Hellllllo beautiful people! Welcome to my page. I’m Bird :)
My requests are open for these lists of characters.
Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)
Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin (Top Gun)
Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw (Top Gun)
Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd (Top Gun)
Rhett Abbott (Outer Range)
Tyler Owens (Twisters)
I ask you be respectful, treat others on this page with utter kindness! Including me…I’m sensitive.
Minors! Please do not interact with my posts! This is an 18+ page and a safe place for everyone’s dirty little imaginations. I’ll see you when you can vote and buy a lottery ticket (I’m American if you couldn’t tell)🫶
his person | established relationship - by @/multifandomlover01
doctor, doctor, please listen! | rivals to lovers - by @/cupidkenji
seven months | established relationship - by @/aperrywilliams
shameless | rivals to lovers - by @/ddaz3d-and-c0nfused
meet-cute | strangers to lovers - by @/inkdrinkerworld
the warm spot at the bottom of the stairs | soulmates au, strangers to lovers - by @/cupidkenji
smitten | partners to lovers - by @/sirsoggybread
all of those dreams where you're my wife | established relationship - by @/anhedoniawrites
date | friends to lovers - by @/gf2bellamy
captured | established relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
explanation | established relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
caught | established, secret relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
lipgloss | established, secret relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
drunk | established relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
movie | established, secret relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
distracted | lovestruck!spencer - by @/gf2bellamy
tipsy | friends to lovers-ish - by @/gf2bellamy
devoted | established relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
vulture | pwp - by @/ddaz3d-and-c0nfused
better | strangers to lovers - by @/pinkolve
an unexpected reunion | exes to lovers - by @/pinkolve
colours | lovestruck!reader - by @/inkdrinkerworld
on thin ice | established relationship - by @/enderlovez
writing on skin | pwop - by @/honey-fluestered
close to home | established relationship - by @/reidrum
no, thanks | idiots in love - by @/reiding-writing
only need me | pwp - by @/minswriting
chateau lobby #4 | established relationship - by @/burymagdalene
i can do a lot with fifteen minutes | pwp - by @/reidrum
lover girl | idiots in love - by @/mariasont
xoxo | established relationship - by @/pathologicalreid
all i do is try, try, try | coworkers to lovers - by @/pencil-n-pen
i'm still trying everything | established relationship - by @/pencil-n-pen
metamorphosis | exes to lovers - by @/darkmatilda
time | exes to lovers - by @/gf2bellamy
valentine's savior | bffs to lovers - by @/mggslover
don't get in your own way | bffs to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
the being (un)known | friends to lovers, slowburn - by @/sincerelybubbles
mismatch | strangers to lovers - by @/gf2bellamy
a close mouth doesn't get fed | pwp - by @/burymagdalene
quickie? | pwp - by @/reidmarieprentiss
covetous cravings | established relationship - by @/burymagdalene
a love in code | friends to lovers - by @/little-jana
moving forward | established relationship - by @/reidmarieprentiss
not her | established relationship - by @/reidmarieprentiss
say don't go | lovers to exes to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
second chances and serendipity | strangers to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
car wash | flirty!reader - by @/reidmarieprentiss
they were never you | childhood friends to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
dare ya | friends to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
strawberry lemonade | exes to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
no more misunderstandings | friends to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
depollute me | coworkers to lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
too violent for tears | established relationship - by @/pathologicalreid
file | established relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
pretty boy | established relationship - by @/finelinevogue
well kept secret | established, secret relationship - by @/g1rld1ary
grass is always greener | lovers to exes to ? - by @/reidmarieprentiss
good for you | established relationship, pwop - by @/gold-onthe-inside
newlyweds | established relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
haircut | lovestruck!reader - by @/gf2bellamy
museum meet cute | strangers to potential lovers - by @/gublerryswift
how he eats you out | pwop - by @/seasprincess
first time for everything | established relationship - by @/reidmarieprentiss
a gentle embrace | established relationship - by @/reidmarieprentiss
southern charm | strangers to potential lovers - by @/reidmarieprentiss
where we were meant to be | established relationship - by @/reidmarieprentiss
i wanna be yours | established relationship - by @/push-the-heartbrake
work call | pwop - by @/nevvdrinksteaa
angel | established relationship - by @/mggslover
don't call me | pwop - by @/reiderwriter
be my angel | established relationship - by @/nereidprinc3ss
excitement | established, secret relationship - by @/gf2bellamy
drunk on you | lovestruck!spencer, pwop - by @/foxy-eva
stuck | pwop ft. hotchner & morgan - by @/mggslover
cinnamon sticks | established relationship - by @/mariasont
a lovesong for lady earth | established relationship, pwop - by @/pathologicalreid
how to talk so sweet when you're doing bad things | pwop - by @/reidrum
in omnia aparatus | friends/coworkers to lovers by @/street-smarts00
dimple deductions | established, secret relationship - by @/mariasont
a house in nevada | exes to lovers - by @/anhedoniawrites
saint honesty | established relationship - by @/aperrywilliams
mistake | coworkers to lovers - by @/gf2bellamy
send nudes | coworkers to ?, pwop - by @/foxy-eva
i wish i knew you wanted me | coworkers to lovers - by @/irndad
✦ series.
send me to the moon | friends to lovers - by @/aperrywilliams
act 1: the agreement
act 2: the deception
act 3: the consequences
the next door | neighbors to lovers - by @/certaimromance
the boy next door - chapter one.
the girl next door - chapter two.
the other boy next door - chapter three.
the other girl next door - chapter four.
the liar next door - chapter five.
the other liar next door - chapter six.
extras:
the love next door - pre-series.
love is in the air | coworkers to lovers - by @/seasprincess
part one.
part two.
total count: 88.
more on criminal minds | spencer reid, part two | aaron hotchner.
my masterlist of recommendations.
i'm going to keep updating this list as i read more!
last update: 30/04/2025 (finished! can't add more bc of the amount of links!)
Hi! I do need to update my guidelines but here’s a rough answer for you.
I do not and will not write anything that has to do with terminal illness, anything involving children in a explicit way, including things depicting reader acting in a child like way (things like Little Space). I do not write LGBTQ content, just because it’s not something I want to do. Lastly, I do not write 18+ content that is non consensual/rape, no exceptions.
where Spencer Reid meets someone who shares his pain - if only for a bit.
warnings/tags: 18+ (implied intimacy), migraine-era spencer reid, reader has migraines, reader is called ‘girl’ once, heavy themes at the end, spencer rambles about stars, hospitals, spencer calls reader ‘angel’, no use of y/n
word count: 1774
a/n: hi! this is my very first published fic (even though i’ve read for years!) and it’s nothing major, but i thought it would be fun to finally write! i hope you enjoy <3
- ✩ -
Hospitals may be one of his least favorite places.
“Did you know that actually on any given day 1 in 31 people in a hospital have a hospital induced infection? these include things like a surgical site infection, MRSA,”
Cue the smell of the antiseptic, drowning out the smell of people dying. It’s too clean.
Makes him on edge. But then again, most things do. When people give him that look that clearly says ‘shut up.’ He seems to pull in darkness, trouble, and maybe it’s because he creates it for himself.
Currently, he’s sat, in one of those uncomfortable hospital benches, foot tapping anxiously, sunglasses on, because everything hurts. Notably, his head and eyes.
The lights. The lights build a nausea in him that’s like a tidal wave, build an agony behind his eyes that threatens to reduce his thought process to ash. He still squints, behind the black plastic; it’s not enough, not enough to quell the pain entirely.
“No, I’m, about to go in, actually.”
Is what he should’ve said. But Spencer Reid, a forward man, an eloquent man, is not.
“Can I sit here?”
Quiet, but polite. He makes the mistake of looking up. Your hair is messy, probably from the wind outside, and tucked away from your face. The coat you have on is a deep admiral blue, and it just makes the lack of color in your face all the more apparent. A green bag, slung on your shoulder, as you fiddle with the zipper. Chapped lips form into a halfway smile, and, most noteworthy of all, you have black, plastic glasses on.
“I have an appointment, it’s probably, it’s right after yours, but if I can’t sit here, it’s okay, I-“
You’re backtracking, which means you’re nervous, probably because he’s just been looking at you with an impassive expression, even more unreadable due to the glasses. He clears his throat, and opens his mouth.
“No, um, actually I’m waiting. Hopefully not much longer though.”
God help him, because there’s a shared struggle here, between the two of you. He sees it, in your tense shoulders, the way you sit down slowly, as to not generate any more pain than necessary, the way your hands tremble like leaves in the wind when you adjust your glasses after slowly turning to him. Your halfway smile stays put, though, even through the slow movements.
You move like that, because every movement seems to intensify the burning hot behind your skull.
He knows. He doesn’t know you. Not at all.
But he knows your pain. And maybe that’s enough.
You don’t nod, because it’s unnecessary movement.
“Yeah, I finally gave in and booked an appointment. I’ve had to call out of work for them at least 3 times in the last two weeks.”
Them. The migraines. You don’t need to name them, you both just know. You’re clearly both there for a reason.
“I’m uh, Spencer, by the way. I’ve had mine for a bit now too.”
You tell him your name, and the sound makes a welcome warmth flood through his chest. A star, tiny, but burning, is born. Gravity in his chest, tugging you in, as your heat floods his heart.
Bad idea, bad idea - the alarm bells are clanging. He doesn’t know how sick he is, and he really doesn’t know how sick you are. This could spell disaster, and yet-
He’s intrigued. You radiate this nervousness, a distinct desire to be understood, seen, known. He knows that desire. He has that desire. He wants to know you.
“I think mine might just be due to stress, but, I don’t know. It’s the easiest explanation to deal with.”
For your sake, he hopes that’s all they are. Stress.
And, you’re still sitting there, head bowed, when the nurse comes out and asks questions.
She asks about hallucinations. As if this hell is all in his head. You sit there, silent, biting your lip, worrying the cracked skin in your teeth, your hands picking at the fraying edge of your coat.
When he comes back out, somehow even more tired, even though all he did was lie there and answer some questions, he speaks your name, softly.
As if he has the right to.
You jump a little, look up, and remove your glasses. He stares, he can’t help it. Visible, is the pain, the way your ocular muscles are tense, your skin without color, but you smile, still.
He makes you smile.
“Everything okay?”
Spencer nods hurriedly.
“Fine, for now, I have to get to work. You uh-you’re next?”
“Mhm. Will I—is there any chance I’ll see you again, Spencer?”
You don’t know him. You know him, you must.
“Uh, I mean, I—you want to see me again?”
When will he learn to speak when it actually matters?
“Only if you want to, I-I know I would like to see you again.”
He leaves the hospital, that damn hospital, with a small slip of paper, with ten numbers scrawled in purple ink, and your name below it, a tiny smiley face beside it.
When he gets home from his next case, he fishes that paper out of his messenger bag and types each digit into his cell phone with shaky hands.
Is he tempting fate? Perhaps. But fate answers, your soft voice coming through the phone.
Soon, he finds himself at a café with you, sipping his saccharine sweet coffee and telling you about his job, or some book he just finished, in detail that you don’t seem to protest against. It’s refreshing, really - just to be listened to. To be heard. When you leave, you give him a barely-there kiss on the cheek, a soft goodbye. The star burns brighter.
“I had my follow up appointment.”
He tells you, on the third date, as you two sip coffee once more - are these dates? Would Morgan be impressed? - trying to keep the conversation casual, yet relevant. Your eyes widen with interest.
“And? Did they give you answers?”
He makes a face, shaking his head.
“No. Well, yes, but they told me it’s psychosomatic.”
All in his head.
Your face falls, and you look truly sympathetic.
“I’m sorry, Spencer. I knew how much you didn’t think that to be the case.”
He takes comfort, then, in the way you hug him goodbye, your cheek pressed against the cotton of his cardigan, eyes shut against the light. He tenses, only for a second, before his arms curl around you, resting against your coat.
“We should do dinner.”
He mumbles into your hair, before he can stop himself.
A real date.
And you do. You have dinner, and he makes you laugh, even though it’s quiet, like a bell ringing at Christmas, tiny, joy-filled, and the star in his chest just glows. Your face is tense, though, and he can’t figure out why. You won’t say. either. You never do. You keep your responses composed, and careful, calculated. Like you’re afraid. He wonders why, but won’t press it. You are made of nervous energy. He knows this now.
A few months, of appointments for both of you and cases for him where he aches for your hand in his and coffee and dinner and museum dates, and one ice skating excursion he will not mention, and then—
He makes another mistake then, when he asks you to come over, after a case.
“Just for coffee, or to talk, not to-you know, unless that’s what you want, I—“
Yet, that’s how he ends up with you in his bed, in his lap, your warm hands sliding over his skin like you’re in awe, your wide eyes meeting his own, because he dimmed the lights, and thank God neither of you are hurting right now.
He takes you apart, piece by piece, with his mouth on your collarbone and fingers across your ribs, learning, seeking to know. Because that’s what he wants, to know you, fully, in every way he can, until there’s nothing left for him to study.
After he watches you tremble under him, with his name on your lips, he realizes he’ll never be able to memorize all of you. You’re too extensive, with the blush on your cheeks and the way you cling to him and the way your eyes sparkle for a moment, just a moment, before they dim again.
