapsed over the edge. Spencer's thrusts grew more intense, and before you knew it, he too was surrendering to the pleasure, the satisfaction of giving you what you've always needed.

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[scarletriddles]

Lost in the fire ˚༄ | S.R

↳ in which the team’s newest case puts your life in jeopardy, at your own accord.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: angst, sprinkle of fluff

warnings: general cm gore/case discussion, fire/arson, injuries related to fire, swearing, references to religion + greek mythology, friends to…? (they’re in la-la-la-love, your honour), some possible inaccuracies (sorry!), small jemily mention because lesbian rights, hopeful ending, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person narrative.

word count: 4.3k

a/n: my first ever fic i’m very nervy🫣i’m not expecting this to gain any sort of traction, but lmk how you find it, i suppose!

“Haley Bradstone, aged twenty-five, and Laura Kilmey, aged twenty-seven, are the most recent victims in a series of murders in Detroit, Michigan. Both victims were discovered four days apart, and only five miles away from each other, their bodies disposed of in black FIBC bulk bags that were left in trash-sites.” JJ pauses, her gaze flickering between the team, almost hesitant as her thumb circles the silver remote. But, with a clearing of her throat, she continues. “Cause of death for both victims has been ruled asphyxiation…by smoke inhalation.”

You abruptly halt toying with the frayed edges of the case file, your eyebrows shooting up and head lifting to look at her, and then also at the rest of the team - who look just as bewildered.

“Sorry, did you just say smoke inhalation?” You ask, genuine confusion weighing down your tone.

JJ nods, her expression dismayed as she eyes the two beaming faces displayed on the board. “Yes, as laid out in the case files, high levels of carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide and hydrogen sulphide were found in both victim’s lungs. The coroner also noted soot around the victim’s faces, and TBSA burns, all of which are synonymous with death via smoke inhalation.”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning is actually the leading cause of death in smoke inhalation - causing approximately 2,100 deaths in the U.S each year.” Spencer adds, followed by his familiar flat smile, which he usually does when he doesn’t know what to do with his face - which happens to be always.

You blink, with a slight quirk to your lips, despite the circumstances. Trust your good doctor to know just about everything.

“Were there reports of any fires around the general area?” Hotch pipes up, his face set in his usual stony expression, though his eyes betray his pensiveness.

JJ shakes her head, adjusting her stance. “No, which is what makes this stranger. The DPD reported no calls about any sort of fire on the days our victims were killed.”

“What? So our unsub just…lit a bunch of fires in plain sight?” Derek questions, with a flick of his brow, his gaze alternating between the board and the manilla folder in his grasp.

You huff, turning to face him with a slight smile, musing. “Must be one hell of a magician.”

Derek smirks in general bemusement, his dark eyes swirled with mirth, his tone light as a feather as he shifts in his scratchy office chair. “Looks like it, lil mama.”

Ever the smooth talker.

“Or, he could be using a secondary location.” Emily chimes in, her narrow-eyed gaze set firm on the file in front of her, her slender fingers fiddling with a bullet-point pen, and her lips contorted into a reflective pout.

“That’s plausible, but you’d think at least someone would notice.” Rossi adds, with a slight huff of incredulity, his calculating gaze sweeping across the entire room before him.

The two smiling faces are quickly joined by two more, both just as radiant, both just as nausea-inducing. Those poor girls.

“We don’t know for sure. But, the most recent victims join twenty-eight year old Sarah Holloway, and twenty-two year old Jessica Bailey. Who, similarly, were found four days apart, five miles away from each other and dumped in black FIBC bags, also ruled dead via asphyxiation. However, Sarah and Jessica’s dumpsites were around 14 miles away from Haley and Laura’s.” JJ purses her lips faintly, eyes still fixated on the crime scene photographs of four similar looking women who didn’t even live properly yet, robbed of the chance to, just like Poseidon robbed Medusa of her autonomy, on the marble steps of her deity’s temple. The thought alone just worsens the crease between her brows.

“four victims…why are they only just asking for our help, now?” Spencer ponders, features frozen in contemplativeness. His fingers sweep up to push his black-rimmed frames back to their previous position on the bridge of his nose.

God, you love his glasses.

JJ’s face morphs into a faint grimace, as she replies in a reluctant tone. “Unfortunately, the media managed to connect the dots on this one, they’re dubbing our unsub ‘the smoke-killer.’ But, the DPD really needs our help with this.”

You sigh, eyes trained on the gruesome imagery displayed on the silver screen. No matter how long you’ve been with the BAU, the violence never quite gets bearable for you, though you can’t bring yourself to look away - like witnessing a car-crash. You understand the psychology behind it, shock rooting the human body in place as the brain tries to comprehend that what it’s processing is real.

But, guilt still flows around in your system like the Noachian flood. Maybe, if you thought about it hard enough, you’d feel the ark bashing against your innards as it tries to navigate the brutal waves.

You suppose the violence doesn’t get easier for the team, either. Perhaps that’s what keeps you all tethered to each other, bonded. After all, the Greeks did beat the Trojans in unity - and disguised as a large, ligneous horse, but you digress.

Hotch nods, solemnly. “Alright, we can discuss further on the jet. Wheels up in 20.” And with that, he abruptly stands up, striding out of the room with a sureness in his step that only he could possess, effectively putting an end to the briefing.

The screen then goes dark, the car-crash finally being attended to. The sounds of chairs scraping across the frizzled navy carpeted floor and paper rustling bounces around the small space, as everyone heads out and into the bullpen, all but the exception of spencer, who remains seated, brooding over his manilla file as though he’s a modern day Thomas Aquinas. always thinking. You muse to yourself, though your eyebrow still raises in question nonetheless.

“Reid, you coming?” You probe gently, standing in the doorway with a faint grin. Your eyes flickering like fairy-lights all around his hunched-over frame.

Spencer startles slightly, craning his head up from the file and over to you - a rosy hue creeping up the nape of his neck from the sight of you alone. He swallows, standing up suddenly, and pushing his chair out with his hip, as he breathes out. “Uh, yea-yeah i’m…i’m coming.” He collects his things quickly, scrunching up his case file as he slings his satchel over his shoulder. Though, it doesn’t really matter, he’s already memorised it from start to finish. Eidetic memory and all.

He flashes you his signature flat smile once again, as his muddy hues rake over your appearance. You look pretty today, well he thinks you always look pretty, but today especially. Your hair swishes around your face in wisps like cotton-candy, your frame adorned in your usual grey fitted slacks, paired with a pink striped puff sleeved button down and black leather boots.

He believes you’re the personification of an angel, and with the way the abnormally-harsh office lighting is dancing around your hair in a nimbus-like manner, he’s probably right.

“C’mon then doctor genius, we have an hour long flight to catch.” Your voice rolling out with a teasing lilt, a subtle smile curled around the edges of your glossed lips.

Spencer usually loathes being referred to as a genius, namely because it’s said with such obvious sneer and condescension, like he’s an abnormal form, like he’s still that twelve-year-old high schooler. But, you never say it with thinly-veiled disgust, no, you say it with such reverence- like it’s something to be admired.

Yeah, angel.

He mirrors your smile, eyes soft and starry eyed as he follows you out of the room. “one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 seconds.” He corrects softly, always keen for specifics, his satchel smashing against his upper-thigh periodically as he walks beside you.

You huff in amusement, rolling your eyes in jest. “Right. My bad, one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 second long flight.” Your head tilts up slightly to look up at him, your irises dipped in unsubtle gaiety,

Spencer lets out a huffy laugh of his own, shaking his head in amusement. He loved when you teased him, though he’d never admit that. At least, not to you anyway.

“Oh, forgive me for being specific.” He sounds out, airily, like a dish-soap bubble crafted by small exploring hands, as he places his own ridiculously large palm on his chest in mock-offence.

“more like particular.” You reply, just as you reach your desk, in faux-annoyance, the curl of your lips betraying that fact.

Spencer puffs out another slight laugh in response, as he leans against the edge of your desk, watching you comb through it. His gaze doesn’t settle, darting around the array of trinkets and just general stuff aligning the glossy oak, including the multiple pots of bright pens - some looking vaguely like the ones he’s seen scattered around Penelope’s ‘bat-cave’ - and even a stick-figure drawing of him scribbled onto a canary yellow sticky-note, featuring overly large glasses and converse, which are more akin to clown shoes, alongside an equally as dramatised stick-figure version of Morgan, complete with a badly scrawled out six pack and huge biceps.

He feels a warmth blossom in his chest as looks over the cluttered space. It’s just so irrevocably you.

“particular or not, i still believe everything-“ He begins.

“-everything should be accurate, wherever possible” You mock affectionately, with a barely hidden smirk, still rooting through your things like a squirrel digging for an acorn.

A slight pout forms on his face, bordering on more petulant than anything. “How’d you even know I was going to say that?”

A faint effervescent giggle slips past your lips, your head still firmly pulled down, as your hands continue their wandering through your desk drawers. “ ‘Cause you’ve said that line at least a dozen times now, doc.” You drawl out, still grinning to yourself.

He wants that sound to be his morning alarm.

He rolls his eyes, only half-seriously, a smile lighting the corners of his mouth up like a vegas ‘welcome’ sign. “I have not said that a dozen times!” He huffs out, with a shake of his head at the injustice of it all, his dark curls springing with the movement.

You just smile, continuing to rifle through your desk before you locate what you were looking for, quickly straightening up and collecting the rest of your things before turning to him.

“Well, I’m all set doctor, lead the way.”

“Is that just so you don’t get lost again?” he replies, with an overt teasing twinkle.

You groan, blowing out like a whistle “that was one time! i was still new, and the hallways are confusing!”

He just bellows out a laugh, pushing up off the edge of your desk and beginning to walk - more like stride - his way to the elevators. You in tow, but just barely. His legs are way too long.

“I can put a sign on my back that says, ‘follow me’, if needs be.” He throws behind his shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!” You bark out, not really with any bite. Never with him.

It had been about three days since you landed in Detroit, Michigan. Most of that time being spent cramped up in the tiny makeshift office curated for the team, downing copious amounts of coffee, reading files until the backs of your eyes burned and dodging the borderline leering looks from the mid 40-year-old, beer gut endowed cops.

In other words, it was hell.

The team had made some progress, though. Narrowing down the profile to a white male in his early to mid thirties, who works a menial job, of average height and build, and who clearly dislikes women. Obviously, that didn’t narrow down the ‘Where’s Waldo’ search by much. But still, you really just couldn’t shake the obvious question…

Why go through all the trouble of burning these women, but not completely, just to dump their bodies?

And it seemed that question floated around the backs of everyone else’s mind, too. It was bizarre, to say the least.

Currently, the team is all stuffed in said aforementioned makeshift office space, like sardines in a can, no less. Emily and JJ sat at the table together, as usual, Derek propped up against the wall, Hotch and Rossi stood brooding in the corner of the room, quietly discussing something between themselves, leaving you and Spencer situated in front of the board, where the geographical profile is mapped out.

“He’s operating within a 20 mile radius, dumping the bodies within an area he’s comfortable in. He’s either going to strike here.” Spencer points to a spot on the map with his finger, tapping against it slightly before dragging it across and towards another spot, “or here.” His features were swamped in pondering thought, his honeyed gaze encompassing the sight in front of him.

“Yeah, but i still don’t understand why he’d go through all the trouble of burning them till they die from smoke inhalation, and then discarding the bodies. jus’ seems a lil’ pointless t’ me” Morgan drawls out, his stance wide and his arms folded, one of his hands resting on his chin.

“well ain’t that the million dollar question.” You reply, with a sigh lathered in perplexity, your arms folded in a similar manner, but with one of your hands rubbing up the side of your arm, in a absentminded fashion.

“Morgan’s right, it doesn’t make any sense.” Hotch pauses slightly, contemplating - like everybody else in the room. His dark eyebrows stitched together, and his lips set in a taut frown.

“None of it makes sense, i mean, even the dumping method, why bulk bags and not just plain ol’ trash bags?” Emily questions, sitting back in her seat with an exhale, her legs crossed with her boot-clad foot tapping against one of the legs of the rickety table.

You blink, a thought coming to you at her question. “Theres a Hardware store in the middle of town, right?” You throw out, hands stuffed into the pockets of your black slacks.

Hotch’s brows furrow, as he regards you. “Yes, why?” He says simply, almost curiously.

You shrug, “so then he’d probably be getting the bulk bags from there, since it’s easily accessible.”

Everyone goes silent at your question, seemingly mulling it over, before Morgan responds.

“If so, why wouldn’t he just buy trash bags?” He says, with a cock of his brow.

“Because he wants the victims to be found.” Spencer states, plainly, piling onto your train of thought and rocking back and forth on his heels, as his tongue darts out, swiping his slightly dry bottom lip.

“Think about it, a bulk bag is much more conspicuous than a simple trash bag, he wants his handiwork to be seen - maybe not right away, but he knows at least one person would find the presence of a large plastic bag near a dumpster to be…alarming, whereas no one would bat an eye at seeing a trash bag. Same goes for his M.O, he most likely has some sort of access to an incinerator, perhaps due to his job, which allows him to discreetly ‘burn’ his victims, before dumping them in a way which derives notice.”

His hands flail around wildly as he talks, an endearing habit that makes it seem like he’s so excited to talk about what he’s discussing that, at the minimum, one part of his body has to move with the speed of his mouth.

You smile - more of a secret thing, really, just for yourself - you love listening to that man talk. It’s the eighth wonder of the world, to you.

Everyone nods, the notion seemingly settling into their psyche without much problem, as logically, it did make sense.

“If thats the case, then we have a problem.” Rossi scratches the side of his jaw lightly, his head tilted and his bronze hues directed at the table.

Emily raises her brow, in clear need of clarification. “What problem?” She murmurs out, her head cocked to the side, questioningly.

“We have an unsub who wants attention, and will stop at nothing to get it.” Hotch adds on, sharing a brief glance with Rossi, his expression more grave than usual, before he fishes out his phone, dialling a number and setting the onyx Nokia down onto the table. “Garcia, you’re on speaker.”

“Hello, my favourite crime-fighters! To what do i owe the pleasure?” The shrill cheery voice of Penelope Garcia rings out, immediately bringing a small smile to your face. She really was like bathing in sunshine.

“We were wondering if you could take a look at a hardware store’s sales within the last month, more specifically of FIBEC bulk bags.” Hotch drags out, his arms still folded and his face betraying nothing but his usual stoicism.

“Oh, that i can do upside down with my hands tied, sir! just…one…second.” Penelope’s voice hauls out, followed by the rapid clinking of keyboard keys. “What’s the name of the store?” She asks, her tone focused.

“Sally’s Shack” Hotch replies, his tone equally levelled.

After a few moments, and a lot more keyboard clicking, Penelope finally pipes up again. “Ah-hah! so, it appears that our shack in question has sold six FIBEC bulk bags within the last month, all to the same buyer - well, at least the same credit card was used, ending in 4678.”

Hotch looks visibly taken aback slightly, before he asks “Can you get a name, Garcia?”

“Already on it, sir.” Penelope replies, with her usual peachy tone.

A tense silence follows, only sporadically broken by the clickity-clack of Penelope’s rainbow pastel keyboard. Then, she pipes up again.

“Okay…looks like the card belongs to a 33-year-old, Mr. Eugene Humphrey, who currently works at…” Her words trail off, obvious hesitance behind them “…burns funeral home and crematory, and owns a residence just in the middle of town.”

Everybody seems to pause, then. He matches the profile - Mid thirties, works a menial job which would give him access to a ‘discreet’ burning method and just so happened to purchase the same material used by the unsub, whilst also owning his own property not too far away from the hardware store in which the material was purchased…yeah that can’t be a simple coincidence.

“Pen, does he have a criminal record of any kind?” Your voice floats out, drifting through the confined space like Thumbelina on her shamrock lily-pad.

“I will have a looksie for you now, my sweet sugar muffin, just hang on one second-“ Penelope cuts herself off as her fingers begin their ministrations again, the keyboard rumbling with every tap, a smile edging on your face at the absurd term of endearment.

“Alright…looks like our guy spent six months in juvenile detention when he was sixteen for lighting his girlfriend’s car on fire, claimed he caught her cheating on him with his best friend, youch!”

You can practically see the cogs turning in your teammates heads, looks like you got your guy.

“Okay, thats good garcia, could you-“

“-send his information over? already done, sir.” promptly interrupting the low voice of your unit chief, in a way that is so Penelope, that he can’t really object.

“Thank you Garcia, We appreciate it” Hotch replies in his typical authoritative tone.

“You’re welcome, my gorgeous gods and goddesses, now go and save lives.” Penelope chirps out, swinging on her swanky desk chair, her hands now preoccupied with a bright pink fluffy pen.

“You’re the best, babygirl.” Morgan calls out, his tone suave and a smirk illuminating his features.

Penelope lets out a giggle, replying in her token-teasing articulation. “Only for you, my chocolate thunder, now ta-ta!” Her sing-songy voice sounds out with finality, before the line drops, indicating that she ended the call.

“Alright, everyone, looks like we’re scoping a funeral home. I’ll go inform the captain, and i need all of you to gear up, as a cautionary, is that clear?” Hotch demands, his gaze expectant.

resounding murmurs of “yes” fill out the area, to which the dark-haired agent replies to with a curt nod, before swiftly exiting the room.

You let out a breath, turning to the rest of the team with a faintly reluctant expression. “Let’s get this show on the road then, guys.”

Morgan flashes an easy smile, coming up behind Spencer and clapping him on the shoulder, his smooth voice infused with teasing. “You heard her, pretty boy, let’s get moving.”

Spencer has to resist an eye-roll, his cheeks immediately flushing raspberry red, whereas you just let out a small confused laugh - clearly not in on whatever inside joke that seems to be playing out - turning on your heel and prancing out of the room, leaving the two of them to squabble like 10-year-old brothers.

Though, on your way out, you swear you saw Emily squeeze JJ’s hand underneath the table…

Something went wrong. Terribly wrong.

You don’t know how - hell, nobody on the team knows how, but Humphrey somehow found out you were coming. He might’ve gotten some frustratingly accurate in-tell, or maybe he just… knew. After all, bad news attracts bad news, right? And being arrested for the murders of four women sure seems like pretty bad news. Or maybe he was a paranoid fuck. Either thought seems plausible, but currently pointless.

Ironically, Burn’s Funeral Home and Crematory, was well…burning. The two-story high foundation, which you’re guessing was once a depressing waxen colour, is now engulfed in orange. Bright, blazing orange, and for a moment, you almost believe the sun crash-landed onto earth.

The ignited shades dance across your features , making you look like you’re almost glowing. You hear Morgan let out a few curses, and Emily mutter something eerily close to “Oh my God” under her breath. But, the rest of you remain silent, devoid of speech, heads lifted up and staring at the fiery wreckage. Drawn in, entranced.

You can’t pull your eyes away, Not even when Hotch snaps out of his own silent gazing and begins to talk around you, shooting out instructions like darts to your co-workers. Well, until you hear a fire-man trudge past you, in full PPE and carrying a winding anaconda-like hose, writhing along the gravelled floor with each step he takes, similar orders being barked out of his mouth to his team-mates. But, that isn’t what grabs your attention, it’s the information coming from his radio.

A mother and her child are stuck in there, apparently looking for a casket for her husband before the building went up in flames, and they aren’t even going to attempt to save them - something about the fire being “too large, too risky.”

A mother and her child. Her 8-year-old little girl who just lost her father, and now is going to lose her own life, trapped in a scorching maze.

Not on your watch.

You will not, cannot, let this sick bastard take another girl’s life.

Your legs move before your brain even has time to catch-up, darting straight past multiple fire personnel who all try to stop you, but you dodge each one. Not even the sounds of the team shouting your name halts you, your figure retreating straight into the raging inferno.

What’s that saying? Moth to a flame?

Well, consider the molten-structure your flame. Because you won’t stop, will not stop, not until the mother and her daughter are out. Safe.

Either way, God appeared before Moses in the form of a fiery bramble. And maybe, he was doing it again, instead for their freedom, not yours or a 120-year-old man’s. You were getting them out of this desert, even if there were no miles of grainy-sand and the occasional tumbleweed, but instead hot, piercing, smouldering heat.

Spencer’s astute brain doesn’t take long to register what the hell you are doing. And, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so panicked. He practically screeches your name, moving to go after you, but with no such luck as Morgan and Hotch hold him back. But he fights, and he fights harder than he’s ever had in his life, because this is you.

“Let me go! she’s in there! you can’t just let her go in there!” He shrieks, every word sharpened with utter desperation.

Neither Morgan’s nor Hotch’s replies to his incessant wailing actually penetrates his mind. He feels like he’s underwater, succumbing to the depths of the Mariana Trench, fading black and blue.

The water freezes over the longer you’re in there. Trapped in that dismal, enflamed formation. He feels sick, but he knows spilling his stomach content won’t provide any relief, it’s a sickness that’s lodged itself into his bones, into his very being. He wonders if this is what the Woolly Mammoths felt like during the first coming of the glacial-period, just observing as they, one-by-one, all perished to the frost.

He can’t have lost you. Not before he-

…Not before he could tell you that you’re his first thought when he wakes up, and his last before he surrenders himself to the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

No, this can’t be it. He refuses, he downright rejects the thought.

He just stares, and stares at the lit up property, his whole entity screaming for you to just make it. His mind and mouth spinning prayers to god’s he doesn’t even believe in because if there was any chance of that turning the cards in your favour, then he’s taking it and holding on tight.

The seconds feel like minutes, the minutes like hours. Time is a fickle thing, always stretching and compressing back together again depending on someone’s emotions. But, that philosophy does nothing to distract him from the ache. Because a life without you in it, he grasps, isn’t a life at all. Not one that he wants to live, anyway.

Two soot-covered frames emerge from the fiery entrance, immediately being swept away by fire-personnel for medical treatment. And his heart stops, until he realises you aren’t either of those coughing figures.

Where are you? Why aren’t you coming out?

Time seems to stretch again, expanding like a black-hole over his fitful, beating heart. Ready to consume, ravage. But, maybe, that would be an act of mercy, anything would be an act of mercy compared to the waiting. Agonising, hoping and waiting.

Then…a third figure finally bursts out of the flames. He’s seen that mop of hair before, he knows that hair. Even at a fair distance, hunched over and simultaneously gasping for air and hacking your lungs up, tousled, with skin embedded in ash, You’re beautiful and you’re alive.

You’re alive.

He pushes his body forward and he runs, he sprints and goes to you. And this time, Hotch and Morgan let him.

[strawbeerossi]

Mine

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: Whenever the police chief gets a little too friendly with you, you find yourself having a very strict conversation with Spencer at the hotel.

Content/Warnings: Jealous!Spencer, unprotected sex, squirting

Word Count: 1.6K

Kinktober Day Twenty Eight: Squirting

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

Spencer felt his eye twitching as he noticed the newest chief of police was all over you. There was a child abduction case in Nashville, Tennessee that the BAU had offered their resources to. It was standard, children going missing and parents getting weird texts the longer their children were kept captive. You were spending a lot of time at the precinct with him due to you being the designated member alongside JJ to interview the families and surviving child victims who were let go.

“So agent. I got a few questions on your profiling abilities.” The man stated as he was leaning against the desk he was closest to, your gaze lifting from the case file the team had been building up over the past few days. “Okay, lay them on me.” You were just being friendly, not being the best at sensing when men were hitting on you or outright flirting. It was both a blessing and a curse. “Is it true that kids in abusive homes are guaranteed to be murderers?”

The question was quick but you were faster to answer. “No! Not in all cases. Stressors and triggers from childhood can play a big part in the psychological damage of a serial killer but there are people who came from relatively good homes who have murdered others in cold blood. There’s no exact genetic makeup or reason yet, but one day I’m sure it’ll all be answered in depth.”

The rest of the day went like that. He’d ask a question and you’d happily answer, although he was essentially eyefucking you while you were too enthralled in an explanation to pay close enough attention. Hotch had eventually instructed the team to go to their hotel for the night, the team needed rest after being awake for nearly twenty four hours without so much as a break.

The SUV ride back was dead silent, mostly because of exhaustion setting in. However, you could sense tension in your boyfriend as you rested your head lightly against his shoulder.

He’d been abnormally quiet at the precinct, barely even looking in your direction when you came near him. You figured it was exhaustion. Not only were you up for long hours but cases involving children were some of the most draining things you’d ever have to go through. After arriving at the hotel and everyone disbanding to get to their rooms, you were unlocking the door and getting your shoes off while Spencer quietly walked deeper into the room.

“Did you want to take a shower first, babe?” You asked, offering a smile.

It faltered though whenever your boyfriend was facing you, fury in his eyes. “Are we not gonna talk about how chief Lorn is shamelessly flirting with you? It’s like you're eating it up! I mean come on, babe. Why would you ever assume he would care about profiling related things?” His tone was steady, yet anger bubbling over the surface. You looked confused, an eyebrow raised. “Flirting? Spencer, he’s asking questions. I think you’re just tired and taking your emotions out on me.”

Very good guess and probably true, however Spencer wouldn’t admit that. “No. I’m not taking out my emotions on you for no reason. You think I don’t see you batting your eyelashes or laughing at anything this guy says? You don’t know how angry it makes me to know how blind you are to these signals.” Blunt. The words had your mouth agape in shock. “I’m not flirting with the damn police chief! Jesus, Spencer.”

“I don’t believe you. You look like you are eating up all the attention. You know, I bet he wouldn’t even treat you the way I do. Do you think he’d spend every waking moment dedicating his life to you? Huh? Do you think he could love you like I do?” His footsteps were quick and his path decided to back you up against the wall. “Cause I know for sure that he can’t make you cum like I do.” His honey colored eyes were blown out with lust, his hands immediately moving to grip your hips tight. “Spencer!” You squeaked, your pussy clenching desperately around nothing as you could feel the heat of arousal coursing through your veins. Spencer hardly ever got jealous like this, however you liked this side of him. He was rough and could be a little mean, which really did get the job done. “Tell me I’m lying.” His eyes narrowed, hand under your chin making you stare up at him.

“I-I wasn’t flirting with anyone! I was just being friendly.” Your voice was barely above a whisper while Spencer sighed and dropped his hand from your chin. “Go get on the bed.” He murmured, already working on getting his tie off. You knew what you were in for. Spencer didn’t act like this much but you knew that special incidents would pull this rather uncharacteristic side out of him. You’d done what you were used to, already stripping yourself down as you were crawling onto the hotel bed while preparing yourself for whatever was coming.

You knew that he wasn’t going to give you the princess treatment like usual, instead Spencer was getting right to business as he was reaching in his bag to pull out a condom from the side pocket and using his teeth to tear it open. After rolling on the rubber, he was heading over to the edge of the bed to grasp your ankle, tugging your body down the mattress. His gaze was focused on your pussy, a low hum leaving his lips. “Look at how wet you are.” His fingers were teasingly running through your slick folds to collect your sweet arousal, holding a hand up to show off the glistening digits. “Now, I wonder who did that..” He playfully pondered while giving his cock a few lazy tugs.

As he was situated between your legs, Spencer was grasping his shaft and smacking it against your pussy before moving to run his tip through your folds to further tease you, your hand gently reaching for his hip. “Fuck, Spencer. Please.” You whined.

That was all he needed to hear, his large hands wrapping your legs around his waist as he readied himself, his right hand on his cock while the left squeezed your hip. As the thick tip was breaching your soaked cunt, the male was shushing your whines. “We haven’t even gotten started yet. Tonight, I’m gonna show you just how much you don’t need some idiotic police chief and learn how to appreciate what you do have.” Jealousy wasn’t something Spencer was proud of but the emotion was prominently on display and he wasn’t gonna hide it.

His hips were slamming against yours without warning, a loud gasp falling from your lips as your head was falling back against the mattress. “Fuck!” You cursed, feeling the burn of his cock stretching out your desperate and leaking pussy from being shoved deep into your warmth. “You think he’d have you acting like this? Look at how desperate you are and I’ve barely touched you.” His voice was low as both hands roughly gripped your hips. Spencer was normally more of the soft and sweet side, however in these sorts of moods, he was different than anyone who really knew him could imagine.

His thrusts were relentless, your pussy sinfully squelching from each rough snap of his hips, your arousal adding a shine to his cock. “Is this what you wanted? To be fucked like a cheap whore?” The vulgarity alone was making your stomach do flips. This was the man who was bashful with saying the word bitch, yet here he was, cursing and calling you a whore. You wouldn’t complain at all, mainly because you couldn’t.

With his onslaught of assaulting your cunt, you were letting out a series of moans, shaky whines, and pleas for him not to stop. Your skin was flushed, nails digging into your partner’s shoulders as you were in pure bliss. “Look at you. You like it when I abuse your cunt, don’t you? Want to be used like the whore you are? Fuck,” He huffed out, lips smashing against yours as he wasted no time practically shoving his tongue in your mouth while slamming his cock into your pussy, slamming into the spot where you needed him most.

The feeling of your walls constricting and spasming around his cock was like a dream. Spencer was sensitive, so he loved feeling your gummy walls and being able to have them gripping at his shaft, your desperate pussy making an attempt to suck in more of his dick even though it just wasn’t possible.