You’re tucked into him, under his chin, as he traces shapes mindlessly into your back with his fingertips. He feels that star, burning bright in your arms, for millennia to come.
“I love you.”
You smile against his chest, before you speak again, choked up.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Whyever not, angel girl?”
Because you are like an angel, come down from the heavens, his angel, gracing his life during some of the most incredible pain he’s ever felt.
“They told me I’m dying. They found the source of it all.”
And the star fizzles, and sparks, and slowly, a cold ice begins to dwell where the star was. Months fly by, and yet drag, each day feeling long but the weeks short.
He finds himself in the hospital - miraculously, his migraines have given him respite today - your hand in his, his eyes on you. You don’t say much, you never did, but now, he feels like you don’t ever speak at all.
Until you do.
“Spence?”
The light in his chest flickers, illuminating his darkness.
“Yes, angel?”
“Can you talk? About anything? I just wanna hear you.”
He nods, and his voice gets quiet, almost breathless, the longer he speaks.
“Did you know that stars actually are simultaneously pulling apart and being pushed together? The heat from inside the star creates a pressure that causes the atoms to separate, but the gravity attraction forces them back together, as it burns. The bigger a star is though, the less time it takes to go through that fuel.”
He stops, looking down at you. He wonders if you’re listening.
“But when the heat is gone, when it stops burning, there’s nothing to counteract the gravitational pull, and—“
And it collapses in on itself.
“And it just sort of sucks everything else in without its heat, the light, if it’s large enough. Pulling everything in, everyone in-“
He’s said too much. You open your eyes, your voice barely a whisper.
“I don’t want you to do that. You won’t, Spencer, I swear.”
In a rare moment of strength, you tug yourself up, to hold his face in one hand.
“You burned before me. You’ll burn again.”
He nods, desperately trying not to weep.
But I won’t burn like I did with you.
“The brightest stars burn the fastest, so we must love them while we can.”
Summary: 99 negative things and 1 positive. How will it ever turn out okay?
Warnings: season 7, mentions of pregnancy, pregnancy fear, nausea, mention of miscarriage talks, Spencer being scared and probably says the wrong things 😭 anyway, fluffy, but also depressing themes. I haven’t finished proofreading, oops lol idc.
You’re supposed to know your body and every little change it makes because, well, it’s your body.
So blame this all on your brain that often skips over the small things that it should really pay attention to. You could have suspected this earlier if you would’ve just slowed down for two seconds, but what difference would it make if you came to the conclusion earlier?
Absolutely none.
The test in your hand would still be positive and you would still have the feeling you do now.
A mixture of fear and devastation.
Spencer isn’t in the apartment you just moved into a month ago, he’s at Rossi’s with the rest of the team like you’re supposed to be. But you played the flu card and forced him to go without you. Then you forced yourself to the corner store and bought two pregnancy tests, a back up for good measure. It isn’t needed, the two lines are almost bold as they stare at you. The dates of the calendar back it up, as well as the queasiness about you.
You’re pregnant.
You. You are pregnant.
That can’t be.
You throw away the test, all the evidence goes into the trash and you try to calm your racing heart. You wash your hands and your face, though tears just keep falling no matter what.
This really wasn’t supposed to happen, it shouldn’t be happening. You’re traveling so often for cases, and there’s so much going on with the team. Emily just came back from the dead, literally, that’s already too much to deal with, you don’t need to add anymore stress to the team. You’re no help if you’re pregnant.
Spencer won’t be any help either if his main concern is you.
Staring at your reflection, you suddenly don’t feel real. You rub your eyes and push your hair back, overwhelmed with so many feelings, you can’t distinguish one from the other.
You do know one feeling from the rest.
The urge to bolt.
Blame the hormones, but you quickly leave the bathroom and slip into a pair of shoes, then grab for your coat and keys, and just like that, you’re gone.
Wandering aimlessly, you suck the evening air into your lungs as you walk the streets, past shops and people with different lives. You’re lost in thought, no better than a zombie as you continue to wipe your eyes.
It took you and Spencer long enough to even get together, you just finished placing your things in his apartment, there’s no room for a crib. He has far too many books, he’d have to sacrifice even more space for things a baby needs. The both of you work odd hours and sleep in bad motel rooms and fly all over the country and get shot at. You aren’t an expert but that doesn’t seem healthy.
There is no room for a baby in your life. Period.
The team has only experienced pregnancy with JJ and-
JJ.
Your friend who would know exactly what to do and how to help, the friend you have given the cold shoulder to ever since you found out that she let you mourn Emily, your best friend, for weeks and weeks. She let you cry and talk about how hard things have been for and Spencer, especially Spencer, and she didn’t say a single thing that she knew Emily was okay.
You have a feeling of bitterness now to join your emotion smoothie.
Up ahead, you see a tired mother trying to pull her crying toddler out of a drugstore. Her hair is tied up, she’s tugging at the child, giving up on arguing with him.
You turn around and decide home is actually where you need to be so you don’t vomit up your nerves in public.
When Spencer comes home, you’re sitting at the bottom of the tub, cheek to your knees as the spray of the shower hits you from above. You hear him take off his shoes and coat and walk to the bedroom, more than likely changing. He’s definitely tired.
He knocks on the bathroom door, checking on you.
“Hey, you feeling alright, angel?”
You sigh. He’s so perfect, arguably the best thing that’s ever happened in your life, and you’re going to ruin him with this news.
“I’ll be out in a second.” You call back, smoothing your hands over your hair, then look at the rings on your fingers.
Sliding one from your right hand to your left, you decide your ring finger just is going to stay bare.
“They missed you tonight, Emily said that you call her first if you need anything.” Spencer says as you rub lotion into your skin while sitting on the edge of the bed.
You hum.
“I think she’s just overcompensating, but she means well.” He claims, pulling the covers back.
You can’t tell him tonight, it’s not the right time. Instead you’ll just get some sleep, laying on your side, facing the window. As Spencer lays behind you, you push away his hand that splays on your stomach.
He goes a little stiff with confusion, but holds your hip without question, then whispers he loves you, like he does every night.
You live out a routine for the next following days to come. You wake up tired, you tell Spencer that you never get over the flu easily and that’s why you have the urge to throw up at any given second. When you’re tired of laying on the couch, you go back to work where everyone shares a look at how moody you can be.
“Is everything…okay?”
You look up from the evidence photos to find Hotch.
Most of the team is out all over the town you just got in, trying to solve the disappearance of three young girls.
Hotch suggested you stay at the police station with him for a while, giving Spencer some air after you snapped at him for no apparent reason.
“Everything’s fine.” You say, looking back down at the crime scene pictures.
“Is everything alright with you and Reid?” He pushes.
“Yes, we’re fine. I just hate it when he hovers, drives me crazy.” You huff, not giving him your attention.
Hotch had always been a sort of father to you. Almost like how Gideon was a mentor to Spencer, Hotch tried his hardest not to act like it but he was always very protective of you. No one could really blame him, he helped you through many things over the years, and along the way he became your family. So it makes sense that he’s questioning you now with a furrowed brow.
“I want you to know that if something is going on and you felt like you were alone…you aren’t. The whole team would move mountains for you.” He says in a very fatherly tone, a tone that has always seemed to affect you but never in the way it does now.
You quickly blink away tears and nod. “I just don’t feel well, but I’ll be okay.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and as Hotch looks you over, he proves how good of a profiler he really is. Slowly, he sits at the table and takes the papers from your hand, which is probably good, you’ve been staring at them for too long. Your eyes lift up to him.
“Does Reid know?”
Three words, and you want to flee.
“No.” You say hoarsely.
He nods in understanding. “This isn’t something you can do alone, but I understand if you need some time away to figure things out.”
You wrap your arms around your stomach, something you’ve been doing subconsciously. “This is my job.” You say.
“And it’s really stressful, so if you need some downtime, I’m glad to give it to you.”
Nodding, you understand. “Don’t tell anyone.” You ask of him, knowing he’d never betray you like that.
For two moments, you have a sense of peace.
And then Spencer and Morgan return, causing you to slip a mask back on and pretend you’re fine.
By some miracle, you get through the case and get home without any problems. Spencer on the other hand is convinced that you’re going through a mental break.
“Still tired?” He asks gently, at the end of the week, sitting on the bed and rubbing your leg as you bury yourself in the comforter.
You wordlessly nod, then try to sort out your thoughts.
“Baby?” He calls softly, a name he hardly ever calls you. “I think we should take you to a doctor.”
“Why?” You croak.
You know why. Spencer thinks you’re depressed, which you can’t really blame him, you’ve been laying in bed most of the day, turning your nose up at the idea of food, knowing it will all just make you feel sick. Your boyfriend is a great profiler, he notices your odd behavior these past couple days but he still can’t figure out why.
“I’m…I think they can tell you what’s wrong with you- not that anything is wrong with you but…there’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
Bless him and his softness he unconditionally shows you, but you just don’t have it in you to match his tenderness.
“I’m fine.” You state, tone not meaning it.
Before he can deny it and rub your leg again, you sit up too quickly and flee him, foolishly thinking he’ll stay put. Spencer is a golden retriever, though, so he follows loyally, only for the bathroom door to be slammed in his face.
“I’m concerned about you, okay?” He calls, voice muffled through the wood. “And I get scared when you just brush it off, brush me off.”
You stand at the sink, head drooped. The tears start slow, they fall into the basin. What was wrong with you? You have a man as good as Spencer and you’re ruining everything.
You fall into a dangerous storm of negative thoughts, all aimed at you like it’s target practice. The tears fall much quicker now, hot and sticky, your hand presses to your mouth to keep the sobs away.
Spencer hears you squeak, and immediately opens the door you should have locked.
You turn to face him, dropping the hand to your stomach.
His features twist into something of sadness and utter concern, he’s standing in front of you in just two steps.
“What is it?” He questions, holding your face in his hands, thumbs wiping at your tears. “What’s wrong, pretty girl?”
You can’t. You have to say it but you can’t.
A breath shutters through you and you shake your head. “Spence.”
“I’m right here, it’s alright.” He promises, so adamant that he can help.
“I…”
“Just breathe-”
“I’m pregnant.”
You’ve never seen him stop talking so fast. His mouth hangs open for a moment, then it closes.
All the years you’ve known Spencer, he’s never been at a loss for words. He’s trying so hard to just say something and he can’t. Maybe it’s the fear in your eyes that has him drawing a blank, maybe it’s the fact that he’s come up with ninety nine possibilities and this is the one he didn’t imagine.
“Okay.” He says after a heavy silence. “Okay, that’s, well it’s definitely something.”
Your tears don’t stop, in fact they might just fall heavier now.
He’s mad- no, he’s upset. He doesn’t want this and now everything is ruined. Your fears are coming true.
You pull his hands from his face, then brush past him.
He calls your name. “Wait, I don’t mean it like that. I just didn’t think about this, I haven’t planned for this yet.”
You pull one of his sweatshirts on and slide into your sneakers, not bothering with the laces before you slip from the apartment with a sense of deja vu, vanishing just like that.
- - - -
You’re not even sure how you got here, you’re sure you look like a wreck, but it’s too late to turn back now.
The door opens and JJ’s face morphs into confusion.
“Hey, Jay.” You try to smile, but when she opens the door wider and pulls you inside so quickly, it’s hard to maintain a composure.
You ramble, she lets you. For ten straight minutes you go on and on about everything, because you’ve had all of these thoughts bottled up and now you resemble something of a ship sinking beneath the waves. You apologize, you’re so sorrowful and tell her how wrong you are for saying all the hurtful things you said to her. She sits beside you on her couch while Will is upstairs with Henry. At some point she starts crying too because that’s what best friends do when their other half is saying she doesn’t know what to do. By the end of the confession and rant, you physically can’t cry anymore and your nose is red, face splotchy, and you just look at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Slowly, she takes your hand and says your name, grounding you.
“No one is going to say this to you so I will.” She says. “You’re not a monster for being scared.”
Your lungs exhale and she continues.
“But all of these concerns are just anxiety, they aren’t real. You can still do your job, the team won’t hate you, you are capable of doing this, life isn’t going to fall apart.”
She’s so sure, you’re practically forced to believe her.
“Spencer.” You mumble, watching as she takes a breath and nods like she knows.
“Reid is…Reid has the highest IQ and still doesn’t know the right thing to say. But this is news you sprung on him and he’s never had to deal with this sort of thing. He’s scared too.” She reminds, a little more honest with her words now that you’ve calmed down.
Just as you open your mouth to say something, her phone rings from its spot on the coffee table.
She squeezes your knee and grabs for it.
“It’s Spencer.” She says before answering it.
You can’t hear exactly all the words he says, but based off JJ’s reaction, he’s clearly panicked.
“Spencer- hey, slow down. It’s okay. No, she’s here with me. She’s fine.”
You feel guilty, so incredibly guilty. You left your cell in the apartment, not bothering to bring it with you, and the idea of Spencer freaking out because he has no way of reaching you, has your stomach churning.
Or maybe it’s the fact you’re starving.