You were seeing stars, a familiar heat brewing in the pit of your stomach. However, you weren’t able to speak, only being reduced to blubbering about being close, even so the words were slurred together and still hard read. Thankfully, Spencer knew exactly what you were trying to convey, a hand coming down between your sweaty bodies as he was quick to press his finger against your clit, the pressure on the bundle of nerves causing you to whine desperately.

However what happened next was something that even snapped Spencer out of his jealous haze.

He was in the midst of roughly fucking into you whenever your legs were shaking violently, your nails dragging down his back as your body arched from the bed while hitting your orgasm. Instead of making a creamy mess of his cock, there was a gush of arousal that painted his thighs, pelvis, your thighs, and the hotel bedsheets below you. Spencer was slowly coming to a stop while staring at you with wide eyes.

“You’ve never done that before!” He squeaked, his eyes casting down at the glistening of your arousal painting his skin. You were fucked out, your eyes glossed over as you opened your mouth to speak, however a moan falling out soon after.

“No, no. We are doing that again!”

[ssahotchnerr]

What if a drabble about this https://twitter.com/bxnksi_/status/1754954693329998141?t=QfzPSplktYI04Owlt-gzSg&s=19 I just know hotch's gonna be taking that kiss IMMEDIATELY like no thoughts. He'll be like, "screw my point and kiss me".

priorities

this cw; bau!reader, established relationship, kissing, light suggestion, brief arguing into fluff, 6x22 references - this relates to aaron coaching jack's soccer team <3

the team's prying eyes couldn't help but be directed upwards as they attempted to work, due to the visual of you and aaron going at it through his office window. your hurried and raising voice also drifted out his slightly ajar door from time to time.

"it's not fair to you aaron." you insisted, mentally urging him to stop being so stubborn and understand your point. "i get that they need a coach, and it's wonderful they thought of you, but you're too preoccupied."

aaron scoffed lightly, crossing his arms as he leaned back against his desk, "preoccupied?"

you gave him a look - c'mon. it was a rather accusatory word, you'd admit it, but he knew what you meant. "the league should be resolving their own problems."

"isn't them asking an attempt to do so?"

"but it's not your problem, or is it your responsibility to accept. i know you feel obligated to and," you reached out to touch his arm affectionately, reminding him you were on his side. "it's so sweet of you to jump at it. but please think about it realistically."

aaron exhaled a breath of his own, turning his eyes away from yours in a subtle eye roll.

"aaron," you gaped at him, your frustration quickly turning into annoyance. "you're in the fbi. you're a unit chief, for god's sake. don't you think they should ask someone who's not on such a strict, unpredictable schedule? what happens when you can't make it to a practice? to a game?"

as you fired off all the reasonings, even throwing in the example that jessica did swing by once to pick up jack upon getting a call for a case - aaron fell quiet, knowing you were right.

he felt obligated; being unreservedly himself, he wanted to be the one to step up and take the initiative. jack's soccer team deserved someone willing and wanting to provide their undivided attention as coach, given majority of the parents were more preoccupied by their phones than watching their own kid. focus - he could provide such.

another convincing factor, being coach would provide him more time with jack. these days, the fact jack was growing up, rapidly, was slowly sinking in. before he knew it, aaron would blink and jack would prefer to do anything else than to hang around his father.

but again, from a realistic standpoint, you were right. trying to navigate a soccer team with his crazy schedule would be extremely difficult; the potential aspect of not being around, and then potentially not being able to find reliable cover - an inevitable, ongoing complication, despite how badly he wished he could manage it.

aaron hadn't meant for this to turn into a disagreement either. to be fair, he had just returned from a meeting with strauss, which always amp'ed up his disposition in one way or another.

but now you were getting heated, and as you thoroughly stated your case, aaron's eyes involuntarily kept flicking down to your lips. the more he attempted to avert his eyes away, they only lingered more.

and not wanting to argue further, he quickly surrendered to his own argument, the only thought beginning to maintain importance was how badly he wanted - no, needed - to kiss you.

"go ahead, say it."

your remark regained his attention, "say what?"

"i know that look, so go ahead." you crossed your arms, huffing a frustrated breath of air out of your nose. you had mistaken his lack of focus for another impending, contrasting detail of his, "say it."

"kiss me."

your expression changed at once; irritation shifting to a softened confusion. "what?"

"what? do you want me to beg?" aaron tossed out, a glint surfacing in his eyes and warming you from the middle out, "fine, you're right, forget about it. now kiss me."

you opened your mouth to respond, but aaron took that as an opportunity to weave his fingers through the belt loops of your pants, pulling you strictly against him and pressing his lips to yours.

once your initial surprise wore off, and focusing on how soft aaron's lips felt on yours, you kissed him in return with just an equal amount of gentle vigor.

you pulled away, your mind attempting to resist his everlasting temptation, bringing your index finger to his chest. "this isn't resolvin-"

but aaron chased your lips, immediately pressing his back to yours and stopping you mid-sentence. you reciprocated eagerly, sighing softly against his lips in content as your fingers found hold on the sides of his suit jacket.

"you're absolutely ridiculous." you laughed against his lips, providing one more chaste kiss before successfully pulling away, your cheeks flushed.

"am i?" he quipped back, rather playfully as his eyebrows rose, a cheeky expression plastered on his face - one of which only made you want to kiss him wildly.

"yeah, you are." you bantered back, exhaling to ease yourself back to the real world, which aaron also assisted in with his next statement, dropping the matter yet again.

"i'm still expecting your supplementary report on the houston case by the end of the day." he said, his hand sliding down your back and patting your ass, playfully urging you to get a move on. "get back to work."

you nearly released an audible groan but instead rolled your eyes, bringing yourself to peck aaron's lips once more. on your way out, you tossed over your shoulder. "this discussion isn't over, you know."

due to your restrained line of vision, you missed the small smirk of his lips. "and if it ends similarly, i'll be looking forward to it."

[yourlocalravendork]

Accidental date

A/N: I am a sucker for early seasons Spencer. Give me our sweet, stuttering baby Spence any day of the week. That being said, enjoy some fluff of our favourite boy genius. Buckle up, it's a decently long one

CW: Tooth rotting fluff, both oblivious reader and Spencer (for someone so smart he can be kinda dumb but we love him), wouldn't be a Spencer fic without some nerd facts, reader likes mythology

Words: 2.2k

Being a BAU agent meant an unpredictable life schedule. Spencer knew that. He knew that all too well. You didn't though. You were still adjusting to the fact that and that was apparent with the way you showed up after being called in late.

Spencer was in the break room, grabbing a coffee to wake him up, when you walked in. You were more dressed up than usual and an air of disappointment hung over you. Spencer was about to say something but Derek beat him to it.

"You look like someone's just rained on your parade," Morgan said, leaning on the counter next to Spencer, "What's ruffled your feathers?"

"A date that I'm probably not going to hear back from. I get in my car to leave and then Hotch calls," you sighed. Spencer couldn't really relate. He'd never had to cancel a date due to his severe lack of them, however, he could appreciate your annoyance. He opened his mouth to try and offer some comforting words but was cut off when JJ poked her head in the break room, telling them Hotch was expecting them in the briefing room.

Something similar happened two weeks later. Spencer was just working on some case files when you walk in with a huff, dumping your bag on the floor next to your desk. Dressed up nice, yet again, for someone who would never see the effort you put in for them.

"Can't serial killers respect our weekends?" you mutter with a roll of your eyes. It drew an amused huff from Spencer.

"Life would be so much easier that way, wouldn't it?" Spencer said, the hint of amusement lacing his voice. You had to admit, his amused tone did help ease your annoyance at being called in.

"Come on, boy genius, let's get our arses to the briefing room so we don't get lectured about the importance of punctuality," You sighed.

Spencer was slowly coming to the conclusion you were cursed. This was coming from a man of science and statistics, keep in mind. Your dates being called off due to a case was becoming a regular thing and Spencer couldn't help but wonder if you ever got time to yourself. The case started how it seemed to usually start. You came in, disappointment clear on your face, a slight slump in your posture. Spencer felt sorry for you. Truly, he did. So he decided you needed something to cheer you up.

After they wrapped up the case, Spencer found you gazing out of the jet window. A familiar peaceful look was painting your face. He'd noticed that you often enjoyed just looking out windows as you travelled. He often wondered what you were thinking as you looked out there.

All confidence he was building up dissipated when you turned your head and smiled softly as he took a seat opposite you. His face started to contort as he tried to figure out how to put this. His hands had a mind of their own as he fiddled with his own fingers, a familiar stim he had to keep him grounded.

"I... Well," he began, swallowing any fear that might be threatening to infiltrate his voice, "I sort of noticed, when you first got here for the case, you... You looked almost disappointed... And stressed, definitely stressed." He mentally cursed himself. Was it rude to say a woman looked stressed? He didn't know. He just thought he was digging a deeper hole for himself. Little did he know, you were hanging onto every word he was saying. At least someone was paying attention. Failed date after failed date did horrible stuff for your self esteem.

"Well... I... I... Um, I figured that you might need a distraction from all this work," Spencer wrung his hands, really underestimating how nerve wracking asking a colleague to spend time with you actually was, "So if you want, there's this planetarium and I have an extra ticket. I... I figured if there was anyone on this plane that would genuinely enjoy the planetarium, it would be you. So... I guess what I am trying to ask is if you'd want to go with me?" You smiled softly over at him. By the way he was continously wringing his hands, it was clear he was apprehensive in asking. But you figured what did you have to lose.

"Sure, that would be nice," you replied with a small nod. And with those five words, you could see a wave of relief wash over his face.

Spencer was patiently waiting for you to pack up your things once you reached the bull pen. He was more nervous than he thought. It was just two friends going to the planetarium together. Nothing more, right?

"You, um... You ready to go?" Spencer asked, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to swallow his nerves.

"Yeah," you replied quietly, grabbing your bag and before you could sling it over your shoulder, Spencer spoke up.

"I'll carry that, if you want," he offered. You handed your bag over, thought nothing of it. He was just being a friend.

"Thanks," you nodded as the two of you made your way to the elevator.

You got into Spencer's car and buckled up, a lot more confident than Spencer. He was worrying about you thinking anything more of this little outing. Would that be a bad thing though? He didn't know, his thoughts were too cluttered. The car ride was quiet to begin with. Spencer was a bit apprehensive on turning the radio on. He was overthinking his music taste now. What would you think if you turned on the radio and just heard classical music? Who even listened to classical music for fun? Him, that's for sure. He was pulled out of his thoughts by your voice. "Do you always drive in silence?" you asked him. He shook his head. "No, I… Um…" Words were getting stuck in his throat. Why was he so nervous? "I usually have the radio on. You can turn it on if you want." The second the words left his lips, he regretted them. You reached towards the car stereo and turned it on. The sounds of Vivaldi's Four Seasons filled the car. A soft smile appeared on your face. Spencer tried to read it. Was it a teasing smile? Were you going to take the piss out of him? "This is one of my favourite pieces," you said before humming along under your breath. That helped relieve Spencer of some of his stress. At least you didn't think he was a total nerd for listening to classical music.

Spencer had severely underestimated how many people had the same idea of coming to the planetarium. He could handle a lot of things. He saw a lot of things with his job. But one thing he could not deal with was large crowds. He shuffled closer to you, swallowing his nerves for the nth time this evening. He didn't want to say something. You were already fed up of dates being cancelled because of work, the last thing you needed was this to be cancelled because Spencer hated large crowds. As if sensing his nerves, you subtly offered him your hand. You doubted he'd take it due to the 'staggering amount of pathogens', however he did. As he did, he shot you an appreciative look. It was nothing, really. It's what friends do, right?

The two of you found your seats and settled in. It was practically packed. However, as the show began, the room fell silent. Spencer could deal with this. He was trying to focus on the talk, he really was, however, you were right there next to him. He watched you as you clung onto every word, watching as you relaxed, finding a rare moment of peace in your stressful job. It was a nice sight to see and a small smile quirked up the corner of his lips. He didn't need to look up at the projection of the stars. He much preferred to view it through the reflection in your eyes. It was almost like childlike wonder. Beautiful. That was the only word Spencer could think to describe this moment. It would be one he thought about for months, even years to come.

"Do you have a favourite star?" you asked, as you the two of you left to head to his car. Like the gentleman he was, he held the door open for you as he thought about your question. "I quite like Sirius. It's in the Canis Major constellation. According to myth, the Canis Major and Minor constellations were Orion's hunting dogs. Orion would boast about how many animals he'd killed so when he was banished, him and his hunting dogs were doomed to hunt the skies yet never to catch anything." Spencer really wasn't expecting you to still be paying attention by the end of his mini ramble. Most people lost interest. But as he looked over at you in the passenger seat, he noticed you were hanging onto every word he was spewing. It was a nice feeling, knowing someone had been paying attention. "I quite like mythology," you admit, "Especially Greek. Although Norse is quite intresting too, so is Egyptian and, of course, Roman." It was a little fascination of yours that you kept to yourself. Just something small to keep your mind off of all the gore your work had. "It's quite fascinating looking back on myths too. You can really learn a lot about the time period through myths and how certain people are portrayed," you said before going on a ramble about myths. As Spencer drove, he couldn't quite believe how much more you were being open. He knew you had nerdy tenancies, he just didn't know the extent of them. It was nice to hear you talk.

The next morning, Spencer watched as you walked over to your desk. There was a slight bounce to your step. It had worked. His little outing had cheered you up. He smiled to himself as you took a seat next to him. "Morning," you said in a rather cheerful tone as you logged onto your computer. "Good morning," he replied with a soft nod. "Good morning, love birds," Morgan chimed in, putting a hand on both of your backs. Spencer looked very confused. Love birds? Where did that nickname come from? "So, how was your date? I mean, outing," he teased, that typical, teasing smirk painting his lips. "It wasn't a date, Morgan. We just went to the planetarium," you pointed out. "Yeah, you did. Just the two of you, boy genius here drove you there and home. Sounds like a date to me," Morgan shrugged. The more he spoke, the more he was right. It did sound an awful lot like a date. "I bet he even held the doors for you like the gentleman he is." Morgan's teasing was all in good faith, as usual. However that didn't stop the blush creeping up Spencer's neck. Yeah, it really did seem like a date. Before Morgan had time to tease you anymore, Emily cut in, ready to save you two from embarrassment. "Leave them alone, Morgan," Emily said with a roll of her eyes, "What they do in their free time is up to them."

As Morgan walked away, Spencer thought about it. Yeah, the way Morgan put it definitely made it sound like a date. Spencer wasn't sure what to think about that. He began wringing his hands again. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest, his breathing was slowly picking up. He was panicking. Panicking over the fact that, yeah, he had taken you on a date and neither of you realised. "You good?" you asked, looking over at him. "Yeah…" he tried lying however his voice cracked, clearly betraying his true feelings, "Well, sort of… No." "You're overthinking," you pointed out. "Did you see last night as… As a… As a date?" he struggled to get that last part out and, frankly, he was freaking out about your reply. "I didn't really think of it that way until Morgan opened his mouth about it," You shrugged. Oh god. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Spencer's mind started spinning, running worse case scenario after worse case scenario. Until your words quietened his mind. "If it was a date, it was the best one I'd been on in a while." Your smile was soft, just like your voice. He nodded slowly, trying to process it. You weren't mad that it could be interpreted as a date. You weren't disgusted by the idea of going on a date with him. "Well… I mean… That's… Good. Good. Cool," Spencer said, trying to form words. His 187 IQ was slashed into single digits all because of you. His brain was mush. "Maybe at some point we could go on an official date," You said slightly quieter. And if he brain wasn't mush then, it certainly was now. "That would be nice," he said with a small nod.

[kiwriteswords]

oh oh i have a fluff v day request! maybe reader is jacks teacher and they have a class valentine’s day party, when hotch picks him up after school, jack is trying to set them up by planting one of those silly cartoon cards in either of their pockets 🤭

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me a Match [Aaron Hotchner x Teacher!Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 1k|| AN: Happy Valentine's Day! Thank you for this request, lovely! I had so much fun writing it--I never usually write Jack-related fics, but when I do, I wonder why I don't more often because they're so sweet! ||Requests are still open for Ki2k!!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, Valentine’s Day, non-bau!Reader, teacher!reader, Jack's teacher!Reader, Jack Hotchner is present (for those who do not like kid fics, lol), sadly had to use Y/N Y/L/N :P--sorrry!!!

Summary: Jack comes home beaming about his pretty teacher to Hotch everyday, so when Valentine's comes around, he finds the perfect reason to get the two of them together.

Jack's little feet pounded on the pavement as he bounded towards the car where Hotch was waiting, his face lit up with the day's excitements. Throwing open the car door, he barely waited for the buckle to click before he started.

"Dad! Did I tell you what Miss. Y/L/N did today? She showed us how to make volcanoes with baking soda and vinegar! It was awesome!"

Hotch smiled, driving off as he listened. "Sounds like you had fun. Miss. Y/L/N seems very creative."

"She is!" Jack's voice was earnest, eyes wide. "And she's really pretty, too. She wears these nice dresses, and her hair is always perfect."

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a small chuckle escaping him. "Is that so?"

"Yeah! And she's super smart. She knows everything about science and books and... um, maybe you should ask her about the Civil War? You like that stuff, right?" Jack's attempt at casualness was comically transparent.

"I do," Hotch replied, his interest piqued both by the mention of history and the subtle undertone of matchmaking in his son's voice. "Sounds like you think she'd be good company."

Jack nodded vigorously. "She'd be the best! You always say you want someone smart and kind. And she's the best teacher ever. Everyone thinks so."

As they pulled into their driveway, Hotch ruffled Jack's hair, considering the little seeds his son was planting. "Maybe I'll have to meet Miss. Y/L/N at the next parent-teacher conference."

"Yeah! And maybe you can ask her about her favorite book or something," Jack added, hopeful.

Hotch laughed softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement at his son's not-so-subtle matchmaking. "Maybe I will, buddy."

Jack grinned, satisfied, his mission for the day accomplished.

The next time Jack came bursting into the car after school, his backpack swinging wildly as he clambered into the passenger seat.

"Dad!" He held up a piece of folded paper, waving it excitedly. "Miss. Y/L/N gave you a note!"

Hotch glanced over as he pulled away from the school parking lot, one hand steady on the wheel. "Oh? What’s it about?"

Jack grinned like he was holding the world's greatest secret. "I think she likes you."

Hotch blinked. "What?"

Jack wiggled in his seat, practically vibrating with excitement. "She sent you a note! Teachers don’t just send notes unless it’s important. And I heard my friend Olivia say that when someone writes you a note, it’s because they like you."

Suppressing a laugh, Hotch reached for the paper at a red light, unfolding it with careful fingers. His eyes skimmed over the words--just a standard, typed letter about an upcoming parent-teacher night and some classroom updates.

"Jack," he said, amusement coloring his voice, "this is just a general note. Every parent got one."

Jack frowned, his enthusiasm faltering for the first time. "Oh." He thought for a second, then brightened again. "But maybe she really wanted you to see it!"

Hotch sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. "I’m sure Miss. Y/L/N is a wonderful teacher, but she’s just doing her job. It’s not a secret message, buddy."

Jack crossed his arms, unconvinced. "I don’t know…she does walk me to pick-up.” 

"Because she walks all the students to parent pick-up," Hotch countered. 

Jack sat in contemplative silence for a few moments before mumbling, "Still think you’d be a good couple."

Hotch chuckled. "Noted."

The school hallways were quieter than usual, the loud bustle of daytime replaced by a hushed, anticipatory energy as parents trickled in for the evening's parent-teacher conferences. Hotch adjusted his tie as he approached your classroom, Jack's enthusiastic endorsements echoing in his mind.

He paused at the doorway, spotting you as you animatedly discussed a student's progress with a couple before him. Even from a distance, your passion was palpable, your gestures animated and your smile bright. When it was finally his turn, you looked up, recognition and warmth lighting up your features.

"Mr. Hotchner, it's great to finally meet you," you greeted, extending a hand. "Jack speaks so highly of you."

"The feeling is mutual," Hotch replied, taking your hand. "He hasn’t stopped talking about you since school started."

As you both sat down, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You shared insights about Jack's strengths and areas for improvement, your words thoughtful and encouraging. Hotch was struck not only by your understanding of his son but also by your genuine care for all your students.

"I strive to create an environment where they can all feel supported and challenged," you explained, your eyes lighting up with a fervor that resonated deeply with Hotch. It was clear teaching was not just a job for you but a calling.

The conversation shifted from academic achievements to personal interests, and Hotch found himself discussing topics he rarely explored with strangers. Your interest in classical literature and your hobbies sparked a shared enthusiasm. Hotch was pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed talking about his own rare escapes.

which he seldom shared due to his demanding job.

As the meeting concluded, Hotch stood up, feeling an unexpected reluctance to end the conversation. "Thank you for everything you’re doing for Jack," he said sincerely. "And not just for him--for all the kids."

"It’s truly my pleasure," you replied with a smile. "They make it easy."

There was a brief pause, a moment of shared understanding, and an unspoken acknowledgment of a connection neither expected.

"If you ever need help with any class activities or if you organize any field trips," Hotch added on impulse, "I’d be happy to contribute."

Your smile widened, pleased and surprised. "I'll definitely take you up on that."

As Hotch walked away, he couldn’t shake the warmth that filled his chest. Jack might have had childlike motives for wanting him to meet you, but Hotch couldn’t deny the genuine interest he felt--a spark ignited, perhaps, by the passion and beauty you exuded, both inside and out.

The door clicked shut behind Hotch, and the familiar sound of home was a welcome relief after the draining hours of a difficult case. As he shrugged off his coat, the sight that greeted him was anything but the quiet he had expected. 

Jack was in the midst of chaos, surrounded by a whirlwind of craft supplies--glue sticks, construction paper, crayons--all spread out like a tornado had swept through their living room.

Jack had just begun staying home for short periods of time by himself--something Hotch didn’t take lightly, but this was not a sight that he ever expected to see. 

"Jack, what's going on?" Hotch aske, his tone a mixture of amusement and concern as he stepped carefully over a stray roll of tape.

"Dad!" Jack looked up, his expression frantic but determined. "I need to make the perfect Valentine's card, but nothing looks right!"

Hotch knelt down, picking up a half-finished card that was more glue than paper. "Isn’t tomorrow just the school Valentine's party? What about the box of cartoon Valentines we bought last week?"

Jack shook his head vigorously, sending his hair into disarray. "Those are for my classmates! This one has to be special--it’s for Miss. Y/L/N. I want it to be perfect because I want her to come over for dinner and have a romance like in the movies. Like the Disney ones!" His eyes shone with the earnestness only a child could muster. "And you have the right hair to be like Prince Charming!"

Hotch couldn’t help but laugh softly, touched by his son's intentions yet aware of the need to tread carefully. "Jack, it’s very sweet that you want to do this for Miss. Y/L/N, but inviting her over for dinner and trying to set up a romance--that’s something she and I would have to talk about. It's not on you to worry about."

"But Dad, I just want you to be happy, and Miss. Y/L/N could make you smile," Jack protested, his lower lip trembling just a bit.

Sitting down beside his son, Hotch put an arm around him, pulling him close. "I know, buddy, and that means a lot to me. It’s okay to make her a card, but we should keep it about thanking her for being a great teacher, okay? As for dinner, how about we invite her over as a thank you from both of us, just to enjoy a meal, not as a date? We can see where things go from there."

Jack seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding, a small smile creeping back onto his face. "Can we still make it the best card ever?"

"Absolutely," Hotch agreed, his heart lightening at his son’s quick recovery. "Let’s see what we can create with less glue this time."

Together, they spent the evening crafting a more modest but heartfelt Valentine's card, Hotch guiding Jack’s enthusiastic efforts. As they worked, Hotch couldn’t help but think about your reaction, the warmth of your smile in his mind giving him more hope than he wanted to admit. 

Maybe Jack’s little plan wasn’t so far-fetched after all, just premature. As they set the finished card aside to dry, Hotch found himself looking forward to handing it over, curious and slightly hopeful about where a simple dinner invitation might lead.

Valentine's Day had brought its usual flurry of excitement, and amidst it, Hotch received an email that made him pause. It was from you, thanking him for the generous card and his contributions to the classroom Valentine's Day party. Reading between the lines, Hotch assumed it was also a nod to the dinner invitation Jack had ambitiously included. Buttoning his coat, he headed to the school, curious and admittedly a bit nervous about the meeting.

As he entered the classroom, the scene was vibrant with kids laughing and trading candies and cards. Jack spotted him immediately and with a grin wide enough to split his face, dashed over and grabbed his hand, tugging him through the clusters of giggling children.

"There’s my dad!" Jack announced proudly, pulling Hotch towards you.

You laughed as Jack nearly yanked Hotch off his feet. "Easy there, Jack, don’t break your dad’s arm off!"

Jack paused, gave Hotch a comically exaggerated wink, and said, "I’ll leave the romance to you two--it is Valentine’s Day, after all!"

You chuckled, shaking your head at Jack's antics. "Hotch, you’ve raised quite the little charmer."

Hotch, a bit flushed but smiling, replied, "I’m not sure where he gets that from. I’m currently at a loss for words.

"That’s alright," you said with a gentle smile. "I don’t mind coming up with the words, as long as that dinner is still on the table."

"It definitely is," Hotch assured you, his tone warm and more confident.

From the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Jack giving a not-so-subtle thumbs up before darting off to join his friends, leaving Hotch and you to chat amidst the joyful chaos of the classroom party.

As the children continued their celebrations around you, the two of you discussed logistics for the dinner, the conversation easy and flowing naturally. It was clear that what started as a child’s innocent matchmaking might just turn into something truly special, much to Jack's delight--and perhaps to his credit.

[alicewritez]

Gossip - Aaron Hotchner

word count: 1329

summary: you’re a new recruit at the BAU and a firm favourite of Hotch, which has not gone unnoticed by the team. unbeknownst to the team, you and Aaron are in a relationship and are holding another secret; there’s more to what than meets the eye.

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

authors note: implied age gap, mentions of student-teacher dynamic, brief mention of pregnancy at the end but nothing too descriptive. it’s just a bit of fun/fluff. feel free to send requests of any criminal minds character you’d like 🩷

You leave Aaron's office after he briefed you on your tasks for the day; still in the probationary period. You're a newly hired profiler and a very clear favourite of Aaron's. You were surprised to hear that everyone thinks of him as a bit of a grump - he's a soft, gentle and kind man underneath the hard and stern exterior.

As you leave his office, everyone turns to look at you and you're flooded with questions. Are you two secretly related? Why does he like you so much? What is going on between the pair of you?

But truthfully, you didn't know yourself, you were just as clueless as the rest of the team. Sure, you could definitely say you harboured a crush for the man, but he had made no attempt to reciprocate those feelings. Not that he really knew about yours anyway.

Derek gives you a gentle nudge, grinning widely as his eyes glisten with mischief and he surprised a laugh. "So, you and Hotch are close?"

You shrug as you sit down at your desk. "I don't know, I suppose so..". Morgan raises an eyebrow at your nonchalant response. "You don't know?"

Penelope chimes in as she weaves her way back through the desks to get to her office. "It's so obvious. You two are clearly close! You're also, like, half his age. How do you know each other?"

You set your files on your desk. "He was one of my teachers back at the FBI Academy."

Both Derek and Penelope's eyes widen at the revelation, not imagining it could have been something as simple as that. David chuckles from his office before moving to stand against the doorframe with his arms folded. "So you're the fresh-faced prodigy we've all been hearing about."

David's smile widens. He knows you're exactly the prodigy the FBI has been boasting about for months. "But it's true, isn't it? You got your Ph.D. at nineteen and you're the youngest person to join the BAU. You were also the youngest to graduate the FBI Academy."

You suck in a breath, "well, you've certainly done your research.. but I only graduated thanks to Hotch..". Derek leans forward, his smile growing wider. "'Hotch', huh? He really is a softie for you, isn't he?"

You furrow your brows. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that we've all noticed that he's much tamer around you." Penelope chimes in again, her voice full of excitement. "Yes! Much softer, too! I've never seen him smile so often until you joined."

"I think you're reading too much into this. He's probably just being nice because I'm new." You wave them off, making a start on the files piled in your desk.

Spencer, the youngest besides you, looks at you skeptically. Sometimes he could be too smart for his own good. "You're not just any new agent, though. You're a brilliant one. You're smart, talented, gifted, and young. And you're a favourite of our unit chief. Who also happens to be a grumpy, intense man who can be hard to impress. I agree with Derek and Penelope, there must be more to the story."

"Well there really isn't." You sigh as you start writing some notes up. Each member look slightly skeptical at your response, but decide to drop the subject for now, seeing how you wanted to just get on with your work. Once you were done with your notes and reports, you excuse yourself to Hotch’s office, knocking gently on the door.

A few seconds pass before you hear his voice call out. “Come in.”

You slowly step inside and close the door behind you, files in hand. Hotch looks up as he hears the door open and close, looking up at you with a small smile. “Finished with your reports already? Impressive, as always.”

“Yeah but,” you pause, “that’s not the reason I’m here.” Hotch raises an eyebrow as he sets down his pen, giving you his full attention. “Then what is it?”

“The team are figuring it out.” You fiddle with the corners of the files in your hand, while Hotch’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Figured it out? Figured what out?”