Canons of your self destruction fire off at yourself, you’re sitting with your head hung as JJ talks him down. This wasn’t her job, this was yours. He’s your partner.
What are you doing?
As she hangs up, she gives you look, knowing you’re already heading for the door.
“Be easy on him, okay?” She says, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright.”
What a simple thing for her to say and a not so simple thing to do.
You go home, trying to rehearse conversations in your head. Surely, you look odd on the subway, whispering to yourself, trying to anticipate what Spencer will say. A few people shuffle off at a stop, and the seat across from you opens up. A woman takes it, she has a baby wrapped in a sling, it’s napping with its head on her bust and when she pulls the cover back, you can see it’s perfect round head. She gently strokes its fuzzy, brown hair and hushes it softly when it stirs.
Maybe life wouldn’t be so bad if that were you, feeling your child’s warmth.
When you get to the front door of your apartment, you take in one final breath and decide you can face the music.
You open the door, kick off your shoes and are immediately feel the rug getting yanked out from under you.
“You can’t just storm out!” Spencer says rather loudly, giving the reaction you didn’t want. “And leaving your phone here? Giving me no way to reach you? I called everyone!”
He’s angry.
“I was with JJ.” You say softly.
“Well, I know that now.” He huffs.
Shrugging off your coat, you gently approach.
“I’m sorry I worried you, please don’t shout.”
At your meek tone, Spencer immediately softens, scorning himself for being abrasive. He runs his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, trying to get himself back in check.
“I’m sorry. Can- can we just sit down and talk about this, please?” He asks, moving to sit on the worn couch.
After a second, you follow.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to reach out and touch you, but given the way you seem to shrink into yourself, he just rubs his knees over and over again.
“How long have you known?” He asks, though he has some estimates.
You slowly breathe out. “A couple weeks.”
His lungs burn. A couple weeks?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Your fingernails dig into your palms. “I was scared…I’m still scared.” And all that work to avoid his eye, you finally meet that puppy dog look of his and immediately break down.
You just can’t seem to stop crying. Why are you crying all the time?
“I’m so scared, Spencer, I’m so scared.” You shudder out, and those hands he awkwardly kept to himself are now pulling you to him, cradling your head to his chest and putting your legs in his lap.
“Hey, I know, I know. And I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, I made it worse, I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair before moving his lips to your forehead. “I was surprised is all.”
“You aren’t mad at me?” You tremble, gripping his shirt. Never in your life have you been this clingy, and if the circumstances were different, you’d be embarrassed by this child like behavior. Spencer doesn’t mind it at all, he’s holding you like he’s the glue keeping you together.
“I’m not mad. I’m a little sad you didn’t tell me sooner, but I’m not mad. Why would I be mad at you?”
With his fingers in your hair, you take a few quick breaths. “I ruined everything.” You say as a cry.
He hates those words that just came out of your mouth.
Spencer shifts, pulling back to look at your face, red and tear streaked.
“Hey.” He coos. “You haven’t ruined anything, sweetheart, don’t even think that.”
Sniffling and wiping your eyes, you shake your head. “My career is over, the team is going to be inconvenienced, and you- you’re never going to be able to do your job the same. All the work you’ve done, it’s just ruined, I’ve done this to you.”
He cups your damp cheek. “Stop, stop. Listen to me, can you do that?”
You shut your mouth and nod.
“Good.” He says. “Now, you haven’t done anything wrong. It takes two to tango, yeah? The team is going to be elated, Penelope is going to throw this biggest party ever. We worked it out when JJ had Henry, we can do it again.”
There’s a way he can say all these things and it just makes sense in your mind. You nod along, this makes him smile.
“And as for me..” He tucks hair behind your ear. “I would give up all my degrees, I’d throw away all the progress and work I’ve done if it meant the only thing I had in my life was you and a baby that’s my own.”
You love him. You’ve never loved him more than you do now, in this moment, starving and crying and so scared. That’s why you lean forward and press your trembling lips to his, trying to steal the oxygen from his lungs.
Spencer is willing to breathe into your open mouth, even if it meant he’s have no part of himself left that was just his. In his mind, he doesn’t want Spencer to be Spencer, he wants your imprint in every part of himself so he’s no longer just him.
He kisses your hairline and then places your back in that space between his collar bone and jaw, it’s carved only for you anyway.
“Tell me everything that scares you.” He instructs, finger circling your bent knee.
You can’t say ‘everything’, so you say what you can form into words.
“It’s so soon, we haven’t talked about this yet.” You start.
“It’s a little early, but we have a home and a stable income and I love you and I want this if you want this.” He says so simply, as if he’s bandaging a paper cut.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, I could be really bad at it.” You state.
“We’ll figure it out together, I don’t know what to do either, but no one really does. But there is no way you will be a bad mom. That’s my professional opinion.”
You laugh lightly, he grins and subtly squeezes you.
“But what if it all goes bad? What if I can’t make it healthy, what if I…what if I lose it? Spencer, I don’t think I could live with myself if I was the reason you don’t get a living, breathing baby.” It hurts your chest to even say.
Spencer gently shushes you. “We won’t let that happen. We’ll make sure you’re healthy and doing everything you can to prevent that.”
You let that ease you into silence, then you wipe your eyes once more because you can’t stop crying.
“We’re not married.”
Did you say that out loud?
You must have because Spencer hums, not startled, but he mulls it over in his head.
“Does that matter to you?” He asks, genuinely curious. And you don’t know how to answer because you didn’t think it did.
But you said it, it’s been on your mind…so yeah, it might matter.
“Yeah, I guess…I don’t know.” You sigh, nudging your nose against his neck.
Spencer considers it, then hums like he does when he understands something. “Then we’ll get married.”
It’s the way he says it, so easy, makes you shake your head. “No, I don’t want you to marry me just because I’m pregnant now. Besides, planning a whole wedding is stressful.”
“That’s not why I said it, lovely. Yeah, we’re having this conversation because you’re pregnant but I want to marry you because it means something to me too. I don’t want to do life with anybody else besides you.” He states, dropping his chin to the top of your head, keeping you close to his pulse. “And a big wedding isn’t our style anyway. We can go to the courthouse right now if it’s what you want. Tomorrow you’ll have your name changed- or keep it, if that’s what you want.”
How perfect, how wonderful he is, and how lucky you are to be doing this with him.
Breathing in his scent once again, you nod. “I want to have the same last name as our baby. Oh god, our baby. That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever said.” You gently laugh.
“I like hearing it, though.” He says, a boyish smile, though he’s never been more of a man than in this moment.
You didn’t think your day would end like this, and perhaps this decision isn’t properly thought out, but the two of you want this.
You make it to the courthouse house just as they’re about to close, with the flashes of your credentials, they make a few exceptions. You don’t have rings, that part will get figured out later, and you there’s no grand catering, just Chinese food on the living room floor. It’s all perfect though, because you’re married and so in love with him and he’s giving you the last egg roll.
“You know, I didn’t think it was possible to be so hungry and nauseous at the same time.” You say, slurping up a noodle, washing it down with a Coke.
“You know, the fetal placenta produces a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin that’s rapidly increasing, and if the mother is more sensitive to it, then they’re more nauseous.” Spencer states factually, proud that his knowledge applies to this.
“How do I cure it, Doctor?” You ask, a fond smile on your face.
“Don’t skip meals, like you have been doing. No more of that. We’re going to have to call your doctor tomorrow, and start prenatal vitamins. You know, if we push the dresser into the closet and shift the brown bookshelf over a few feet, that will free up space for a crib. You’ll want a side sleeper bassinet though, it slides right next to the bed so you don’t have to get out of bed as often.”
Having a baby with Doctor Spencer Reid was like having the next nine months planned out for you. As he rambles on with all the things that will need to be done, you laugh and lean over, kissing him to get him to pause.
“What was that for?” He asks, kissing you once more.
“I love you, that’s all.” I smile.
Tracing your jawline with his finger, he grins right back at you. “I love you too.”
After a moment, you speak again. “Am I a doctor now?” You ask.
۶ৎ in which the tension between you and Spencer at work is almost too much to bare; lingering eyes and longing needs that are ignorant to the people around you, but all too easily perceived by the other.
who? spencer x bau!reader
when? s8
category: smut
content warnings: (maeve plotline does not exist, emily is still with the bau) munch spencer, tension here–tension there–tension everywhere, thorough foreplay (as in practically the entire fic), sexual acts, not too explicit, no dom/sub really mentioned–though spencer is a little more confident, proofed! reid with pleasure...
word count: 11.4k
a/n: munch spencer as per requested by an anon!! this one has been in my filing cabinet for a while, so i'm glad i've finally gotten to write it out... also, new format–hey! okay i'll stop rambling... enjoy!!
There is a moment in every person’s life when they just know something sinister is about to unfold. That feeling found its way to you the exact moment the mixup with the rooms happened. It was bound to occur, it wasn’t like it was inevitable–you of all people were accustomed. Though, to be particularly truthful, it wasn’t the mixup that strangled your thoughts, no, it wasn’t as trivial as that.
What had your heart racing–your mind running–was that you were paired with Spencer. You should have said something. You were sure Emily would switch with you in a heartbeat–she and Spencer got along well enough, that it wouldn’t be a favor at all. However, even with this knowledge, you kept your mouth shut.
It was something in your gut, something in the darkest parts of your mind that swayed the moral, logical side.
It was late and the dimly lit hall only had so much life. You noted the old, peeling, pee-colored wallpaper; red flowers straying to and fro–if you tried hard enough, you could almost picture how it must have looked like in its prime.
Spencer made no effort to talk and for this you were grateful. You hadn’t had the chance to get too close to him in the few months you’ve been with the team. You were new, but not unaccustomed–you had been transferred almost six months ago with the help of thorough recommendations and pure skill–though you never pulled rank.
Hotch seemed a nice enough dad-boss, Rossi gave the impression of a comedic uncle most of the time, Morgan took his role as the older brother, Emily and JJ were great mentors and you were thrilled to be working alongside them, and you found Penelope to be a strong aunt-like figure. Spencer, though, you weren’t too sure where he fell in the categories you had enlisted just yet.
He was a great mystery, one you were keen to unravel little by little.
“Do you have a preferred side?” Spencer asked after completing a skim with his bedbug flashlight.
“No,” you glanced around the room, two queen beds sat adjacent to each other only separated by a mediocre bedside table. A home phone sat close to the bed nearest the door and a lamp sat closest to the bed nearest the AC and window. The old, red velvet curtains were pulled back in what you thought was meant to be a kind gesture. Nevertheless, for an unknown reason, it left a bad taste in your mouth. “But, I do think we should close those,” you sighed, setting your duffle bag in the only chair in the room.
Spencer set his things on the bed near the window. You began untying the curtain closest to the bathroom. A shiver crawled up your spine as the air around you grew dry, you were seriously hoping for hot water. You meant to throw Spencer a hopeful glance, praying he’d let you take a shower first–but your eyes caught his hands instead. He was working his sleeves back, unbuttoning them as quickly as he could.
His sweater vest had been discarded and now lay in a bunched-up pile near his suitcase. You found yourself tracking his every move. He didn’t take notice of your stare until after he’d untied the curtain and met it with the one you had undid. You swiftly averted your eyes and swallowed, finding your throat had gone dry.
You cleared your throat and pushed your hair away, giving Spencer nothing but back, “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to shower first.”
Seconds ticked by and he said nothing, only when you heard a bed squeak did you turn back around. Spencer took up a space at the head of his bed, watching you with a look you were sure you’d never seen cross his face, it was almost smug, but not in the normal sense of the word–as indescribable as it was, it didn’t make you uncomfortable. You weren’t too sure what it made you feel.
“Is–is that a yes?” Your face felt hot, and you wanted to slap your hands to it, knowing it’d cool down somewhat, but you forced your hands to remain at your side.
“Yeah, sure,” he quipped, his voice the complete opposite of what his eyes conveyed.
You nodded and hurried over to your bag, leaving it at the foot of your bed when heading into the bathroom, which is where you found it upon exiting.
Spencer had pulled pajamas out, they were neatly folded beside him. “I’d wait a little before showering,” you frowned, “sorry, I must have been in there for ages,” your mouth lilted in a slight smile as you tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and took up residence near the bedside table, “next time, just to tell me I’m taking too long, I won’t mind.”
He chuckled and you grinned, elated you finally were able to ease the unnecessary tension that had come over the two of you during your staring contest in the moments right before your shower.
“Seriously?” He sounded mirthful and when you looked up his eyes caught yours, your heart studded and you found your cheeks heating up again. He had an eyebrow raised slightly and the small smile that accompanied his expression gave off the impression he was teasing, “You’d be fine with me just walking into the bathroom while you’re in the shower?”
Your eyebrows scrunched together in slight confusion and you couldn’t help the awkward smile that wouldn’t leave your mouth, “I was just joking, Spencer, but–if I am taking too long you can bang on or yell through the door.
He nodded, looking away, “I–I know, I was just messing with you.”
“Oh, please,” you snorted and rolled your eyes, trying to crush the way your thoughts raced at the way you absolutely would not give a half a damn if he did. You pressed your hand to your cheeks for a few seconds before continuing to move things out of your bag, you were thinking about how to arrange them in the large chifforobe directly across from your bed. Did Spencer hav–you gasped and dropped an article of clothing as if it had burned you.