“Stop playing dumb Aaron… about us..”

Hotch pauses for a moment at your use of his first name, then a sigh escapes his lips before he rubs a hand over his forehead. “I suppose they’re all talking about it, then.”

“Talk of the office yeah.” You sit down, dropping the files onto his desk with a small thud. “I suppose they were bound to find out we were together sooner or later but, I didn’t think it would be this quick.”

Hotch chuckles softly, his eyes focusing on you. Seeing your worried expression, he stands and walks around the desk to stand in front of you. He takes your hands, intertwining your fingers together. “They’re just being nosey. They’ll get over it and move onto the next bit of gossip soon.”

You sigh, squeezing his hand. “I hope so.” He rubs the back of your hand with his thumb, the gesture affectionate and soothing. He knows you don’t like being the constant topic of office gossip. “Hey, look at me.” He tilts your head up gently so that you’re looking directly into his eyes.

You look into his eyes, melting under his touch. He gazes into your eyes and over your face, his expression full of affection. He lifts a hand and tenderly strokes your cheek, his touch sending chills down your spine. “No matter what the others think or say, none of it matters. I chose you. I’ll always choose you.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you whisper, “I love you.”

He smiles at your soft admission, his heart swelling with love and affection. He pulls you closer, his arms encircling your waist. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You smile giddily, your arms wrapping around his torso. “You’re being very bold doing this in the office.”

He chuckles, his arms holding you close to him. Despite the risk of someone walking in on the two of you at any moment, he’s too lost in the moment to care. “Can you blame me? It’s my way of showing the others who you belong to.”

You smile softly up at him. “I think we should give them something else to gossip about.” He grins gown at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What do you have in mind, sweetheart?”

You pull away from him, bringing your hands to rest on your stomach. “We tell them about this.” You and Aaron had found out weeks ago, but chose to keep it quiet for now, not wanting too many to be involved just yet. It was nice that just you and Aaron knew.

His smile widens at your words. He follows the movement of your hands, placing a gentle hand over yours on your stomach. “You think it’s time?”

“We can’t hide it forever.. however much we may want to.” You respond, deep down wanting to keep it to you and Aaron for a while longer, but also knowing the team deserved to know.

He nods, his eyes fixed on the spot where his hand is resting on your stomach. He can’t help but smile wider. “You’re right. But are you ready for all the questions and comments we’re going to get?”

“No, but.. it was all going to come out eventually..”

He nods in agreement, his hand gently caressing your stomach after pulling your hands away. “You’re right. You know, you’re the bravest and most brilliant person I know. Nothing can stop us.” He drops his head down and plants a tender kiss on your forehead, then on your cheek before finally capturing your lips in a loving kiss.

Little did either of you know, the team had all been listening in from outside his office door, hearing every word. But they wouldn’t say anything, they’d let you and Aaron go to them first.

[somuchforahobby]

invisible string

Summary: Jessica is out of town and Hotch hires a new nanny for Jack Word count: 8k Warnings: Hotchner is afraid of women Tags: Tooth rotting fluff GIFS belong to @kiwriteswords Read on AO3

Time, curious time

It had been quite a while since you got a job interview. You had been recommended by your friend Jessica to her brother in law to take care of her nephew for a few weeks until she comes back from a work-related trip. But first you had to be interviewed by him and Jessica warned you it was not gonna be a walk in the park.

You didn’t know if you had to look like governess or a Nanny Fine, so you went somewhere in the middle, with an oversized blazer, straight jeans, a crop top and loafers. You wanted to look professional and mature but not boring and old.

When you arrived at the Cafe, your eyes quickly searched for a man alone, who seemed like a dad, but you could not find any. Only one that was much closer to a Calvin Klein catalog than what you expected to be Jessica’s in law. He raised his hand and for a second you thought of politely saying no with your head, because you were here for a job interview not a flirt, but then realized.

“Mr. Hotchner?” You asked, once you have walked to his table.

“Yes, nice to meet you, please have a seat.” He stood up from his chair and extended a hand to you. You shared a professional hand shake and sat in front of him.

“Thank you for agreeing to this in such a short notice, I appreciate your time.” He said, raising an eyebrow, forming a crease in his forehead. “Do you have your resume?”

You handed it to him, his eyebrows remained creased as he readed it. While he did it, you ordered a latte to the waitress, his eyes quickly examined you while doing so.

“Why did you study pedagogy and education?” He asked once your coffee had arrived.

“I think the best way to eliminate violence is education, I want to contribute. Also, I like to study human behavior, in a way, and the way we educate children has a lot to do with how they grow up to be. So I’m passionate about that.” You calmly explained, his sigh was still stern. “And I also really like the outfits we get to wear as educators” you decided to throw in a small joke to get a smile but it flopped magistrally. 

“According to this” he gestures to your resume, “you’ve had experience helping children to cope with trauma, can you talk me through the process?” He finished his question and took a sip of his coffee.

“Yes, sure, it’s mostly through art. We either paint, draw or sculpt feelings and we explain them, that way we can talk about ourselves while being grounded by some self made craft.”

“You bring the materials?” 

“Yes, sir. In case there is anything extraordinary I’d be letting you know about extra costs, and of course it’s all based on the child’s preferences and allergies.” 

“I would not want Jack to be off school, get home and feel like he still has work or school to do, how would you manage that?” 

‘What a fucking jerk’ you thought, the superiority in his tone made you cringe.

“Well, yes, sir. I have a masters in Primary Education, I think I can realize when a child is bored or exhausted and change the activities for something that makes them have fun and relax. So, yeah, I am indeed trained to manage that.” You were certain that answer alone was gonna get you off the job because of the moody tone it came out with. Oddly, you saw the corners of his lips curl upwards just a little.

***

“He hated me” You stated the moment you picked up the phone call from your friend Jessica.

“He loved you!” She overspoke through the line.

“What?” You both said.

“You first” she requested

“He hated me, he was polite but his tone, OH MY GOD!, his tone was implying I was an idiot question after question.” You explained as you walked down the street to your apartment.

“He just called me to ask me when it’s appropriate to tell you you’ve got the job!” Your friend was laughing over the line.

“So, when is he gonna call me?” 

“I said I’d tell you myself.”

You laughed through the line and yelled a little in excitement for finally getting a job.

“Let’s have dinner tonight to talk about Jack and his father.” Your friend made plans and you thought they were perfect.

***

“So, you’re a child’s profiler?” The tall skinny guy you had been talking to since you arrived was very interested in your work.

“Not really, no. I treat kids with trauma to avoid them growing into it.”

“But can you realize when there’s a psychopathy in them?”

“Yeah but I don’t treat them, I refer them to a psychiatrist and I advise the parents to take therapy as well.” 

“That is so interesting, how do you treat them then?”

“Well, I usually work with kids than have blocked their trauma, so I can give them exercises and activities to learn it, live it, understand it and manage it—“ A voice calling your full name interrupted you. You turned and saw Mr. Hotchner on the threshold. You nodded to the young man who you were talking to and headed to your employer’s office.

“Please, come in, how can I help you?”

“Thank you. Well it’s just procedure, a few questions I have to ask before I start treating a child—“

“You are not treating my child.” He scolded you.

“Yes, I am.” You gave him his tone back. “But if you will be ashamed of it then your son will be too and this is not going to work.” 

“Go on.” He took a deep breath.

***

Gave no compasses, gave me no signs

You and Jack had spent the day playing in the snow, then coloring and finally, you requested his help to cook dinner in order to teach him to be independent. Truth is, you two were really getting along.

Dinner was ready when Mr. Hotchner arrived.

He called your name as soon as he opened the door, and the corner of his eyes wrinkled when he saw little Jack with an apron in the kitchen.

“Daddy, I made you dinner!” The little guy raised his hand holding a spoon, wearing a big smile.

“That is amazing, buddy. Then let’s have dinner.” Mr. Hotchner hugged Jack. “How was your day?” He turned his gaze to you, still holding Jack.

“It was great, maybe Jack should tell you what his favorite part was.” You asked him as you laid out the plates for dinner.

“The snowman!” He said with a big smile and you did as well.

“Thank you very much, that would be all for today.” Your boss gave you a handshake with the stern face he always has on. “Jack, say goodnight to your nanny.” He put the boy on the ground.

“Can’t she stay for dinner?” He asked his father. Mr. Hotchner raised his gaze at you in a questioning manner. You scrunched down to meet Jack’s eyes.

“No, sweetie. This is quality time you have to spend with your daddy, besides we only cook for two.”

“Are you also having dinner with your daddy?” He tilted his head to the side in confusion and you couldn’t help but laugh. With the corner of your eyes you saw Mr. Hotchner laughed as well.

“Yeah, I should, right? See you tomorrow little buddy.” You gave him a hug.

You walked to the couch to get your backpack and headed out of the house.

“Goodnight, Mr. Hotncher, Jack.” You gave them a smile before opening the door and walking out.

***

“Hotchner”

“Hey, Mr. Hotchner, sweetie get in the car–” 

“what’s going on?” 

“Sir, I can’t work from your apartment today” a car door closed in the back

“what’s wrong?” 

“There’s a–god–I don’t–I think there’s something inside” You were trailing off, he could hear you starting a car.

He said your name trying to get you to focus.

“I won’t go in there, sir, we will be in my apartment, you can pick up Jack when–”

“Where are you? I’m sending an officer”

“That’s not necessary”

“Come to my office, now” that sounded like an order

“Sir, let me just” you took a deep breath, trying to calm down

“Stay on the line, I will locate your phone”

“Sir, there’s a rat!” You screamed. Jack’s laugh resonated through the line.

“A rat? This is because of a rat?” He was ridiculing you.

“Yes, I opened the door and saw a rat running through the living room. So I can’t go in there.” 

“Daddy, she’s afraid of rats!” Jack screamed through the phone, laughing at you.

“Don’t you ever do this again” And he hung up.

“I think he is afraid too” You told little Jack as you drove home.

***

“Daddy! You’re early! Can my daddy make one too?” Jack jumped to hug his father the second he walked through the door, showing him the paste of play-doh he was holding.

“Yes, of course!” You answered, clearing another seat at the table for him. “Maybe, I should explain the activity again for your father to join in, would you like that Jack?”

“Yes, yes!” 

Mr. Hotchner had no other choice but to drop his briefcase and blazer on the couch and join both of you at the table.

“Today’s activity, Mr. Hotchner is to think of one emotion we have been feeling a whole lot this week and try to represent it in the play-doh. Jack and I had already started so you gotta catch up. Once we finish our sculptures we will share them with the rest, okay?” You looked at him with an apologetic look and he nodded in response.

“I made two,” Jack started to explain. “One is sadness and the other one is happiness.” He pointed at each of the sculptures, one blue and one pink. “The blue is the sadness and the pink is happiness.”

“Why did you choose those colors, Jack?”

“Because blue is a sad color, I think. And also when my daddy is sad he plays music he calls blues.”

“And why have you been feeling  sad,  Jack?”

“I don’t want to say it in front of my daddy, he says I have to be strong.” The little boy covered his face with his hands, in shame. You turned to look at his father in concern and he was just as ashamed as his son.

“Sweetie, if you want you can tell me in secret but you can also share it with your father because above all people, you should trust him to know how you feel.” Your tone was soft and tender, your focus only on the blond child sitting in front of you. “Or you can talk about happiness while you think about how you want to share the sadness.” You finally see a smile form in the little guy’s face. 

“Yes!” He yelled. “I am happy because you’re my new friend and we paint, and play a lot.”

“Oh, thank you sweetie, I am very happy to be your friend too. And why is happiness pink?”

“Because your backpack is pink! When I see it after school I know it’s going to be a fun day!” He was glowing, making your heart fill with joy. “You go!” 

“Okay, I made surprise, because this whole week I have been surprised with you Jack, because you are so smart, funny and amazing!” Your little friend blushed but quickly turned to his father to hear what his emotion was.

“I did love, because that’s the feeling that floods me when I am with you, and this moment is the most important I’ve had in my week.” 

“Not catching the bad guys?” Jack asked, excited.

His father moved his head from side to side with a smile, giving him an answer.

“Now, would you like to share why you have been feeling sad, buddy?”

“I miss my mommy” The little boy dropped his head to the table and you could swear your heart had been smashed. You looked at his father to handle it, but by the look of his face he wasn’t anywhere near to do so.

“Thank you very much for sharing this with us, Jack, is there anything we can do to make you feel better?” You ask. Jack said yes with his head and raised his arms in a hug. His father was quick to raise him in his arms in a tight hug. A tear rolled down your boss’ cheek when he mouthed ´thank you´ to you in complete silence.

“Thank you, that would be all for today” He dismissed you as he took off his jacket, but before you could turn away little Jack took his hand, guiding him a few steps from you.

***

“Daddy, I need to tell you a secwet ” 

Mr. Hotchner gestured for you to wait while he talked to his son, he hunched down to reach his height and the 5 year old leaned to whisper in his father’s ear. Your boss’ face turned from amused to intrigued in seconds while the child eyed you up and down.

“Thank you for sayin that, buddy. Wanna watch some TV while I talk to her?” The little blond kid nodded and walked to the living room. Mr. Hotchner guided you to the kitchen to talk, but you already knew what this was about the second he leaned against the door frame, locking you inside. “Jack says you cried today” folding his arms on his chest.

“I can explain.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Well, uh, today when I went to pick Jack from school the teacher said his grandfather had already picked him up.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Even though his voice was lower, he was speaking louder to you, rougher. His shoulders seemed to grow wider and his height taller.

“Sir.” You warned him, “I decided to check first and panic later, which was not necessary because Jack was actually with his grandfather.” You gave him his scolding tone back and saw how his shoulders went back to its original size.

“You should have called me.” He stretched his neck sideways, trying to relieve stress.

“Well I didn’t” you crossed your arms and turned away from him, tears pricking your eyes again. You heard him sigh.

“And then what?” 

“Well I drove to his house.” Your voice was shaking. “And he said a lot of things.” 

Mr. Hotchner said your name in a slow whisper, giving you the courage to look back at him.

“He said horrible things, sir.” Tears were already scrolling down your face and any signs of anger on him disappeared. “It’s not even worth saying them again.” 

He strode closed, “I’d like to know, please.” He raised his palms to your elbows but never actually touched you. He just stood there, in front of you, with his arms stretched to hug you but without the courage to do so.

“He said” you finally met his gaze, “that you… killed her?” A sob left your mouth at the sole repetition. “Is that…?” You couldn’t finish the question. He never had told you exactly what happened to Jack’s mom, he said she had been murdered while Jack was in the house, only that.

“No.” He turned away, “Of course I didn’t do it.” He kept moving his head sideways, almost obsessively, as if he was trying to convince himself as well. “It was a serial killer. He offered me a deal, not to go after him and he would not kill while I lived, but I declined it. I thought myself better, smarter, and I wasn’t responsible enough to take the necessary security measures.” He took a deep breath and you continued crying.

”is he in jail?”

”no.”

You gasped, “so he is still out there?”

“No.” One of his hand raised to massage his eyes in circular motions, “I killed him.”

Your entire body froze at the confession, alarms were flashing inside your head, warning you all the possible trauma that Jack might be suffering because of this. This was much more problematic that “his mother was murdered” as Mr. Hotchner said in your interview.

“Sir, that’s-“

“I know.” He returned to his initial position against the door. “What else did Jack’s grandfather say?”

“Well he insisted that I wasn’t a pedagogue, that I was with you” you turned down again, embarrassed, “so that I would be next.” 

“Did Jack hear any of this?” 

“No.” 

“Good. The first part, he,” he took a deep breath, “believes it is my fault, he thinks my mistakes are what pulled the trigger.” He was looking away, avoiding eye contact. “For the second, I apologize.” 

“Sir, don’t” now you wanted to comfort him, “why haven’t you put him to a stop?”

“Maybe because I think he is right.” He looked down and that was all you needed to round his chest with your arms, pulling him into a hug, his head falling to your shoulder.

“He is not” you repeated slowly while your fingers ran through his hair.

***

Were the clues I didn’t see?

Your boss had let you know he’d be coming home later than usual and requested you to stay home with Jack. Since this had turned out to be an usual request, you always had an extra change of clothes, pajamas and all the basic beauty products in your car.

So after you had dinner with Jack, left some for his father and got him to bed, you headed to the bathroom to get yourself ready to sleep.

You turned the tv on and chose a documentary in the Discovery Channel to lull yourself, after a few minutes you were fast asleep.

The keys didn’t wake you up, neither did the door opening nor the man walking in. Not even him turning off the tv. What woke you up was his judging stare or at least that’s what you woke up to.

“Jeez, Mr. Hotchner, you scared me. What time is it?” You said, sitting in one movement, with your eyes still sleepy.

“It’s 2:30 am. What if I was a murderer?” He asked, and maybe it’s because you were sleepy but you think he was teasing.

“I’m sorry, I was so tired, I couldn’t stay awake for long after putting Jack to bed.” You kept apologizing for… sleeping? At night? Like a human being? 

“No need to apologize, go back to it. I’m sorry I woke you up.” 

“No, sir, I should get home.” You stood up fast to get out of his scrutinous eyes but you were still sleepy so you ended up stumbling on your boss’ chest. His hands secured you by your shoulders. Your eyes automatically raised to his and for a few seconds you allowed yourself to admire him. Gosh, he was so handsome. He raised an eyebrow and that was your cue to stop staring.

“Careful, you can’t drive like this.” You’d swear his voice had dropped an octave. “Sit for a few minutes”

“Yes, sir.” You sat back down, your cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. He walked out of the living room.

“Do you always stay on the couch?” He asked from the kitchen. You didn’t have the courage to look back yet.

“Yes.” 

“Even when I leave for several days?” 

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t. Sleep in my bed next time, please.” You finally turned your head to see him, shook by what he had asked you.

“Sir, I don’t think that’s appropriate.” You quickly answered.

“Why not? There’s nobody else there. I don’t see why you would neglect a perfectly comfortable bed when nobody else is using it. I need you to rest so you can take care of my child.” His tone was scolding, he sounded like he was talking about something serious, not asking you to sleep on his bed.

“Understood.” You limited to answer and stood up from the couch without losing eye contact with your boss. Or at least enough to see him scan your whole body in seconds and you felt nothing but shame.

There he was, with his pristine suit, tailored head to toe while you wore pink booty short pajamas. You started to fold the covers on the couch to distract yourself from him. Although you couldn’t, you wish you had stayed seated to avoid him seeing you like this. He must think you're a simple, immature woman. He must be the type to like lingerie for pajamas, not the Walmart 2x1 100% cotton promos.

You were lost in your own thoughts of how must be the woman he likes, how well he must treat women, fantasizing of your boss like a man, for once, when his voice interrupted your train of thought.

“Aren’t you cold?” 

“Mm?” You railed out.

“Aren’t you cold? It has been snowing lately.”

“No, not really. The heating system is enough. I'll change so I can go home for the night, excuse me.” And so you walked through the room to the bathroom.

“I’mma go home, Mr. Hotchner, have a good night.” He was still in the kitchen when you were leaving, you got your backpack without looking back and headed to the door.

“Good night”

You opened the door but he called your name before you could be out.

“Yeah?” You turned back to see him.

“Text when you’re home so I know you’re safe.”

“Sure, Mr. Hotchner, good night.”

***

“Is this yours?” Mr. Hotchner asked you, holding a hoodie in between his fingers. Jack was already asleep and you were gathering your stuff to leave for the day after one of your boss’ three day work trips.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” You quickly grabbed it, blushing. You had forgotten it in the bathroom after your morning shower.

“Did you go to Georgetown?” He pointed at the hoodie. Casual conversation wasn’t usual with him, so his question took you out of your concentration.

“Oh, no.” You scoffed, “I was a barista in Georgetown. Getting discounted coffee to the guys in the souvenir store got me some stuff.” He smiled. “You didn’t know? I thought the FBI knew even my high school hobbies.” You teased as you finished folding your clothes in your backpack at the end of the couch.

“Yeah, right, cheerleading and making out with the quarterback?” He teased back with a side smirk that melted your insides, walking to you. You laughed.

“What gave me up? The reading club or the academic scholarship?” You asked, giggling. He smiled, coming to sit next to your backpack, looking up to you.

“I never actually searched you in the FBI database.” 

“What a hustle!” You fake mocked, “what if I was a murderer?” You repeated his question from days before. He smiled again.

“I would’ve known,” he nodded with a confident smirk.

“How?” You put your backpack on the floor and sat next to him.

“I’m very good at my job.” He scanned your face thoroughly, his smile nowhere to be found.

“Oh, really?” You asked, your gaze lost on his lips and how his tongue came out and licked them.

“Yeah” he swallowed, nervous.

“What am I thinking, then?” Your voice was merely a whisper, the tension in the air had gotten the best of you, the logical side of your brain nowhere to be found. His eyes had never been that dark, traveling between your own and your lips.

“That is very late,” he took a deep breath, “and I should” his eyes closed and you bit your lower lip in anticipation as he leaned closer to you when his phone rang. He jumped off his seat in a second.

“Hotchner.” 

You stood up to grab your backpack and head for the door when he lifted a hand motioning you to hold.

“I’m on my way” He said, closing the flip phone. “I have to go back, do you mind staying? I can call a co-worker if you need to leave, he can stay with her husband.” He asked you, taking off his jacket.

“No, it’s ok.” 

“Thanks. I’ll take a shower and go, please feel free to go to sleep.” And with that he disappeared in the bathroom.

***

“Hotch” his voice resonated through the line, manly and powerful. Made your mouth water, honestly.

“Hey, Mr. Hotchner, I’m sorry to bother you-“

“It’s not a bother,” he interrupted you, “you can call me anytime. Is everything ok?”

“It is, but Jack had a bit of a breakdown today and I think we should talk about it.” 

“How is he now? Do you need me to be there?” He was concerned.

“No, no, he is good. I calmed him down and lulled him to a nap. I’ll text you recommendations on how to behave tonight according to how I see him when he wakes up.”

“Thank you. Let’s have brunch tomorrow while he is at school, 1 o'clock is ok?”

“Perfect.”

“He misses his mom, of course.” You started to explain once you both got your coffees and had exchanged the usual courtesies. He didn’t seem surprised at all by your discovery. “But he says some boy at school told him he can have a new mommy.” You repeated the exact words Jack had said the day before. Mr. Hotchner seemed to be confused. 

“How?”

“His daddy needs to pick him a new mommy. And Jack is upset that his daddy hasn’t done it because he doesn’t have time.” You finished explaining but the gears in his head were still working.

“A step mother?” He finally asked with his usual eyebrow up.

“I think—yeah.” You took a sip of coffee to let the idea sink in.

“I… okay.” He finally said something. His whole face was a puzzle, he was evaluating the options. For once he had more questions than answers. “Should I… get him one?” It was absurd to even ask.

“Look, I definitely cannot tell you what to do, and your dating life is none of my business but as your son’s nanny I would strongly advise you not to introduce anybody to him until you’re very certain of the relationship.” You gather the courage to say.

“So I shouldn’t hurry to find someone?” 

“No, Mr. Hotchner. Jack needs to know that he won’t have another mom, that he already has one. But he has to understand and grieve the death of his mother. As painful and horrendous as it is.” You saw his eyes fill with water at your words. He only nodded in response.

“He will be okay, he is a smart kid and has a loving father helping him in the way.” You gave him a smile and he mimicked one.

“I wish I was around more often.” He took a sip of coffee. “You’re real wise for your age, uh” He sounded amused and scolded at the same time.

“I’m not as young as I’d like to, though”

“Do you mind me asking?”

“Not at all, I’ll be 32 this year, I’m getting old.”

“Oh, I wish I was 32 again. So young, full of hope.” He was glowing, a half smile formed on his lips.

“Well, if I’mma age like you, I shouldn’t be worried.” Oh, shit, you said it. A blush creeped your face the moment you realized and apparently his too. “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry, Mr. Hotch—.”

“Please don’t be.” He cut you off. “Flattery isn’t common in my line of business, I appreciate it.”

“Well, in mine is overly common.” You exaggerated the phrase to lessen the tension.

“Oh, really?” He leaned both of his elbows on the table, amused, “how so?” 

“You do know I do therapies in a clinic, right?” He nodded in response. “Well, there was this one time, I was treating a 10 year old girl for sexual harassment, one day, her father comes to pick her up from the therapy and, in front of her, he just straight out asked me if I was interested in a threesome with his wife!” You blushed at the memory and he laughed. He actually laughed. 

“What did you do?”

“Well I explained to him why his behavior was inappropriate, even more in front of his daughter, and transferred the girl to another therapist. A forty something year old partner, so even if they dare to propose to her, I doubt she’ll have the libido for it.”

“Hey, be careful there.” He actually commanded you and damn it was hot. His phone rang once. You showed him your hands in surrender.

“Hotchner.” You looked at your watch, you had to pick up Jack in 20 minutes. “I’m on my way.” And he closed his phone. “I’m sorry I have to go.”

“It’s ok, so do I.”

After paying the bill, he walked you to your car like the gentleman he is. He even opened your door once you turned off the alarm.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Hotchner.” You said to him from inside your car.

“Nothing to thank me for, and please call me Aaron.” He stated before closing the door and sending you a wink.

***

Isn’t it just so pretty to think

It was a Saturday night, you were getting drinks with your friends when you got a phone call, you answered to your full name being called on the line.

“Hello, sir.” You said with a smile.

“Is that the hot guy?” Your friend asked next to you. You shushed her.

“It’s my employer.”

“Good to know” you heard him chuckle through the words.

“I’m sorry, I have very nosy friends, Mr. Hotchner. How can I help you? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to interrupt but I have an emergency call and I need you to come stay the night. If you’re busy or… intoxicated, I can call someone else.”

“No, there’s no need. I’m the designated driver. I can be there in 30 minutes, is that ok?”

Your friends booed you until you agreed to pay for the next two rounds. 

When you arrived it was nearly 3 am and he was already in his usual perfect suit.

“Nice outfit” he said the minute you got inside, eyeing up and down your mini black dress and heels.

“Thanks. Likewise.” You made a mock reverence with a smirk, earning a soft smile on his lips.

“Do you have a change of clothes?” He asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I always carry some essentials,” you pointed at your backpack, “just in case.” 

“Well if there’s anything you can use from either mine or Jack’s closet, please take it.” He said as he walked to the door.

“Thanks, sir. If I’m ever in need of a Gucci tie and a spiderman shirt I won’t hesitate.” Your tease didn’t go unnoticed since the edges of his lips curved upwards.

“It was a gift” he quickly justified, smiling.

“Of course” you kept your smug face.

“From a friend.” He was clearly amused by the exchange.

“I need one of those.” You closed your arms on your chest. 

“I can introduce him to you.” 

“Is he single?” 

“Not to you.” 

You gasped in mock surprise, “what does that mean?”

“Sweet dreams.” And with a smile he closed the door.

***

You and Jack were having dinner in your pajamas, you’ve made Mac and Cheese, Jack’s favorite. It was your last night special before his father came back from a trip and would have to go back to regular, healthy dinners.

“Oh, sweetie you’re so sleepy already!” He hadn’t finished his food and he was already falling asleep on the table.

“Can I have some juice?” He asked you, blinking.

“Of course sweetie.” You stood up to grab the bottle of juice from the counter but you didn’t realize Jack was running just behind you, so when you turned back to fill his glass, he crashed against you, throwing juice all over your pajamas.

“I’m sorry!” He screamed.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. I’ll get cleaned up in a minute.” 

You sent him to bed after he drank his juice, cleaned the kitchen and headed to the master bedroom to take a shower.

Every time you showered in your boss’ bathroom you took your time to satisfy your curiosity smelling his body wash, lotion, shampoo, everything. And this time wasn’t the exception.

Since this was the last night of his trip you had no clean clothes left. So you searched through his drawers for something that could be used as pajamas.

You found an old FBI t-shirt that fitted almost like a dress, in the morning you’d put it in the washing machine as well as the sheets you’d been sleeping in. You’d only washed them on your way out, so you could smell a bit of him every night when you went to bed. Sick? Yeah, you had made your peace with it. That night you slept better than ever, the smell of his clothes relaxed you way past any expectations.

In the morning you got up at 6:30 as usual, to get Jack’s breakfast ready, so you walked to the bathroom to wash your face. When you walked back to the room still half asleep, a voice took your out of your thoughts.

“Nice shirt”

You raised your head to find your boss dropped on the still unmade bed, with half lidded eyes, scanning you, taking extra time on your exposed legs and his t-shirt.

“Good Morning, Mr. Hotchner, last night Jack spilled juice all over my pajamas and I had to borrow—“ He stood up from the bed. “I was gonna wash it along with the sheets—“ He started walking towards you, you were begging your legs to run back to bathroom but your body was numb. “I swear this won’t ever happen again nor it has happened before—“ you were stuttering, covering your mouth in shame. He finally reached you, cornering you to the wall.

“Aaron.” He finally said. “Call me Aaron.” 

His eyes were filled with determination and lust, his hands landed on the wall behind you, just two inches separating your bodies. He was towering, looking down on you like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

You scanned him as well, your insides were starting to liquify at his smell. He was still in his suit pants and shirt, he had lost the blazer and tie, the first three buttons were undone, giving him a domestic look and your mouth watered at the sight.