“That was not–” you scorned yourself, that was completely inappropriate. You blinked over a few times, thinking it would make the image disappear well from your mind, but it only served to intensify the phantasmagoria.
“Hey, are you okay?” Spencer was at your side after three blinks. Your eyes widened as he reached for your hands that were opening and closing, trying to grasp any control over yourself.
You stood abruptly, unable to be in any sort of vicinity he was near. “I’m fine–I just, I remembered, I forgot something in the lobby. It must have fallen.” You shrugged, forcing a horrid excuse for a smile onto your lips. You left the room, heading straight for the elevator. You needed the cold-biting air of December to slap some sense into you, it was almost January, thus winter should have been approaching its peak right about now.
You have never–okay, yes, you’ve had small torrent thoughts of coworkers in somewhat unprofessional manners, but none had ever been so vivid–not like the one you had just then. As the elevator opened, you tried assembling the course of thoughts that had led up to the–the Spencer one.
It only took a few minutes for you to understand thinking about it was useless. There was no coherent explanation for the thought you had, no indication of any type of build-up that might have prepared you for the fabrication.
“His eyes,” you heard yourself murmur as the elevator let you off onto the first floor. You ignored the receptionist whom you recognized from only a few hours ago. The glass door was as easily pushed open as it was to pull; the biting air hit your face and you sighed, relief allowing you to breathe once more.
His sleeves were rolled up, your arms laced around his neck as you pulled him against your flushed, exposed skin. You were nearly naked and all but begging him. You had it. His attention. Every single piece of it.
And you were relishing it as he fucked you against that damned chifforobe.
You were startled by the discovery of Spencer’s presence as he pushed open one of the glass doors of the hotel. The carpark was desolate save for the two of you and you felt more vulnerable than you had felt in the daydream.
“Hey,” Spencer lifted his hand slightly, sticking it back in his pocket right after as if he’d cringed at himself.
“Oh, hi,” you pressed your lips into a thin smile, squeezing your eyes so as not to give away the fact that you did not want him to be there.
“You–kind of ran off, I just wanted to make sure you were alright…” his eyes traced up and down your body as if in search of something. A slight smirk grazed his lips, but it was quickly replaced with a frown that felt a little too compelled, “did you find what you were looking for?”
“Nope,” you squeaked, rocking back and forth on your heels. You squeezed your hands together behind your back like you were in prayer or giving thanks, “sorry for bringing you out here, I thought I lost something important and overreacted.”
He didn’t acknowledge your answer immediately, though he did step forward and when he took another step forward, you were inclined to take a step back because you thought the proximity might prompt you to do or say something you definitely shouldn’t be doing or saying with a coworker. He raised his hand to your face, the back of his hand rested on one of your cheeks, your eyes shut on impact, your hands separated and were not fisted.
Your eyes opened when a few low chuckles escaped Spencer’s mouth, he huffed out a few more before pulling his hand back and using it to cover his mouth…watching you. His eyes held that same smug amusement that you’re sure you’ve never seen before this night.
You met his stare, noting that with the coverage of his hand, his expression was just a bit easier to read. Your lips settled into a thin line as you concluded he was messing with you. You cast an unbothered expression over your face, though you felt anything but. “I think the water should be hot enough now.”
Disregarding the moral obligation of waiting for a response, you headed for the hotel’s entrance.
The elevator ride-up wasn’t as tense as you would have thought it to be. You could feel a calm rest over each other’s company. It was almost like a mutual understanding that did not need voicing. Back in the hotel room, Spencer headed into the bathroom without a word, again, you found yourself grateful he decided to spare you.
Even so, you did find it just a bit peculiar because Spencer had never before taken on any particular interest in you, sure you shared conversations–that was to be expected though, as you worked with him. You shared meals and nights out, though only when it was a group thing.
To be sure he drew your curiosity, but you never once thought about indulging in your secret desire because it just never seemed right. This mixup had felt like a gift from God when it was first introduced, because now–you had thought–we’ll be forced to be around each other, no doubt we’ll grow somewhat accustomed to each other’s habits.
Perhaps the thought was a bit excessive, but it was simply the truth to you. How else were you to casually approach Dr. Spencer Reid? The youngest to be scouted in his field?
Well, you now thought grimly, scratch all that, he’s just a genius with an ego.
You approached the chifforobe hesitantly, then hastily sorted your clothing in a few drawers and on a few hangers that were already there. As you set your duffle bag at the bottom of the large space, you heard the shower squeak off and Spencer called your name.
You rolled your eyes but walked toward the bathroom, calling from your side of the closed door, “what?”
“I,” his voice cut off and just when you thought you had waited long enough, the bathroom door swung open halfway and Spencer leaned out.
The first thing you noticed–though unintentionally–was the steam that hit you in the face. You squinted and waved a hand before you, “Jeez, Spencer.”
His face–his hair was wet and water dripped down his head–looked a bit painted, “I left my towel in my bag, get it for me?”
He sounded genuinely displeased at the situation, which is why you huffed and replied, “Fine.”
“Thank you,” he yelled, shutting the door again. You ignored the flip your stomach did and shivered.
He had left his suitcase open, his things in a bit of disarray across the bed. You wavered only a moment before letting your hands fly up and down his things. His towel was quite easily discovered, though your eyes lingered on the rest of his things.
You stood and headed back toward the bathroom, knocking. Spencer appeared instantly, a smile spreading to his face. The steam had cooled somewhat, but the bathroom–you could tell–was still very much sauna-like. “Thank you.”
“You said that already.”
He raised a brow, his smile quirking, “thank you, again.”
He stole the towel and shut the door, leaving you standing there. You felt impulsive and thought there would be no way you could get through this entire trip by sharing a room with him. And yet, it was your job, and it would no doubt be questioned, you’d probably–by accident–allude to something that did not occur, and you’d both be in trouble for something so ridiculous: it shouldn’t even be a thought that crossed your mind when you looked at your coworker and yet–the bathroom door opened and Spencer walked out in only a towel–it did.
“What do you think you're doing?” You called from your bed, standing.
“It’s too moist in there, I won’t dry.” He replied as if it were a fact and not an atrocity.
“Yeah–but–” you bit your lip, eyes tracking up and down his torso, something you should most unquestionably not be doing.
He was bent over his things on the bed near the window, you turned your gaze on the floor when his eyes flickered to yours. “But what?” He paused, probably noting your expression, your pursed lips, and your unstill gaze. “I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable I can go back in. I don’t want to–I’m sorry.” You swore you could hear a lilt in his voice when he began, but it quickly turned into something more…appropriate–like he just realized the embarrassment of what he was doing. He gathered his clothes again and headed for the bathroom, returning a few minutes later in damp garments.
And though his frown said ‘I’m sorry,’ his eyes said, ‘I’m going to give you hell’. And hell it was. For the rest of the trip, you could swear Spencer did…things purposefully. Such as lifting his shirt slightly to wipe his face when he got out of the shower, turning his neck just barely so that your gaze would catch on the exposed collarbone. You swore up and down that these were being done on purpose just to make you squirm because–because–well you didn’t really know why Spencer was doing all that.
But you knew it was for you, that was about the only thing you knew to be fact. Your nose scrunched as you recalled the looks he’d given you after every purposeful act–in such a way that it seemed like he wanted to see your reaction–as if he gets off on it.
The jet ride home was no exception to Spencer’s antics, but by this time you had decided for yourself you’d had enough of falling victim to him. You concluded that there could only be one reason Spencer was acting the way he was: because he was attracted to you. You didn’t know why–hell you couldn’t even explain why you were attracted to him in that way–but it piqued your curiosity. If he had the ability to get you to react in such distinct and significant ways, what power did you have over him? That was the dispute you set out to ascertain.
At first, it was harmless, quiet jokes told only loud enough for the two of you to hear. When the jet landed again, you ran a hand through your hair and threw your head back, as if trying to stretch. Your eyes popped open just a few minutes later to find Spencer’s eyes eating up everything from your neck to your collarbone. When he met your eyes, they weren’t amused but rather accusing. He had fallen into your trap and he had just now realised. Some genius, you found yourself regarding him with an internal snort.
“We get the day off tomorrow, right?” Emily’s tone was mirthful, full of sarcasm.
“Yeah, right.” Morgan groaned.
Hotch grimaced, “See you all tomorrow.”
“At nine?” Rossi sounded hopeful.
Your boss sighed, eyes: rolling, but a smile etching itself onto his face, “At nine.”
Small victories, a sigh escaped you under your breath, small victories.
You headed for your car, rummaging through your purse for your keys. A presence loomed over you and you froze, Spencer’s hand lightly pressed against your back as he leaned over you and tilted his head downward, “See you tomorrow —…”
Your breath caught and you tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry. Was this real? Was this not the nerdy little geek you were told you’d be working with? The guy who kept getting kidnapped? The one who could barely hold a gun four years into working in the BAU?
He walked away, down the row of cars, looking for the one he owned.
Despite yourself, your lips curled into a sinful grin. You already loved this game.
The next morning, you caught Spencer stepping into the elevator, “hold the door!” You threw your hand out, as you rushed your footsteps.
The elevator wasn’t crowded, but there were five others you did not know, and they were all men, so naturally you moved closer to Spencer. It wasn’t on purpose, but nor was it an accident, more of an instinct. His presence gave you peace of mind as you calmed yourself down.
“Rough morning?” He asked, appearing nonchalant.
You looked up at him as he took a sip of his coffee. The elevator came to a halt and two people shuffled into the elevator after three others left. Your floor was approaching and you felt easier–especially with the extra space–but when you stepped away, a hand caught your waist.
You followed the arm all the way to Spencer’s gaze, the expression there looked to be a mix of contemplation and confusion. His hand dropped when the elevator dinged and the doors opened. He was the first to step out of the elevator, you were the fourth.
Penelope found you on her way to the roundtable, stating the others were already there. You followed her and took the only available seat in between Morgan and JJ. Spencer sat right across from you, between Emily and Rossi. When you caught his eyes, his head tilted slightly and a small smirk danced across his lips in the bright light.
Your eyes rolled and you shifted one leg over the other under the table.
Penelope read off the new case and while many questions were thrown out, you and Spencer kept playing the game of ‘who could make who more embarrassed’; though you both were incredibly refined at your job and were able to keep it from the insight of the others.
Hotch stood and said, “jet’s up in 15,” before rushing out of the room.
You stood as well, needing to collect all the things you might have left on your desk and turn in your report to Hotch you forgot. Rossi had followed your boss–it was probably something about Strauss, it always was whenever they acted like that. Emily, Morgan, and Penelope were having a conversation while JJ said something to Spencer and began a small exchanges. Your eyes were laser focused on her, you felt a sort of conviction fall over you. You didn’t think you were jealous, no–it was anything like that because you knew Spencer was only trying to get under your skin. Instead, you felt a sense of thrill and couldn’t help the smirk that edged its way onto your face as you floated right past them without batting an eye.
You heard his chair squeak as he leaned back, eyes trailing your figure as you exited the roundtable room. Upon approaching your desk you smacked your hands to your cheeks, helping them cool off while ignoring the chatter of the office. You searched your bag a bit until you found the documents you had been looking for.
You froze, you could feel his stare, but when you glanced around, you couldn’t find him anywhere. Your eyes narrowed as you sifted through each and every face, there–in the breakroom behind the glass… Spencer had one hand in his pocket and one holding a mug of coffee, his eyes anything but innocent. He mouthed something, but only when you noted the absense of your other team members were you able to put together his words. We’re leaving.
You met each other in the stairwell of the rooftop, you ignored the simmering in your chest as he veered over you and pushed open the door. He smelled good– god he smelled good. You forced yourself not the make it obvious you were trying to drink in and savor his scent when he let out a shuddering breath. Your eyes popped open–which is when you realized you had shut them. What is wrong with me? You allowed your eyes to track up his face, starting from his shoulders.
He was so close you could see him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing as he stared you donw, mouth slightly ajar. His eyes were hazy and he wasn’t staring at you, but your throat. It was only for a few seconds, but it felt like hours. When he found your gaze again his jaw yet and he pulled himself together. His eyes were no longer dangerous, but they still set some kind of fear in you.
“We should go,” you murmured.
He didn’t respond until you began moving. He called your name only once, but when you looked back, a grin–small, but fucking there–destroyed his firm calmness from only moments ago, and replaced it with egotistical destruction.
There were so much said in that single expression and yet nothing at all that would have been picked up by a team of profilers, let alone a stranger–it was as if this look was designed specifically for you–designed just to become your undoing. You fucking hated Spencer Reid and his big ass ego, but you wanted him–by all hell you wanted him.
Though you’d soon find that wanting him was nothing compared to needing him.
The rest of the case came and went in a similar manner you had dreamt about the night before. You and Spencer shared lingering looks, murmured things in front of the team that, though made sense in the moment, his the underlying meaning only the two of you could pick up. You honestly found it surprising no one had caught on to what was transpiring between you and Spencer, although to be perfectly honest, you, yourself, had no idea what was transpiring between you and Spencer.