“Understood?” He kept you trapped. 

“Understood.” You said with a knot on your throat. You swallowed, your breathing was strong and agitated, maybe he could even hear your heartbeat.

He tilted his head down to you, his eyes closed like he was focused. Although his expression was of a man in pain. When he was just a few centimeters from you, he took a deep breath and pushed himself away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking. That was inappropriate, please forgive me.” He walked out of the room before he could finish talking.

Once you gathered enough courage, you walked out straight to the washing machine to put the sheets and tshirt.

“Good morning, boss.” You limited to say when you saw him cooking breakfast with the corner of your eyes.

“Don’t boss me, I think of me as an employer rather than a boss, wouldn’t you agree?” His tone was as serious as always. Back to normal.

“What’s the difference?”

“First off, I don’t pay your taxes. And second, I am not a real authority to you.” He was measuring your body language with the corner of his eyes.

“I think you’re authority enough.” You set the machine and turned your body fully to him to show authority as well.

“I wash them every sunday” He said while cutting ham and cheese.

“I don’t wash them because I think they are dirty.”

“Then why?” He was honestly confused.

“Because I don’t think you should sleep in sheets that somebody else has slept on.”

“Do you wash them when you arrive?” He asked.

“No.”

“Why? Somebody has slept on them.” He kept preparing an omelet.

“Because I don’t care” 

“Neither do I”

“Sir, I don’t think it’s appropriate to sleep in the same sheets as your kid’s nanny.” You used the m tone you use to explain things to children.

“But is it appropriate for my nanny to sleep on my sheets?” Well you weren’t ready for that knock out.

“You’re right, sir. I will bring my own from tomorrow on.” 

“I didn’t mean that.” he quickly tried to fix it. “You can use mine, I don’t mind. I just don’t want to be doubling the work.” He tilted his head, explaining.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring my own and leave your bed ready for you when you get back.” You didn’t even turn to look at him.

“Hey, about this morning, I’m sorry. I was out of the line, I don’t want to make excuses but I am really tired, and—“ this time you interrupted him.

“Don’t worry, sir.—“

“Aaron” he corrected you.

“I understand. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” You sent a subtle tease.

A devilish grin played on his face. 

“How do you want your omelet?” He asked, blushed.

“Don’t bother, I’ll have breakfast at home.” You grabbed your backpack and left.

***

It was around 10:00 pm, you were working on some other kids files when the door opened. Your legs were extended on the couch, your back leaning on the armrest and you were wearing glasses. This was not a position where you wanted to be found by your boss, even less now. In the last few days you have been avoiding him as much as possible, despite whatever your feelings were, you knew he was vulnerable and probably misinterpreting your presence.

At the end, he was still a parent for a kid you were treating and any complaint of him could take out of business really fast.

“Hello, Mr. Hotchner.” 

“Hey” He left his briefcase on the couch and headed to his son’s bedroom, as always. From the hallway he called you “Please wait, I need a word.” After he gave Jack his goodnight kiss, he came back to the couch and sat on the other end.

“How is he doing?” He took off his jacket, threw it away and started to loosen his tie. What a sight for sore eyes.

“Better, I believe. He talks about his feelings way more, that’s good.”

“Jessica comes back next week.” He completely took off his tie and now was unbuttoning the neck of his shirt.

“About that, would you like me to still treat Jack after that?” 

He raised his shoulders in answer, unbuttoning the cuffs.

“Do you think he needs to?” He asked you while he folded up the cuffs.

“It’s your son, Mr. Hotchner. This is a choice you should take, with him, of course.” 

He let himself relax on the couch, dropping his body completely.

“I have no idea.” He breathed out. He was exhausted. “How do you see him?”

“I think his trauma is far from healing, he is barely getting close to it, but he is starting to talk about it.” A light snore came from Jack’s bedroom interrupting you.

“Come closer” Your boss gestured with a hand to the space between you. You scrunch your legs to a butterfly position, causing you to be seated next to him. “Go on.” He rested his head on the pillow, closed his eyes and fully extended his legs from the couch to the rug beneath it. Knowing he wasn’t looking, you took your chance to stare at his face, how different he  looked relaxed in opposition to what he usually looks. Just as handsome.

“I don’t want this to sound like I want to keep him forever, although I would like to” a smile escaped the corner of his lips, “but I think it’s important that he talks to a professional. It can be me, or it can be a therapist, whoever you want, but please, please, don’t let this golden heart child become a traumatized, hurt, misunderstood adult.” Your tone reflected all the love and care you felt for this kid, and he realized. He turned his head to you with eyes opened. Took your hand and led it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“You’re an angel.”

***

“Hello?” You answered the phone to hear your full name on the other line in the voice of your employer. “Hey, Mr. Hotchner.” He was on a work trip and would be returning this afternoon, or at least that’s what he said yesterday.

“Are you still going to the wedding?” He asked. Earlier this week you explained to him you had a very important wedding to attend and kindly asked him to be home Friday night so you’d be able to go, request that he only answered by questioning if the said wedding was your own otherwise he could not promise anything.

“Umm, I guess that’s really up to you, sir.” You heard him clear his throat through the line.

“Do you have a date?” You panicked, absolutely panicked. Your cheeks flushed and were thankful to be over the phone and not face to face. He said your name in a questioning manner to get an answer.

“Uh, no, I mean—“ you swallowed, “I do have an extra ticket but no, no date.”

“I think I can fix that, if you let me” he was teasing. Your whole body was melting over this man’s voice and Jack’s eyes looked at you with concern. “There’s someone who I think would like to go with you, if that’s okay with you…” 

“But, um, who’s gonna—“ take care of Jack? You wanted to say, but your mouth was dry and your throat was closed.

“He’s a nice looking fella, I’d say, for his age.” You could practically hear his smile. ‘You don’t have to compensate yourself, you are a work of art!’ Your mind was shouting while your heart pounded inside your chest in anticipation. “So, what do you say?”

“I would love to” you managed to say.

“Thank you.” He sighed. “Due to bad weather that’s the only way I think you’ll make it to the wedding, we are flying in the morning. I think there’s a tuxedo somewhere in his closet—“ He kept baffling and you were having trouble understanding.

“Jack?” You asked, looking over your little friend. And it all made sense now.

“Yes” You could hear a small laugh, “who else would it be?” 

“Of course, I’ll get this guy handsome and ready. Thank you, sir.” You tried to brush off the disappointment, but also your expectations.

“It’s Aaron.” 

“Have a safe flight.” And you closed your phone feeling like an idiot.

***

That all along there was some invisible string

“Daddy, can I have a girlfriend?” Jack asked as you and him finished making dinner. The early arrival of your boss that night had taken you by surprise and had no other option but to ask him to ‘help’ but he only leaned against the counter, rolling up his sleeves while you two cooked.

“Mmm” Aaron looked at the kid analyzing him, “why do you want to have a girlfriend?” 

Jack shrugged.

“He asked me that earlier today and I said that was something he should ask his father.” You explained.

“I think you should have a girlfriend whenever you meet a girl who you want her to be your girlfriend. Or a boy, doesn’t matter.” 

Jack seemed to think about his father’s answer for a minute, then he looked up to you.

“I want you to be my girlfriend!” He smiled and you could not help but laugh. You lifted him, sitting him on the counter next to his dad.

“I can’t be your girlfriend, I’m too old for you.”

“Buddy, rule number one, you gotta ask her if she already has a boyfriend.” Aaron leaned to say near Jack’s ear, smiling at you.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jack asked you.

“Or girlfriend.” His father instructed.

“Or girlfriend?” 

You laughed, “no.”

“Then you can be my daddy’s girlfriend!” His smile grew wider while his father blushed.

“Jack” He tried to stop him, laughing.

“He thinks you’re pretty.”

“You little traitor!” He lifted the kid and threw him on his shoulder, Jack’s laugh filled the house as his father faked-wrestled him, taking him to the couch. A few minutes later, Aaron returned, flushed and with a thin layer of sweat on his face, “these kids uh? Say the craziest of things.”

You bit your lower lip to hide your smile.

***

The final day came.

You said your goodbyes to Jack after a whole month of being his best friend. He cried, of course, so did you. You promised to visit his aunt Jessica once a week to play together, you promised him to be friends forever. You hugged him till he fell asleep in your arms, while his dad observed in silence.

You left him on his bed, kissed his forehead and walked out holding your own tears.

“Thank you” He said while he walked you to your car.

“Anytime, and really, if you ever need any help with that little guy, please call me. I adore him.”

“I know. And it’s mutual, I see.” He smiled.

“Yeah, I guess we were kinda meant to meet.” You joked. “Did you think about whether or not I will keep on treating him?” You asked, leaning on your car’s capo to make some time. He took a deep breath, so you knew it was bad news. You were already nodding before he said a thing.

“I think therapy would be better, he just loves you too much.” 

“No, I agree.” You looked down to hide your disappointment. “Well, thank you, Mr. Hotchner–”

“Wait.” He turned the alarm of his car off, opened the passenger door and took out a gift bag that then handed to you. “I got you something, for, well, all the help.”

“Oh” you smiled, “you really didn’t have to buy me anything.”  You grabbed it shyly.

“Actually, I didn’t” A half smile adorned his face.

You opened the bag to find the FBI shirt you had worn as pajamas that one time. A full smile formed on your lips.

“Thank you, I love it.” When you raised your sight to him, he was beaming.

“Looks better on you, anyway.” You blushed at the comment.

“Thank you.” 

He opened the door of your car and you walked towards it.

“If you’re not treating my kid anymore, can I ask you out sometime?” He asked while still holding the door for you. You blushed and smiled at the question.

“Sir, I–” 

“Aaron.” He corrected you yet again.

“Would love to, Aaron .” You said his name, like an experiment on your mouth.

“Will you add me to your list of perverts?” He teased.

“That is completely up to you” You teased back.

“I take the challenge.” 

You got inside the car and he closed the door sending you a cheeky wink.

Tying you to me

[avis-writeshq]

04 — you are in love

summary: “you can hear it in the silence.”/”you can hear it on the way home.”/”you can see it with the lights out.” in other words; the four times spencer wants to kiss you, and the one time he wishes he did. pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn,  warnings: drug mention, alcohol (reader gets a little tipsy), vomit (not in detail) wc: 3.4k a/n: thank you again to the wonderful amazing @astrophileous for beta-reading MWAH zara you're a real one &lt;3 SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

Falling in love is something that Spencer thought he would never get the luxury of doing. It’s a fairytale. After all, his parents were supposed to be a perfect example of what love should be like and look how they ended up. Yet despite it all, he always seems to find himself going back to you. You, who makes it so easy to love but he doesn’t deserve it. He refuses to believe he deserves it. He feels so horribly broken that it doesn’t make sense why you would love him, or why he deserves to love you. 

It takes Spencer another three months to actually properly come to terms with the fact that he’s in love with you. He’s spent most of his free time attending Narcotic Anonymous groups upon your insistence and he hates to admit that it helps. He didn’t think they would at first, despite the swirling statistics of their effectiveness but he figures that it wouldn’t hurt. The other times when he’s not doing something drug related, therapy related or work related, he’s with you. Your apartment is almost like a second home to him and you’d given him your spare key (he went home with a ridiculous grin on his face and had to chug several cups of water to calm himself down). 

Since your leaving the BAU, he’s left a series of trinkets on his desk that remind him of you. A little ceramic blue bird beside the animal skull models. It’s no bigger than his pinky finger and when he asked you why you gifted it to him, you told him that it represents hope and renewal. He thinks he needs a lot of that.

In the first drawer of his desk is a framed picture of you and him at a Doctor Who convention with him dressed up as the Tenth Doctor and you in all blue in an attempt to dress up as TARDIS. It was a fun and silly day but it was enjoyable and that was what mattered. After a series of unfortunate events, Derek happened across the photo, claiming that there was no platonic explanation for it. 

(“Care to explain this?” He had asked, holding the frame with a grin on his face. He was looking into Spencer’s desk for a specific file on the Benson murders, only to be met with a very familiar face.

Spencer immediately lunged for the photograph, grabbing it and securing it back in his desk with a heavy slam. “Don’t.”

Derek put his hands up in mock surrender, although his eyes were sympathetic. “There’s nothing platonic about that, kid.”

He huffed in response, rubbing at his eyes and taking a seat at his desk. “I know.”)

The first time he came to terms with the fact that he actually wanted to be with you was after a specific realisation. Some cases are harder than others. It’s a given; some cases are just more difficult to deal with and therefore harder to compartmentalise. Each person is different, especially when you factor in trauma. Derek struggles when pedophilia is involved, and JJ finds suicide cases the worst. Hotch can barely function properly when children are targeted, and Emily hides behind a mask so effortlessly that the most mundane things can get to her. After a period of thought, Spencer realises what he struggles to deal with: bullying.  

“You should have– you should have heard what they were saying!” Spencer insists, pacing his living room floor while throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. 

He had just returned home from a case in West Bune, Texas, and it was probably one of the most difficult cases he had to go through. The UnSub was a teenager named Owen and after a very tense confrontation with him outside the police department, he was taken into custody. The entire nature of the case irked him. So many deaths could have been prevented if people just did something but now a boy is in custody with a body count nearing the double digits. 

“They didn’t even try to deal with the bullying,” he continues, running his fingers through his now long hair. He can’t bring himself to get it cut; especially not after the incident with Hankel some moons ago. 

You don’t say anything, sitting on his couch and sipping your tea, your eyes trained on the way he paces back and forth. 

“People are dead because of them. I’m not saying that they didn’t deserve it because they did, but something should have changed.” His words are harsh as he continues to walk, clenching and unclenching his hands. 

“You can’t change anything about it now,” You say gently, your gaze shifting from his hands to his arms to his face. “What’s done is done. All we can do is hope that the school board learns from their mistakes.”

“But they don’t!” He exclaims, turning to face you. He swallows thickly before sighing, slumping into the seat beside you and pressing himself into his side. “It’s just so… frustrating. They never learn.”

You nod, running your fingers through the knots in his hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“That could have been me,” he says quietly, burying his face into the palms of his hands. He presses the pads of his fingers into the corners of his eyes, stars dotting his vision.

“But it’s not,” you say firmly. “You’re a good person, Spencer. You’re saving people and putting the bad guys away. That’s a far cry away from being an UnSub.”

You’re looking at him now and he tilts his head to meet your gaze. You’re so close to him and Spencer can hear his heart pounding in his ears. 

Kiss her.

The words that enter Spencer’s mind are enough to give him whiplash and he pulls away, pretending that he doesn’t see the hurt in your eyes when he does. 

What?

“Are you okay?” You ask, frowning up at him. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind. He offers a smile. “I’m okay.”

*** 

“Emily doesn’t blame you, you know.”