You didn’t seek each other out, but whenever you were together–alone or with others–there was this spark of craving you couldn’t quite explain out loud, and even when you thought about it, you didn’t know the right term for it other than a game. What else could it be? You couldn’t relly put togehter the events that had started it, but you knew it began sometimes on the 3-day case–maybe even that first night in the hotel. A shiver crawled up your spine, you watched Spencer out of the corner of your eye, reading. He could normally be found in the front of the jet, lying down and napping or reading.
When you were alone, all your thoughts revolved if not around the case at hand, Spencer. You didn’t want to compare it to an obsession, because what it really was was a little less of that and a little more of a desire to learn him. His body, his mind, his cravings and and fantasies. It was everything you had never felt and it scared you. There was no logical explanation to Spencer being the onset to these emotions, and yet if you’d never met Spencer, who was to say these feelings would have ever been unleashed?
It was late, but you were glad you were going to get to sleep in your bed two nights in a row. It felt like a blessing from the heavens, but then your realzied you’d have to see Spencer again tomorrow and go through the fervency all over again. Now, it felt more like irony.
Weeks of the same longing, the same wandering eyes, the same muttered whispers, the same damn game. Though you’d gotten used to your little gambit of brash actions, you weren’t tired in the least. It was–as sad as you had to admit–the most fun you’d ever had with a person.
It was fun until it became real. The team hadn’t caught on, but that was particularly due to the fact your efforts always occurred out of pure chance. You never made it obvious and he was especially good at hiding his feats, it seemed to you he was consistently able to accomplish his devious acts right under the nose of his superiors.
You reasoned that it was perhaps because none of them would ever suspect him of any of the things he was taking up in his pastime. Not even yourself would have guessed he was like this if he hadn’t shown you, or if you hadn’t noticed the way his eyes always seemed to look the opposite of whatever his face was saying in the moment.
Despite all of this, however, you hadn’t touched–at all, no brush of the hands, no accidental shoulder bumping, nor anything on purpose; not since he’d grabbed your waist in the elevator that first day back at Quantico. The contemplation in his eyes then occurred to you at night. You tried to make out what it meant–to him at least, but never could. It was one of those thoughts that kept you up, staring at the ceiling, hoping exhaustion would so its job and prevent the misery that inveitable came without it.
Tonight, though, you didn’t know how you were going to fare against pretending to be with him. It was for the case–you kept reminding yourself as you changed into a little black dress. Everyone looked good in black, it was a color that also hid a person well enough in a club–perfect for an undercover agent.
The decision to have you go in with Spencer instead of JJ was his idea. Of course it was his. He’d proposed the switchup at the roundtable meeting that morning–and as soon as he had, you’d jolted in your seat. He’d continued talking, glancing at you now and then as if he’d actually believed the difference between you and JJ would matter.
Regardless, because you were closer in age–by only a few years, you’d wanted to remind everyone–it’d be more believable that you were together, he’d also dropped an “it’d be more comfortable that way”, which swayed Morgan and Emily, JJ kept silent during the entire tirade–though not angry, was incredibly, almost blatantly long.
You couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but at the time you weren’t too much focussed on her, the looming fact that you’d have to touch him in ways you’d only thought about touching him to do your job? It terrified you. Not because you were afraid of acting out your fantasy–but because you weren’t sure if you could control yourself enoug to where it was just acting.
You slipped the dainty dress on and hid your gun and badge in your boots. You let your natural hair fall loose, but kept a hair tie on your wrist. Stepping out of the only bathroom in the police station you were currently residing in, holding your work clothes against your chest , you noted the imminent stares. Instinctively using your clothing to cover your thighs as you met the others in the front. Spencer kept his eyes in check–smart boy, you bit back a smirk–but the rest of the team complimented you, Hotch and Rossi having almost completely different ways of doing so, you snorted at the contrast.
Spencer took the driver seat of a vehicle you were borrowing, the dark of a December night threatening to conceal the thing entirely. You gazed out the window, “they’re following us right?”
“Everyone will be outside and prepared.”
“I can’t believe this,” you sighed, throwing your head back.
“The fact that we’re going undercover or the fact that you have to wear that piece of cloth?” Spencer asked, though his manner was light, there was a rough undertone that heated your insides.
“I was wondering when you were going to bring it up,” you sighed carelessly, waving a hand, “I just thought you hadn’t noticed.”
“Everyone noticed.” The mask of his facade was slowly slipping away, revealing a much colder side to Spencer–one you had the pleasure of seeing more and more of the past three weeks than in all of the six months you’d been in the BAU.
“Yeah,” you smooth down the dress, “I wouldn’t normally wear this type of thing out unless I was looking to bring someone home.”
“Oh really?” You could practically hear his eyebrows raise. “You never wear things like that when we go out for drinks.”
“Precisely my point,” you quipped.
Spencer pulled into the club’s parkinglot. It took you less than five minutes to get inside. At first, you were sitting at the bar, but then, Spencer, with the earpiece attached to him, relayed the message from Hotch. Penelope had given everyone access to the inside of the club, they were watching you two through the cameras. You forced yourself not to glance at them–even the tiniest slipup could reveal you to the unsub, and you wanted them to target, not avoid you.
“They want us to dance.” Spencer sighed loud enough to where you could hear it over the noise.
“Right,” you rolled your eyes, because that’s exactly how the unsubs target their victims–didn’t we go over this in the profile? Your smile tightened as you spun and headed for the floor, crowded by so many–oh that’s not hygienic.
“Yeah, okay, maybe we skip this part,” Spencer grimaced from his palace beside you.
“You think?” You raised an unimpressed brow at the blurred figures in front of you.
He murmured something Hotch and they went back and forth a little, though you couldn’t hear exactly what was said, Spencer’s face of triumph was all you needed to breathe a sigh of relief.
You found yourselves hiding in the corner at the back, there weren’t many people crowding around you which made you perfect for the unsubs, though the appearance of them at this club tonight was purely based on instinct, gut feelings, and careful, calculated guessing, there was still a chance they wouldn’t show themselves.
You didn’t mean for it to happen like this, you were doing everything in your power to stay composed and in control, but some part of you–the defiant, terrible side of you–wanted so badly to see his reaction when you touched him.
His frame leaned over you, holding you against the probably dirty wall, the sensual music that played a heavy beat around you felt like an instigator. Sweat slipped down his neck and it drew your attention, all of a sudden Spencer tensed, then he relaxed slightly but it felt forced, “They have eyes on the unsubs.”
“How many,” You compelled your eyes to stay on his though they wanted to scour the area around you and find just exactly who he was talking about–which would be idiotic, of course.
“That’s right,” he swallowed–ignoring your question, your eyes caught his throat bobbing–he noticed. “Keep your eyes on me,” you nodded at his words, feeling your throat drying as you neglected the need to trace his collarbone with both your fingers and gaze.
His hair was a mess of damp curls and his face was barely visible in the bright, flashing lights, but you had a job to do–and yet here you were, gripping the collar of his shirt, brushing back the hair that fell in his face as he looked at you with those eyes.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, “but if you aren’t up for this just tell me now.” His voice lilted at a challenge, but you heard the mumble ordered in the earpiece–by hell he could yank you hair almost completely out and you wouldn’t give a damn.
You held his regard with one of your own, eyes narrowed, “Just do it.”
And he did. But he also didn’t. His smirk narrowed ere leaning in. He gripped your face with an elephants strength and a swan’s gracefulness. You closed your eyes, waiting for his lips, but he swerved at the last moment and kissed the skin below your ear. He trailed a few kisses down your neck but stayed close to your hearing range, evidently, he was teasing–you wanted to scoff but couldn’t find it in you to make him stop.
“How’s this?” He murmured.
“You’re an ass,” you replied huffed, trying to mask a groan.
He grinned against your neck, “I know.”
The club case was the reason you and Spencer now ensured you were always together. From then on, you seemed to not want to be anywhere else the other wasn’t–or rather, you felt more comfortable with each other and couldn’t bring yourselves to leave the other alone.
Not that either of you minded and you still did your jobs perfectly fine–though there was more intensity when the other was in any sort of danger, it only propelled the one that wasn’t to learn how to do their job quicker. It was both a fast track to understanding how to adapt to constant situations that warped your idea of what was really going on. When he got something wrong–which was rare but not absolute. After about a month of this, you were starting to question what you were to him–what he was to you.
Though you still weren’t sure how to properly ask that question. You hadn’t slept together, though you thought about it all the time you weren’t at work…and perhaps sometimes when you were… Those thoughts slipped through on occasion–but it wasn't anything that hadn’t been transpiring before the club case.
It was as if the ‘who can make the other person more embarrassed’ game had been turned into the ‘what can I do to make you squirm this time’ game. Like the rules of the game had somehow intensified and touching was now allowed and despite all of the things that ensued upon the new rule instatement, you still had not taken it further than work.
It kept you up most nights, and you wondered when this cycle of what are we would end–if it would take one of you getting into a relationship–though you were sure Spencer didn’t have to worry about you in that department–and although you hated it, the fact was that Spencer was the only one you could think about. It was as if the man had ruined sex for you altogether.
You fucking hated Spencer Reid–and that fucking chifforobe.
Your heart dropped in your chest. You refused to give Spencer the satisfaction of looking over at him–though he seemed just as surprised as you. At this point anything could happen–and by anything you mean anything. Because anything would be better than having to share a room with him again. You were so tired you could barely recall what that even meant.
But then again, a small part of you whispered, this could be your chance. My chance? You scoffed, my chance at what? Making a fool of myself? Because confronting him means admitting I can’t stop–thinking about him. And that, to you, would feel like admitting defeat. It’d feel like losing the game–oh and you really felt like you were winning! Winning at what again? God, you needed sleep.
“Are you planning on getting in the shower first?,” he asked as soon as you were behind the door, away from prying ears and nosy coworkers.
You let out a heavy sigh and held your arms up to stretch, yawning–“honestly, I might just head to bed, it’s late and I could really use the sleep.”
“Have you not been able to sleep at night?” He set his things on the bed near the window as you claimed the one near the door.
“You have no idea,” you murmured, although a bit more to yourself than to him.
“Do you know why?” He seemed genuinely curious–but as you faced him, all you could think was, if only you knew.
“Nope,” you popped the ‘p’ and grimaced as you laid your back against the bed, arms spread like a starfish, your duffle bag discarded near your feet at the end of the bed.
You felt Spencer watching you, but for the first time in a while, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You quite literally had been running on nothing but coffee for the past day and a half–and you were in desperate need of some sleep–especially if you wanted to be at your best tomorrow.
“Here,” you hadn't heard Spencer approach you–you blamed his Hotch training. You cracked open an eye as he pushed you on your side. Your back burned at where he’d touched you, but it was quickly overshadowed when you heard him yank the bedspread down as hard as he could. “Come, on,” he huffed, pulling your shoes off and setting them beside your bag.
You forced yourself under the cover and snuggled, “the light?” you grumbled.
“First, your blazer,” he held out a hand. You whined but made quick work of ridding yourself of the fabric. “You sure you don’t want to change into something more comfortable–”
“Spencer.” You warned.
“Yeah, I hear you,” he reached for the lamp atop the bedside table–smaller than the one from the last hotel room you’d shared–the chifforobe near the window was smaller as well. He hummed as the thoughts faded in and passed through his mind.
Spencer found himself forgetting everything else as he sat in the bed opposite yours and leaned his arms on his thighs, watching you. A few minutes passed, but only when a knock sounded on the door did he realize he maybe shouldn’t be watching his coworker like a creep. Though, you weren’t really a coworker, were you?
Well–he meant you were–but you were also more than that, though he didn’t exactly know if your relationship had a name, he knew that it entailed things normal coworkers did not have. He knew what he wanted–but to outright say it felt like disrupting the sort of balance you’d gotten accustomed to–as if going out and actually attempting to take what he wanted would break the trance that had set over the two of you–it’d be throwing all the rule’s to the game away, and then what did either of you have left? Rules were important, if not necessary. He couldn’t chance it–not yet at least.
“Hey, oh,” Morgan tried looking around the room.
Spencer felt his eyes roll as he stepped into the hall and shut the door slightly behind him, careful not to shut it completely as he didn’t have the key card and he didn’t want to wake you up. “Yes?”
Morgan nodded behind him, “she’s asleep?”
“She’s really tired,” Spencer affirmed.
“Right,” his eyes fell back on Spencer, and for a second, he thought Morgan might be analyzing his form.
“Was there something you needed?” Spencer pressed, eager to head back into the room, unpack his suitcase, and head to bed himself.
“Ah, no, we were just going to order food–but I guess you don’t want anything either?”
“Uh, no, but thanks for asking.”
“Uh-huh,” Morgan once again glanced behind Spencer, whose irritation at the suspicion was steadily increasing.
“She’d not dead,” Spencer stated, though he meant it as a joke it came out rather harsh.
“Alright, pretty boy, I didn’t say she was.” Morgan chuckled, patting Spencer on the shoulder, “See you tomorrow.”
Spencer made quick work of unloading his things, he thought about getting in the shower but feared it’d wake you. Instead, he debated on whether or not he should leave your things in you bag or do you a favor and put them away. He didn’t want you to consider him a snoop, especially with how you’d been looking at each other the past few weeks–and that undercover case.
His heartbeat picked up, and he couldn't stop thinking about it–it was the thing he fell asleep to at night; it was gradually eating away at him, and he couldn’t deny the way his body tensed whenever he recalled the image of you under the flashing array of lights–how you’d looked so…submissive.
He hastily shoved that thought to the furthest corner he could find in his mind and headed for your bag. He didn’t want to be brash with the way he put your clothing away, but he also didn’t you to wake up while he was holding your underwear–then he’d truly feel like a creep.
He was halfway done when you mumbled something; he froze and he could feel the thump of his heart in his chest. Though it was still winter, he’d begun to sweat and had set his glasses aside because they kept sliding off the bridge of his nose. He’d been wearing them more often than not for the past few months as he’d found them to be a particular fascination of yours. It was now that he squinted and moved his hand around for them.
His footsteps carried him quietly across the room, near your bedside. “—?” He whispered and when you failed to respond, lifted a tentative hand to your cheek–though just before the pads of his fingertips met your skin, you mumbled something again–and this time, he could hear it. He fisted his hand and used the bedside table to hold himself up, and although he couldn’t see them, he knew his hands were turning white with how hard he was squeezing them.
Again. He wanted to hear it again–his prayers were answered as you shifted slightly, tugging the cover up to your neck. Skimming down your person, he bit his fist and tried to calm himself down. Again. He needed to sit down, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He felt it twitch–he needed to walk away right now. And he did, but instead of picking up where he’d left off with your clothing, he headed for the bathroom, not bothering to turn the light on as he shut himself in complete darkness.
Images of you, your stolen glances, and desperate touches filled his mind. He was particularly focused on the tired way you slurred his name in your sleep. He wondered what kind of dreams you were having, what you were picturing as you said his name like that. He muffled his groans as he stroked himself, using his fist to bite back anything that might escape the small confines of the washroom. His thoughts of you were possibly the only thing he allowed himself to go to extensive lengths with. His mouth watered at the mere concept of you and your twisting legs. He’d done this a considerable amount of times before–but this was the first time you were so close– a hairsbreadth away.
It felt both right and wrong, and yet the lines began fading into oblivion as he came closer to climax.
He whimpered into his hand just as he came. It was odd, he didn’t too much feel like a creep after he cleaned himself up, but upon washing his hands profusely and returning to put your garments away, he was once more–afraid of what you’d think if you caught him messing with your things.
Although a part of him felt it might have been because he wanted you to find him in that state, he tried rationalizing–but the more he thought about it–even as he now rested his head against a pillow–the more he found that ‘might’ to be absolute truth.
You woke up to the smell of coffee. You stretched, yawned, and pried your eyes open. Rolling onto your side, you found Spencer devouring a book, his glasses at the tip of his nose. You smiled, thinking you were dreaming–but then his eyes shifted over to yours and your smile fell, you quickly understood this Spencer was real–oh no–your cheeks burned from last night's delusions. “Good morning,” he smiled. You groaned and sat up, your hands finding your cheeks, “what time is it?”
“It’s around six, you have,” he checked his watch, “an hour and thirty minutes, Hotch wants us ready before eight.”
You huffed and threw yourself back against the pillows. New Years had come and gone and you hadn't even celebrated...though, your mind with all the ways you could make up for it–you shook the thoughts away, now was not the time.
Five minutes later you were searching for your clothing, but your bag was practically empty, “did you move my things?”
Spencer choked on his coffee, “ah–yeah,” he motioned toward the chifforobe. You glared at it as he said, “It’s small, so some of our things are mixed, but you should be able to find whatever you’re looking for easily.”
“Thank you” You appreciated his simple act of affection, it made your chest ache.
“Yeah, sure.” Despite going back to reading his book, Spencer snuck small glimpses of you from the corners of his eyes.
As the hot water ran down your back, you found yourself thinking of Spencer, just a few feet away, you were practically naked and he could walk in at any moment, you felt an ache between your thighs, but you shrugged it off–or at least you tried to.
You hadn’t had sex since that incident with Spencer a few weeks ago. You tried–by all God did you try–but you just couldn’t It led to a few arguments with the guys you’d taken home–and your credit, you did feel just a little bad. All the same, you simply couldn’t seem to get him out of your mind. It was like he was mocking or watching you every time you attempted it–he was that tiny, little voice in the back of your head feigning disappointment, saying you wouldn’t purge the sexual frustration unless it were him. Though you were a saint at keeping it hidden, your agitation only built.
The day was more or less: “Spencer, what do you see?” from Hotch and “—, if you were the unsub…” from Morgan. Penelope was on call a few times and you were so close, but it had grown late and you needed sufficient unwinding. After a group dinner in the hotel lobby that primarily consisted of takeout and the small meal provided by the hotel staff, you headed up to your room. Spencer stayed to grab one last cup of coffee before the staff closed the mailroom for good. Thus, with your alone time, you decided to wash off all the griminess of the day.
You were drying yourself with a towel when you heard him enter, “I’m almost done,” you shouted, “I think there’s still some hot water left.”
His lack of response piqued your curiosity. You threw your clothing on once you were mostly just damp and yanked the door open. You were pulling your hair back into a ponytail when he looked up. He’d just set his cup of coffee on the table near the lamp, which now that you noticed, was the only light that lit up the room, he had turned the big llight off.
“You okay?” You rubbed your face, dropping your hands to your side right after, “did you hear me?”
“No, sorry,” he frowned, “I wasn’t paying attention.” He stood.
“Oh, I just said–if you wanted to get in, there’s still hot water left.” You thrust a your thumb behind you.
“Ah, thanks.” You nodded and pursed your lips. “So, what book were you reading this morning?” You took up the spot Spencer had just abandoned.
He turned and watched you–filling the area. He caught the way your legs pressed together as you crossed them to sit more comfortably against the pillows, attention to the book he’d been reading that morning.
“I’m going to get in the shower,” he cursed himself as he felt desire pool in his throat. He wondered what it’d be like to kiss you, to touch you–to taste you. His mouth watered at the prospect and he felt himself harden just like the night before. His shower was quick as the water had gotten cold and had quickly ruined his mood.
“You lied to be,” he glared at you from the threshold of the bathroom door.
You bit your lip, but still, a smile graced your mouth, “sorry, I thought it would last.” He shook his wet hair around around, mimicking the actions a puppy would.
“What?” His eyes widened slightly and his eyebrows raised, “what did you call me?”
A hand flew to your mouth, your own surprise showing, “I–” of bloody course, you said it out loud.
He stepped forward, dropping his towel on the bed, “say it again.” It was odd, the way he said it–like it was both a question and a demand–or rather, a demand he questioned your willingness to obey.
“…puppy?” you tried laughing it off, “Sorry, it just came out–I didn’t mean t–”
“Didn’t you, though?” Came a mirthful reply. Spencer stepped forward, towering over you as he leaned down, bringing his face near yours, one hand on the bed near your hips, the other on the bedside table. “Is that what you’ve thought of me this entire time?”
And what the hell were you supposed to say to that? Game on is what Spencer saw in your eyes as you set the book on the table, your hand purposely roaming over his as you pulled it back. “No,” you stated, a nonchalant expression crossing your features as your eyes turned away from his, the move calculated, “only sometimes.”
Spencer didn’t think the table would be able to withstand him much longer, but it did as he thought of ways he might proceed. Eventually, he let go and instead wrapped his firm fingers around your nape, forcing your attention to his. “And do you think that now?”
He watched a Chesire grin take its place upon your mouth. “If I said yes, would that anger you, Dr. Reid?” The mocking was unnecessary, but it sure as hell was a lot more fun than if you simply addressed him as ‘Spencer’ or ‘Reid’.
The parental-like tone you took up furthered his new-growing erection. His hair still dripped with water and as a water droplet streaked down his face, you lifted your hand to wipe it with your thumb. His hand let your your neck go to snatch your wrist–God you wanted him so badly. This witty banter–you were already starting to find–just wasn’t enough anymore.
Your eyes reapproached his, they seemed to meet with the same level of desire, completely forgetting that there was a serial killer on the loose, your eyes dipped to his lips only once before you leaned forward–but while you did he pushed you back, your back hitting the bedframe and just as you caught your breath, you found yourself being deprived of air once more.
Spencer was hungry, he tasted like coffee and something minty. Your hands tangled through his hair and while he suffocated you in the only way you’d ever want to be suffocated, you tugged. It barely stopped him the first time, but the second and third had his eyes rolling.
When they found you again, noting the playful glint in your eyes, he vowed he would go as far as you’d let him tonight–and perhaps the night after that, he hadn’t quite thought it through, and at this time, he neither had the strength nor the want to do so.
He began tugging at your t-shirt, but you grabbed his hand, “ah-ah,” you clicked your tongue, “you have to earn that.”
He paused and took a step back, watching you now, your knees digging into the softness of the mattress; your mouth darkened with the visceral kisses he’d forced on you. Your eyes sparked with something he knew he’d never be able to find in any other woman. His lips quirked, his eyes were hooded, and his voice thick when he asked, “What do I have to do?”
The need in his voice was enough to shed you of your clothing right then and there, but it seemed you had a lot more self-control than he did in the moment. You tugged your hair out of the loosened, droopy ponytail it had fallen into and brushed it back, smoothing it out to appear just how you wanted it to. You felt his eyes on you, patient, but every second he was, was a second his lust grew, and the moment you gave him the okay–well, he honestly couldn’t say just what he’d be capable of.
“You seem agitated, Spencer,” you pouted, shifting so that your legs fell in front of you over the edge of the bed. His eyes tracked your movements as he used your bed’s bedpost to steady himself, “just how many times have you pictured me like this?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” came his frivolity response. To be frank, he knew the exact answer to your question, but the first thing that flew into his head and out of his mouth was–to be sure–an edging reply. He watched how you interpreted it.
In a moment of unconsciousness, you glanced at the chifforobe across from you. Spencer caught that shit.
“Oh?” He raised a brow, finding the confidence to step forward.
“Don’t get any ideas, Reid.” You warned, but he could see the arguments going on between your eyes.
“No, see: I think it’s your idea.” He corrected, a deep, rumble of a laugh fell from his throat, “So, what exactly did you picture me doing with this thing.” He snorted and walked over to it, running a hand along the cupboard. You bit your lit, your dreams coming into clear view as if they were a film playing in front of you.
“Spencer,” you stood both embarrassed and a little annoyed.
You marched over to it at placed a hand on his shoulder–but then you were against the doors of the small chifforobe and Spencer was whispering just above your ear, “Was this it? Your sick fantasies of me? Did they include me having you against a wardrobe?”
Your breath caught and you wanted to hide your face because there was no doubt he’d be able to see the truth without you having to voice any sort of answer–but the jerk had his hand cupped around your jaw, and his grip was unimaginably strong for–well, him.
He smiled and tilted his head–and God only knew what that did to your resolve. Your knees weakened and you found yourself whimpering. “So, I guess that’s a yes.” You found just enough strength to narrow your eyes and look somewhat pissed. He nodded, “the shirt,” he tugged at the bottom.
You bit back a repost as he dropped his hands and stepped away, though he kept his distance close enough to where you felt his presence even after you’d lifted your shirt and he was out of sight. His eyes didn’t leave yours, you admired his stoicism; you’d already proved you weren’t any match when your eyes traced every line anytime you saw a sliver of his stomach, hips, neck, or forearms–okay maybe you had a bit of an obsession, but could it honestly be considered that when the look he was giving you screamed ‘wolf in sheep's clothing’?
“What other things have you thought up in that horny brain of yours, I wonder,” he spoke almost to himself, but his ever-focused gaze told you he was quite literally asking.
“That’s not how the game works,” a cheeky grin reformed your scowl.
“Right,” he paused, turning his eyes to the ceiling for effect, “remind me?”
Your eyes roved from one eye to the other, and back again, searching for any hint of hesitation, “this foreplay is kind of starting to get old.”
“Yes, I can agree–” you cut him off midsentence with a ravenous kiss. You could swear you bit him more than once, but he wasn’t complaining. Your head lulled to the side as he trailed kisses up and down your neck, finding a spot he particularly liked just below your ear.
Your hands twisted in his hair, yanking, tugging, and pulling–whatever got the most responses from him, you were doing. You threw his shirt to the side and pushed him toward the bed. He braced himself using his arms, though they were swiftly in motion again, wrapping around your waist as you stepped between his legs. “What do you want?” You asked, attempting to catch your breath.
He laughed, but when he realized you were serious he almost snorted, “What do I–what do I want?”
“It’s a simple question,” you shrugged, “what do you want from me?”
Now–now his eyes dipped, “I want a lot of things.”
You bit back another grin. Somehow in the few minutes, you’d been running around the room talking about how horny you both were, you’d ended up on the bed, your head behind a pillow. Spencer was between your legs, mouth-watering. He’s waited so long, he honestly didn’t think this foretold moment would ever actually occur, but God, was he glad he’d been wrong. Heavy, sinful eyes skimmed your lower body as he fumbled with the top of your shorts. His hands were warm despite the dreary weather outside, likely due to his recent shower. They pressed into your thighs as he brought his face just above your lower stomach, his name fell from your mouth in a whine, leading him to push aside the cover of your shorts. He drug a few fingers over your center.