The words hang in the air as you sit on the floor of your bedroom, the thundering storm pounding against your windows. Spencer shrugs, sitting next to you. The power is out across Washington and the flickering of candles helps to light up the room. Spencer fiddles with the rug on the floor and your brows knit together. 

“Walter.”

“I know.” He buries his face in his hands and lets out a groan. “I know, I know. It’s not my fault. It just feels like it, you know? We knew that it was a cult but we didn’t know that it was… that bad. God, angel, you should have seen her. She was beat up and everything and it feels like I could have done something.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you chastise, brushing your shoulder against his for a moment. “You really need to take better care of yourself.”

He doesn’t respond, simply moving so that he’s lying down on the rug in your room. It’s a soft tufted rug that goes from a dark purple in the middle to white around the edges. It’s one of his favourite rugs in the world. You’re sitting cross legged beside him, leaning against the bed. The soft glow of the candles illuminate your face and you truly look like an angel in this light. 

He just came back from a case in La Plata County in Colorado and he was ordered to take a week off by Hotch to deal with the traumatics of the case. What started out as an undercover investigation in an underground cult led to a gun fight and a bombing, all while Spencer and Emily were inside the compound. The way Emily looked so in pain after the whole ordeal would haunt him forever; the black eye she suffered from, the bruising to her chest… he doesn’t even want to think about the rest of the things that could have happened. 

“Stop.”

Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and he sucks in a breath.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says meekly, playing with the rug underneath him.

“It’s not your fault.” You smile at him before hitting him lightly with one of your pillows. “Stop that.”

He laughs loudly, grunting a little from the impact of the pillow colliding with his face. “Hey!”

You grin teasingly and hit him again with the pillow. He retaliates quickly, gripping the pillow and trying to tug it out of your hands. Your grip is a lot stronger than he thought it was and his tug sends you flying towards him, a shriek leaving your lips as your forehead bounces off his. 

A hiss of pain leaves your lips but you’re laughing as you clutch your forehead. “Spencer what the hell?!”

“I’m sorry!” He says, not really meaning it, and rubbing at his head. He’s laughing along, his cheeks warm as he smiles up at you. His hands move to your face, one to your cheek and the other to brush the hair on your forehead to the side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You laugh again, smiling a brilliantly beautiful toothy smile. The candlelight dances in your eyes with a warm orange light as you do. “Are you?”

His gaze meets yours, watching the way you brush a strand of hair behind your ear and the way your eyes crinkles when you smile. He watches the way you lean against the side of the bed, tilting your head back with your eyes closed. God. He swears you’re trying to kill him.

“Spencer?” You ask with a soft chuckle, and the sound is so pretty that he doesn’t mind the fact that you find amusement at his expense. “Are you okay?”

He nods, his throat dry and his cheeks hot. He blames the candles. 

*** 

The couch is never comfortable. You are well aware that the couch feels strangely lumpy and you’re pretty sure one of the springs is broken but for some reason you keep insisting to take it whenever you stay at Spencer’s apartment. The blanket he lets you use is thick and cosy to make up for it and the pillow is always fluffed. 

“Good morning.”

Spencer’s voice is raspy with early morning vocal fry and it makes your heart lurch in your throat. 

“Morning,” you murmur, eyes still closed in an attempt to calm yourself down. Maybe if you don’t see him you won’t embarrass yourself.

“Still tired?” He asks, and you hear him start the coffee machine. There’s the sound of rustling in the background along with the flicking of a switch. Too many sounds for too early of a day.

“Mm.”

He chuckles, deep and rumbling, before sipping some water. “Yesterday was fun.”

Yesterday involved fourteen hours of watching Doctor Who and passing half way through the nineteenth episode after stuffing yourself full of junk food. Yesterday involved passing out on Spencer, forcing him to move you to the couch and into a position that wasn’t going to destroy your neck. Yesterday involved the most platonic and innocent activities known to Earth, despite the way his words insinuated something entirely differently. 

“You fell asleep before the best part,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

“You could have watched without me.”

He shakes his head as he stirs the sugar. “That wouldn’t have been right.”

A hum leaves your lips as you get up from the couch, stretching your arms and making your way over to him from behind the kitchen island. You’re wearing one of his old Doctor Who t-shirts that he let you keep, the sleeves reaching just past your elbows. Your hair is a mess and your eyes are half closed but you look so…

Cute. Seeing you in his shirt drives him wild. There’s something possessive about it and for a second he feels gross. He feels like he’s taking advantage of you but he’s obviously not; you’re the one who stole that shirt from him many moons ago and you’re the one who chose to wear it that day. Regardless, he can’t help but be transfixed as you walk around his kitchen like it’s your own home. Spencer’s eyes follow your figure as you pull open one of his cupboards and grab your mug (a really stupid avocado mug that’s bright green with a lid) before pouring some coffee into it. 

“You’ve been going to your NA meetings, right?” You ask him, sipping your drink.

He nods immediately, his gaze never leaving you. “Yeah. Once a week.”

“That’s good!” You tell him, the caffeine slowly beginning to wake you up. “That’s really good, Walter.”

He smiles at you, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Thank you.”

For a few moments, all he can think about is you. Your hair smells like your special vanilla shampoo that Penelope got you hooked on and your skin smells like lavender and orange blossom. He remembers JJ giving you a sample in the office and you went and ordered a whole bottle during your lunch break right after. The compliments you got that day were like no other, and he remembers the way your eyes would light up every single time someone commented on the perfume, as well as the way you would excitedly talk about the different notes. Now, whenever he smells lavender or oranges he thinks of you. He doesn’t think it’s a problem in the slightest.

You sip your coffee again, the sound of the toaster dinging in the background, accompanied by the thick smell of char. In an instant, Spencer jolts from his place and places two very burnt slices of toast onto the plate, his nose scrunching up in frustration. 

“I was gonna make you breakfast,” he tells you lamely. “I think we should get croissants.”

You laugh, dumping the pieces of toast into the bin and nod. “I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

*** 

The rare occasion when Spencer drives is when you’re not fit to. He picks you up at two in the morning at a bar and you’re sitting in his passenger seat. Your hair has a few tangles here and there and you’re wearing the prettiest purple dress. 

“You really didn’t have to pick me up,” you tell him tiredly, rubbing at your eyes. “I could have gotten a taxi.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, leaning over the console to buckle in your seatbelt. “You called me, I’m here. I’m not going to let you get into a stranger’s car when you’re drunk.”

 “I’m not drunk!” You protest, your head leaning against the car door. “I had one drink.”

“Which can lead to a blood alcohol level of 0.01 to 0.03,” Spencer says, shooting you a smile. “I’d rather not risk it, angel.”

You groan and lean back on the chair. “I swear I’m fine.”

“Why didn’t your friends take you home?” He asks, starting the ignition. “Didn’t you say you were going to hitch a ride with them?”

A hum leaves your lips and you nod. “That was the plan. But one of the designated drivers couldn’t come last minute and the car wasn’t big enough.”

Spencer frowns, backing out of the driveway. “How long were you waiting outside of the bar?”

“Um…” your brows furrow as you think of the answer and you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. “Ten minutes?”

“(Y/N).”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think it would have been that long,” you huff, rubbing at your eyes. “I promise I was careful.”

Spencer shoots you a frustrated look, sipping at his lukewarm takeaway cup of filtered coffee but keeping his eyes on the road. “You should have called me sooner.”

“I felt bad,” you respond sheepishly, offering him a guilty smile.

Spencer hums, running a hand through his hair. He hasn’t had the time to get it cut so for the time being it’s left slicked back and out of his eyes. He’s wearing his glasses now, too, because he didn’t have the time to put in his contacts. He looks a lot better than he did eight months ago, and he feels it, too. The white t-shirt he’s wearing is filled a little better now that he’s gained a little weight. Happy weight you had told him, pinching at his sides, it means you’re healing.

“Can you pull over?”

Your voice comes out small and Spencer snaps his head to look in your direction. “Yeah. Yeah, of course– hold on.”

He parks at a random McDonald’s on the side of the freeway and you immediately get out of the car and hurl in one of the bushes. He grimaces, getting out of the car to rub your back comfortingly.

“You okay?” He asks, continuing to rub circles on your back. He holds your hair away from your face, watches as your necklace dangles from your neck and catches the light from the 24/7 fast food place.

“... I might have had a little more than one drink.”

He can’t bring himself to get upset at you. Instead, Spencer just sighs and brandishes a bottle of water from the side pocket of his car. “Sip it slowly.”

You do as asked, taking small tentative sips of the cold water. He holds your hair in place, brushing a few strands away from your eyes and forehead. 

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you taking a taxi,” Spencer says with a hum, satisfied when you finish drinking half the bottle. “What if you threw up in their car?”

You groan, wiping a hand over your face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, angel,” he says sympathetically, lifting your chin with his index finger so that you’re looking at him. “I just worry. You should be able to rely on me, too, you know.”

“Okay,” you say through drunken stupor. “Didn’t mean to worry you, Walter.”

“I know,” he repeats softly, running his fingers through your hair. “Hey. Look up.”

You do, and you stare up at the sky. Stars dot and litter the navy sky, and if you squint you could see a faint blue star.

“That’s Venus,” he explains, gesturing to the little dot. He points to a smaller, redder light just below it. “That’s Mars.”

Even amidst the light pollution, the planets shine brightly. Your gaze is fixed upon the little planets and stars, enjoying the midsummer night’s breeze, the nausea you felt moments prior beginning to subside.

“Do you know what Venus represents?” Spencer asks softly, brushing his shoulder against yours, smiling when you shake your head. “Venus represents love and beauty in Roman mythology.”

You laugh, pressing your nose into his shoulder. “Do you believe that?”

“Scientifically? No,” he admits, “Venus is a planet. It doesn’t really represent anything but a giant ball of gas. But people place significance on insignificant things because it gives them meaning so I understand why they do it.”

It’s quiet for a little while, aside from the occasional sound of a car passing by and a cicada chirping. A cool breeze blows past but it’s more comforting than anything as the two of you sit on the hood of his car: an old 1965 Volvo Amazon in the colour blue horizon with paint chipping off at the inner fenders and bumper ends. He lets you sit on his jacket, your dress and legs protected from the dirty car bonnet. Your head is on his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his and you’ve traded your heels for a pair of Spencer’s spare mis-matched socks.

“(Y/N),” he whispers, rubbing his hand on your arm. “We should get you home.”

You nod, wiggling your toes in the socks. “Yeah.”

Spencer pauses and looks at you, watching as you yawn and hop off the car. He says your name again, chuckling a little bit when you look up at him a little dazed. The words get caught in his chest as he takes a tentative step closer to you. You’re so close. Just one small move. That’s all it would take… he dismisses the thoughts when he can smell the liquor on your skin. 

“You’re my best friend,” he says quietly after several moments of silence. 

You smile at him. “You’re my best friend, too.”

He drives you home that day with more regret than necessary. He wishes he kissed you. It would have made his life so much easier.

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full work

reblogs are always appreciated!

[nereidprinc3ss]

mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it. 

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street. 

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out. 

And then, you. 

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this. 

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching. 

I know you, I know you. 

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you. 

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you. 

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in. 

“Hi.” 

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside. 

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name. 

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat. 

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. 

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork. 

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing. 

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates. 

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you. 

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.  

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger. 

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him. 

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks. 

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced. 

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else. 

But maybe he’s projecting. 

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again. 

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else. 

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability. 

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost. 

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing. 

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt. 

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve. 

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done. 

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line. 

Sleeping with you was unforgivable. 

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue. 

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in. 

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see. 

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up. 

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions. 

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview. 

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not. 

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is. 

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true. 

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open. 

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep. 

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious. 

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star. 

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again. 

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze. 

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher. 

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair. 

“What do you really do?” 

He expects you to be asleep. 

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open. 

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep. 

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them. 

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye. 

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache. 

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before. 

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does. 

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art. 

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply. 

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once. 

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey. 

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better? 

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it. 

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek. 

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect. 

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory. 

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia. 

So he begins to walk. 

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise. 

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace. 

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air. 

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect. 

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost. 

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately. 

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out. 

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name. 

It’s been a long time. 

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried? 

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like. 

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up. 

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again. 

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing. 

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides. 

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go. 

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water. 

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants. 

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would. 

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles. 

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night. 

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust. 

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since. 

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed. 

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow. 

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back. 

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert. 

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet. 

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark. 

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him. 

lyrics from my life in art <3

[beenreidingaboutyou]

Boyfriend

who? Spencer Reid x reader

content warnings: none I think

a/n: This is a silly little blurb I thought up while driving to work the other day. It might be a bit awkward but I'm still trying to get back into fic writing. I absolutely should've been working on something for ficmas instead of this but here I am. this one is yet again for margot @pathologicalreid because she encouraged me to post it

word count: 410

“Would you um… would you want to be my boo?”

You nearly choked on your coffee when those words left Spencer Reid’s mouth. Once you finally manage to stop coughing and get yourself together, you manage to say, “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Spencer blushes and stumbles over an apology before heading back to his desk. You can see Morgan watching the interaction with a knowing smirk, but he doesn’t say anything so you turn back to your work.

About a week later, Spencer approaches you again. This time he finds you before you’ve started drinking your coffee. The blush on Spencer’s face is prominent as he stumbles over his words, “I mean, I-I think you and I could be bigger than the Twilight love affair.”

“Since when do you know about Twilight? Are you feeling okay, Spence?” You ask, confusion evident on your face

“Garcia told me that would work. I-uh nevermind.” Spencer stammers, his face flushed.

“What do you mean? Work for what?”

Spencer opens his mouth to answer, but he’s interrupted by Hotch summoning the team to the conference room. He takes the opportunity to escape the awkward conversation and does his best to avoid you for the rest of the day.

Another week of Spencer awkwardly dodging you unless he needs to talk to you for something case-related. You finally catch him on one of his many trips to the break room for more coffee.

“Hey, Spence. Can we talk?”

He nods, looking a little bit like a deer in headlights.

“Is everything okay? You haven’t been stopping by my desk for our morning chats and when you have, you’ve said some things that were really out of character. I’m just trying to figure out what’s been going on with you.”

Spencer looks nervous and hesitates for a moment before blurting out, “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You laugh softly, “Is that what all of this has been about, you trying to ask me out?”

“I wasn’t sure how to do it so I asked Morgan and his advice made you choke on your coffee. Then I asked Garcia and her suggestion didn’t work either. I just wanted to ask you out in a way you hadn’t heard before.”

“Spencer, you don’t have to try so hard. I actually prefer your last approach, the whole blurting it out thing.”

“Really? Does that mean you’ll go on a date with me?”

“Yeah, it does.”