Your moans sliced through the rough tension that had fallen over the hotel room. “What?” His snort was low and sloppy, “Oh, is–,” one of his fingers gently slid over you and your eyes shut, “–is this what you want?” His eyes traced the arch of your neck that was most exposed, the one lined with the red marks he’d left. The twitching beneath his sweatpants pulled a groan from his lips.
He swirled his finger around, feeling your wetness was more than inviting. “Spencer,” you cried, eyes flying open at the loss of contact.
“Be still,” he said, his voice wavering as he tugged everything off and discarded them on the floor. You watched him watch you–it wasn’t until you noted the way his eyes narrowed that you understood he was outlining your form–so that he could vividly paint it in his mind for a later purpose.
“I asked first,” you frowned up at him.
“You’re right,” he sighed, “here: let me show you what I want.”
Your breath caught as he lowered himself, his face coming right up to you, and with the way he was drooling at the sight, you could tell he’d been thinking about this for a while–it made you wonder if his desire had begun a lot sooner than yours had.
His mouth was warm, his tongue stroked up and down as far as they could go, and even when you thought he’d reached that point, he proved you wrong. Your hands knotted in his hair as you guided his head. His mouth was warm as he lapped up everything. You tried keeping your moan to a minimum, but when he stopped, your eyes popped open–had you done something wrong? But no, he was looking up at you with those desperate, puppy-like eyes, “please,” his whisper was grating, “I want to hear you.”
You swallowed, the ache building in you, “if that’s what you want,” you nodded.
And a few moments later, you were calling out his name in a way you’d never called anyone name. This was so new, you’d never had a guy worship you like this and you couldn’t fathom the fact that Spencer wanted to do it for your pleasure as well as his own.
You tried to hold it in, but your body had been desolate of attention for so long that you just couldn’t anymore. You could hear him slurp, and God did it do something to your brain chemistry– He considered you with clouded eyes. “Are you okay?” He frowned, pushing his body over yours.
Without giving him time to settle, you yanked his jaw toward your face with firm hands, he tasted like you and smelled of his shampoo–and yet, there was still the unknown Spencer scent that seemed only his skin could produce. You lined his jaw with kisses, your heart pounding in your chest with every new groan that escaped him.
My turn,” you huffed, definitely the cause of the lopsided grin that spread across his mouth. Though his hair was a mousy brown, in the dim yellow lamplight, it was as dark as the wood that made up the vintage furniture. It looked windswept or like he had just woken up–and perhaps he had. It was no longer a deniable fact that he’d never feel this good with anyone else, and he didn’t know how long this relationship with you would last, so he would milk everything he could out of it–and in exchange, surrender everything he had of himself.
It was only a few seconds later that you had him on his back, hands roving up and down his chest. You rubbed yourself against him, eliciting sweet sounds from his throat and friction from where you were just barely connected. You made sure to hold his gaze as you slid onto him. His jaw tightened and you could feel relief leave him as his chest fell. You tightened around him, trying to get used to him, you had to pause for a second–you couldn’t believe you were doing this–and in a moment of incompetence, you laughed.
“Sorry,” you lowered your chest onto his and began chuckling into his neck, “it’s just–what would the other think if they knew?”
Spencer pushed your shoulder away and held you above him, “I guess it’s a good thing they don’t, right?”
You nodded, but a small part of you wondered about what that meant for the after. Spencer groaned as you sat back up, you started slowly, hissing as you let him fill you. Spencer gave out his fair share of whimpers, but you wanted more, you wanted to make him cry.
You gripped his hair with one hand and the pillow beside him with another, you rolled your hips and wiggled every time you sat back down. Squeezing your thighs seemed to make him shudder the most, and when you added sucking to the mix, you knew you had him.
“There it is,” your grin was devilish as you swiped at his cheek. He opened his eyes just in time to see you licking his tears off your thumb.
“I might ask what we are now,” you huffed a laugh as Spencer shut the bathroom door. He had been a complete gentleman about everything, cleaning you, massaging your shoulders. You’d never had such an experience, you’d never thought there could be more to having sex if you only had the right partner; now that you did, there was…but you were unsure about yourself.
You found your mind questioning all you knew about Spencer and what this all meant to you. You had asked him what he wanted from you, but did you even know what you wanted from him? Before, the question might have thrown you off–though Spencer had asked it, you weren’t taking him all too seriously. Now that you had more time to contemplate your roving thoughts, you knew the answer as if it had been written in your DNA.
Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed as he sat beside you, you were facing the window and the chifforobe.
“Well, what else would we be?” He paused, almost hesitatingly. You jerked your head toward his, eyes searching, and as the seconds of silence ticked by, he seemed to fade more and more into himself. When he turned his head and averted his eyes, saying, “I mean–if that’s not what you want–” you cut him off.
“No, I just–” you stopped yourself, unsure of how to explain the complications running through your mind, “I’m just not exactly sure what that means…”
A heavy sigh escaped his lips. You opened your mouth to clarify–probably more than necessary–but your words caught in your throat as Spencer stood and lowered to his knees in front of you. He was between your thighs, but there was nothing sexual about it–if anything it felt like the complete opposite kind of intimacy you had grown accustomed to with him.
His hands reached for yours, pulling them into your lap. He looked up at you with possibly the one look Spencer Reid had never given anyone. His eyes couldn’t decide which one of yours to focus on for the longest time, but when he did, his tone was guttural and almost choking, trusting.
“The more time I spend with you, the more I feel I’ve always known you. These past few weeks–they weren’t the beginning for me.” Your mouth suddenly went dry, though you still tried to swallow. “I–I honestly don’t know when it started, but the more I felt drawn to you, the more I forced myself away. It–I don’t–I didn’t think I deserved to feel that way–I guess…”
You waited a few moments to ensure he was finished, your mind ran to look for the best possible response–but given the one-in-a-million situation you were in, your mind went blank. Instead, you rambled the first words that rolled into your mind just as you whispered the last, “I want you in every way, Spencer. It’s like–like you’ve bewitched me–”
“...body and soul,” he finished, “it’s…Jane Austen–sorry.” He cringed.
You threw your head back and laughed, then huffed, wiping a few tears from your eyes, “No, oh, no don’t worry. See this is why I love you,” Your heart came to an abrupt halt, and you felt as if you were dead, “no–I mean, I don’t–I mean, I–well, I do, but I mean–”
“It’s okay,” you followed his face as he stood and leaned down, his palm brushing across your face as he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and leaned forward, “It’s okay, know what you meant,” the end of his sentence was muffled by another kiss.
“So, do you think they’ve caught on yet?” JJ asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Uhh, I’d say probably not.” Emily nodded.
“Would you like the share with the class?” Morgan raised a brow.
“Oh, I know this one,” Penelope hand shot up, her jewelry clinking against one another, “because — and Reid still think we don’t know.”
“I mean how could we not, though?” JJ huffed a laugh, setting her mug on the table in front of her.
“Know what?” Rossi smacked his lips, startling the group of four.
“Know…the complexities of…nail polish?” Penelope tried and failed to save the group.
All four members winced as Hotch appeared seemingly out of thin air and stated, “they think we don’t know about Spencer and —.”
“What?” Rossi shook his head, following Hotch, “how could we not know? They’re so obvious.”
a/n: sorry for the wait, but i do proofread my fics because i just can't stand things not being as good as they could be–i'm a bit of a perfectionist lol irregardless, happy late new year !!
Summary: Almost four months since Spencer came home and the fairytale that once was your life has come crashing down around you.
Warnings: ☹️ ouch. Angst. PTSD. Taylor Swift ‘How did it end?’ coded. hurt/comfort. this hurt to write, don’t hate me. Reid my poor baby has some stuff to work out.
W.H. Auden once wrote,
‘Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky and feel its total dark sublime, though this might take a little time.’
Poetry was something you were no stranger to, given the fact you taught an advanced creative writing class at the local high school.
You once enjoyed poetry.
But now, when the words feel like knives aimed at you, you can’t bear to indulge in the afternoon readings like you used to.
Instead, afternoons are spent in an apartment that somehow lost its warmth. Before, you’d claim it’s because Spencer was gone, that things would be brighter when you brought him home. He’s been home for three months, a little longer, the weather has begun to change, warping into a melancholy winter. You sit at your desk, staring at your computer screen, spinning your engagement ring around your finger.
You’ve been trying to get back into writing, trying to revisit your archived story. Though, it’s hard to revisit a fictional romance mystery when there’s nothing to inspire it.
Groaning, you delete half of the last paragraph you’ve written and try to type something that isn’t cliche. Pushing through the urge to stop, you write until the words flow thoroughly and there’s a key turning in the door.
There he was, the love of your life.
Spencer trudges into the apartment and drops his bag by the door, his shoes find a home beside it. The circles under his eyes are darker than they were this morning when he left, he runs a hand through his hair and glances over at you when you stand with a grin.
“Hi.” You do your best to beam, conveying just how much it excites you to see him.
“Hi.” He mumbles, tossing you a tight lipped smile as he walks towards the bedroom.
Trying to push away the sick feeling in your gut, you turn back to your blind optimism and take your glasses off.
It takes eight steps from the bedroom door to the closet, it takes him three steps to pace and grab casual clothes. In about a minute, he takes off his day clothes and pulls on something that doesn’t feel constricting. You memorized every foot step he makes in this home, it’s easy to focus on when you spent some time not hearing it.
By the time he comes back out to retrieve his bag and sit on the couch, you grab up your laptop and sit on the other end of the sofa.
Paperwork and files soon lay on the coffee table and you watch him organize and complete end of the day tasks. Patiently waiting your turn, when Spencer finally relaxes back into the cushions, you slide closer.
“How was your day?” You ask.
He grunts. “Nothing worth talking about. Oh, I’m going to Connecticut next week to do a seminar, I’ll be gone two days.”
You nod. “That’s exciting, right?”
He shrugs, then there’s silence.
You scoot closer. “I was working on some things, I think I’m finally getting back into the groove of it. You want to read the last chapter I made?”
He motions to the coffee table. “Yeah, just leave it there and I’ll take a glance later. I’m debating on if I want to shower before dinner or after.”
“I was thinking we could go out for dinner, we haven’t in a while.” You offer with a hopeful smile.
Spencer frowns. “I’m not really feeling a social scene right now.”
“Oh, yeah, no, of course.” You quickly say. “We could do take out then, Italian maybe?”
He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t do take out anymore, it’s basically inviting a serial killer into our home, giving him some place to come back later when I’m not around.”
Right. The paranoia.
You knew things were going to be different when Spencer came home, and you did your best to adjust with an open mind. Sleepless nights consoling him, countless days spent trying to pull him from his own mind. Through tears and breaking points and a few instances where he utterly scares you, you know he’s still your same Spence, but just a little hardened now. He’s still the man who spent too much on a ring, still the dorky guy you fell for those years ago.
Things are just…a little rough.
“Okay.” You say to his statement. “I’ll whip something up then.”
At the sight of your willingness to give something up, he feels immensely bad.
“No.” He sighs, shaking his head. “No, I’m being stupid. Italian sounds fine.”
The bad habit of being too harsh on himself has been hard to kick, but it’s getting better… you think.
So you order Italian and eat in front of the television while Spencer fact checks what the characters are saying, criticizing the antics of these fictional people. It feels so normal, the whole situation, it makes you momentarily have amnesia, as if the two of you are exactly like before. You lean into his side and laugh at the sitcom, thinking that this Spencer hasn’t experienced what he has, that everyone around the two of you still feel the happy affects of your love, that you test wedding cakes and look for a bigger place. A place the two of you can buy together and start a family.
“I’m gonna shower.” He says, rubbing your shoulder.
Looking up at him, you smile playfully. “Want company?”
There it was, that reminder that things weren’t like before.
He kind of just shakes his head with a smile and leaves without anything else.
You know he doesn’t mean to, but sometimes he makes you feel about an inch tall. He used to look at you with this heavy gaze, something needy, something that never failed to make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world. His hands would find a home on your skin, he used to kiss for fun.
You don’t remember exactly when he last gripped you in a way that wasn’t just polite.
You know he has fears, he has it in his head that he is a danger to himself and you, that his hands are murderous, but it doesn’t feel the best when you’re constantly rejected by the man you’re going to marry.
Rubbing your eyes, you clean up the dinner mess and then go to the bedroom to slip into pajamas. The floor length mirror shines your reflection, you stop to stare.
Maybe you weren’t the first pick, maybe you hated what you saw sometimes, but the thing about Spencer was he was so sure that no one could ever do it like you. A slew of compliments he’d give you, the fever of his love was scorching.
You give the girl in the mirror a smile, then comb her hair with your fingers and smooth your tank top.
Silly enough, you turn to the side, wrapping your arms around an invisible bump, and you smile fondly at the thought. Two kids. A boy and a girl. Little geniuses. That’s what he and you would talk about. The next thing after he marries you, the next thing he’d do was give you a baby. He swore up and down at night when you laid with your head on his beating heart, he’d give you the family you craved and your face would hurt from smiling so much.
All plans are at a stand still now.
And that’s okay, wasn’t it? This was a rough patch and you’re helping Spencer get through it because you’d help him with anything-
The bedroom door opens, Spencer walks in and you step away from the looking glass.
“I’m going to get ready for bed.” You mumble, walking past him, cheeks burning red.
To say the least, Spencer feels horrible. Here you were, giving him your undying loyalty, holding his hand through all of it, and he’s the reason life has stopped. You’re so brave about it, always patient and understanding.
He hates it.
You should be angry, you should be arguing. He knows his bad moods kill you, he knows you’re waiting for things to be normal again and they won’t. You get up in the middle of the night when he’s asleep and put on your wedding dress, just to smile at yourself and promise that soon, it’ll be better. You think he doesn’t realize, that he’s passed out, but from the bed he watches you turn in front of the mirror and bite your lip, the way you always do when you’re too pleased with something. Then he sees you cry, softly, hand pressed to lips so you don’t make any noise and inconvenience him. You only let the break happen for a fee minutes, then you wipe your tears, take off the dress and tell yourself that it’s all alright.
Things will be okay.
What if they won’t?
What if it all just crumbles, every wall of the castles built?
It’s not a matter of ‘what if’s’ anymore, is it? Not when the two of you argue into the morning about things. You’re trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt but when he isn’t giving you anything at all, it makes for situations like this one.
Head in your hands, you pause for a brief moment and breathe before looking back up at Spencer. The two of you have been at this for about an hour and a half, all because you mentioned how unfair he’s being. Here you were, taking the scraps he throws to you like you’re a dog, and he’s saying it’s you who is unfair.
“I know you want things to go back to the way they were, but it’s not gonna happen.” He says in that bitter tone you hate, looking down at you, sitting on the mattress.
“I know things are different, Spencer.” You claim. “But I didn’t think I had to be okay with you hardly looking at me, or-or not baring to ask me a simple question like how my day was.”
He scoffs at you, running a hand through his unruly hair. “I’m sorry if my attention isn’t devoted to you now.”
You stand to match his position. “Don’t make me seem selfish.” You shout.
“I’m- you’re not selfish, I just…what do you want from me?” He questions, throwing his arms out and staring at you with absolutely no love in his eyes.
“What do I want?” You reword. “What I want is some progress. Every day I wake up, and I do my best to convince you that you’re not something evil, that these unforeseen circumstances don’t define you, and it’s like I’m stuck in a loop. I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.”
A lump forms in your throat, your eyes burn but you can’t find it in yourself to let those tears fall.
“That’s the problem!” Spencer shouts. “You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of sick animal and I can’t stand it!”
“You’re looking at me like I’m not the love of your life anymore, so I suppose some things change.”
Silence.
Spencer’s at a loss for words.
Your tears start falling now. You wipe at them with fever.
“I’m trying to give you time, Spence.”
“Angel-” He tries to interrupt, only to be stopped with the movement of your hand in the air, halting him.
“Don’t. Don’t be like this. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but I have felt so alone.” You say with a squeak. “And you just… don’t care.”
He shakes his head, demeanor changing. “Of course I care!”
“Really? Because it feels like you gave up on me when you gave up on yourself.” You gasp lightly, trying to calm your shaking hands. “And that’s mean, baby. I know you have been through so much and you lost the game of chance, and I’m sorry- I am so sorry, but you can’t toss me aside like I haven’t formed my whole life around you!”
It’s strange, standing in a room that once knew laughter and the warmth of your escapades. Only now, it’s ghostly and tired and blue. Spencer wants to defend it, wants to shout that you’re just not understanding him but it’s wrong. You understand him better than anyone ever has, and you’re immensely right, he’s abusing the situation. He knows all of this and can’t help but back peddle like his life depends on it.
“I’m not trying to toss you aside, I’m sorry.” He says, reaching out to grab you, deciding his touch can’t be your downfall.
But you side step him. “But you are, do you not understand? Use that smart head of yours to realize the instance here.” You plead. “If you’re done trying, then I am to because I have no more to give. I’m empty, you took it all from me, Spence. What do I get in return? Nothing, not even a fucking marriage.”
There’s a certain level of hurt that mixes with the anger and creates something crazy in your brain, makes it malfunction and all your repressed thoughts come out.
As you go to leave the bedroom, Spencer follows after. “What does that mean?” He asks.
You need to get out, these walls are whispering with your promises of a future, they’re getting louder.
“You aren’t going to marry me.” You state, searching for some place to hide and sink away.
“Of course I am.” He claims, calling your name to stop you.
“You can’t even pretend like you love me, Spencer, you aren’t going to marry me.”
A hand catches your arm and spins you to face him. His eyes are confused and reeling.
“I do love you, I always have.”
There’s a waver in his voice, is there?
I swallow. “Say it again. With feeling.”
“I love you!”
As the air leaves your lungs in a death rattle sort of way, you just can’t feel the warmth. It makes sense, ghosts have no heat, no matter how beloved they are. You know he expects you to give a different statement than what you do, and it hurts when you tell him the truth.
“I don’t think that’s enough now.”
“Don’t say that.” His tone comes out angrier than intended.
“I just did.”
One might describe him as a scared dog, one who lashes out now like he never used to.
“It’s not enough? Then why don’t you just spare yourself?” He spits, resembling a man you’ve never known, tossing your arm aside, probably too harshly.
The knife twists in your chest, you’re convinced you’re bleeding. Slowly, you nod. The ring seems to hold on for dear life, but you still pull it from your finger and offer it forward.
Everything inside of him feels sick as he reaches out his hand, watching as you drop the diamond into his palm.
With your heartbeat in your ears, you go to the door, sliding into your shoes and grabbing your heavy coat to brave into the weather. With Spencer calling your name, you shut the door on his impending questions of where you’re going.
Spencer stares at the door, and for a moment he can’t believe it all happened like it did. But he said the words and you followed his lead like the faithful partner you are and now you’re gone.
It takes him twenty two minutes before he begins to really panic. What if you’re gone forever? What if some force is going to take you now? Where did you go? Are you cold?
And if you left, that meant he’s alone for good, alone like he’s always been. How could he do this to you? He’s horrible, he’s a monster, all of those things he’s thought about are true.
He sets the ring on the counter, then throws the dirty coffee mug into the sink with such force, it breaks.
He paces the apartment while you stand at Penelope’s door, your dearest friend you only know because of Spencer, trying to hold it together until she comes to find you.
“What happened?” She asks, taking in your appearance.
“I don’t– know.” You sob out.
Two weeks later…
…
…
…It’s a weird feeling, having your spine split in half from carrying so much weight uphill for so long. You know a lot about weird feelings now, that empty space in your chest, Spencer sized, that’s your new lover.
Penelope sets a duffel bag by the pullout couch where you hardly move from, she’s been making trips to the apartment over the days to retrieve what you need.
“Hey, lovebug.” She coos softly, sitting by your knees, petting your mess of hair. “How was work?”
You open your mouth to tell her it was fine, that today was actually a good day, all the way up until Spencer texted you and asked if you wanted to move all of your things out.
A strangled sigh leaves your cracked lips.
This sums up how the last two weeks have been, and you wonder if Pen is a little embarrassed for you yet, the way you can hardly get out of bed.
“Emily and JJ and I are going out…why don’t you take a shower and come with us? It’ll make you feel better.” She says in such a gentle tone, one she’s learned that can get you to do anything.
It drags you to the shower, where you sag against the wall and do your daily crying. Then you get dressed and tame your hair and somehow make it to the bar.
Emily and JJ look at you with pity and you have no energy to be upset.
“Reid’s not enjoying it either.” Emily offers in a corner booth, because the conversation has turned to discussing the loss of your life.
Pen and JJ nod in agreement.
The BAU feels like they’re going through this break up at the way Spencer’s moods affect all of them. They’ve never known his anger like they do now, how he’s quick to snap, how the littlest thing sets him off. They’ll spare you, they won’t tell you how he swiped the picture frames off his desk, the ones of you and him. They won’t mention the fact that he hasn’t smiled once, that he looks like he doesn’t sleep.
They won’t tell you any of this but they’ll offer words of condolence or comfort, neither work.
“It’s going to be alright.” Emily encourages, squeezing your hand from across the table. “Heartache doesn’t stay forever.”
JJ nods like it’s going to fix the way you’re as empty as a drum.
“We all know how you’re feeling, don’t worry.” She says, her perfect, Barbie doll smile.
It makes you sick. You really shouldn’t take the anger out on anyone, but you do because there’s so much of it and you can’t stop it from flowing.
“You know what I’m going through?” You question her.
“Yes, I’ve had heartaches too.”
You suddenly can’t stand being here, you need to leave.
“You can go home to a husband, Jennifer, you don’t know how I feel.”
With those as your parting words, you flee, you tell Penelope you need air and you’ll see her at her apartment.
While you brave the cold city, the three women ask themselves how it could have possibly ended like this, with the greatest love of all in shambles. JJ calls Reid, of course she does.
“You need to fix this.” She tells him.
“…How is she?” He asks, sitting on the sofa, eyeing the framed pictures on the wall.
“She’s…lost. She’s ghostly, she-…Spencer, she loves you and she can’t stop. Fix it.”
“I don’t know how.” He says, monotone.
“How did it end, anyway?” She asks, seeing Emily and Penelope return with more drinks.
Spencer sort of sighs, though it’s sad and broken.
“I don’t know.”
- - - -
The air bites, it’s as cold as you feel, makes your bones ache. You wander in hopes of getting lost permanently, but to no avail, you know your city. Your city that feels so harsh and cruel, it’s one big reminder that you used to not walk the sidewalks alone, that you once stole kisses under streetlights. And as you’re walking down fifth avenue and memory lane, your feet drag you to the place you really want to go. In the time you left the bar and got frostbite from the early stages of falling snow, you’ve worked yourself up enough to believe you could stand your ground. Your anger has made a platform to stand on, you’re at the top of the fucking podium by the time you knock on the apartment door.
Why are you knocking?
Your name is on the fucking lease.
You shove the key in the lock and barge in, mouth agape, ready to fire.
And then you see it.
The bedroom door is only halfway shut, but you see movement. In the room that is gray and sullen, Spencer stands with his back to the door, staring at the cascade of white that he has laid on the bed like a memorial, like it was an open casket viewing.
Your podium shrinks.
“I was going to wear my hair up.” You say, causing him to turn and face you.
He’s tired, hair messy, unshaven, and those round brown eyes are the saddest things you’ve ever seen.
“I like your hair up.” He says, the words echo off exposed brick walls.
Heart beats pass, ba-bum ba-bum in your ears and you quickly huff and bush melted snow through your hair.
“I’ll get my things out now, if you want.” You say, choosing words carefully, eyes watching the way his avoid you.
“I don’t have any boxes.” He says, fingers brushing satin and lace before he picks the dress back up, puts it in the dust bag and death marches it to you. “You would’ve looked beautiful…you always look beautiful.”
How is it he can be so blissfully unaware? The smartest man you’ve ever known and he’s saying things to break your heart, with no clue that he’s doing it. You take that dress- that beautiful, vintage gown with the hundred fabric buttons running down the back, and lay it over your arm, then rock back on your heels.
“I can grab what I can and come by when you’re at work to get the rest.” You offer, wishing he’d say all the things you want him to say, like stay and I’m an idiot and I love you.
Spencer only nods. “Yeah. That works.”
“Okay…” You whisper, then drape the dress over the reading chair in the corner, the one too small for the both of you. You used to curl as small as possible on his lap with your legs over the arm and your head on his shoulder.
Every corner of this place is haunted.
In the closet, you pull the string and the lightbulb burns orange. You grab the two handheld suitcases, the ones you came home to find on the bed one day with Spencer telling you he was taking you to London while your school was on Spring Break.
When you come back out, Spencer’s left the room. There was no way he could watch you pull open the drawers where your things sat beside his.
With a knot in your throat, you fold and place things neatly and keep your cool like the mature adult you are.
That is until you grab the MIT t-shirt you’ve worn in. It’s a light gray color now, the neckline stretched so it only hangs right on you and not Spencer. Holding the ratty shirt you refuse to let him toss, that’s when you decide you don’t want to be a mature adult.
You’re a teenager with a broken heart is what it feels like, the world is ending and your soul has been split in half.
One tear comes, and then another, and one more until your face is soaked with your desperation and mourning. You ball that silly t shirt up at toss it away, and decide those suitcases are insufferable and onto the floor they go.
You stare at them, the clatter they made did nothing for comfort. With a raspy sigh, you sink to your knees to put everything back inside, and your blurry eyes drift to Spencer’s socks that appear in front of you after he hears the bang.
Wordlessly and gentle, he lowers his tall frame to crouch in front of you. The look in his eye is fools gold, it makes you think he’s the Spencer he was before everything.
You look at him, sure you look like a mess but you don’t care. Your chapped lips part and he’s prepared for the scolding, for your temper.
It doesn’t come.
“We were supposed to grow old together.” You sob out. “It was gonna be you and me, Spence, wearing matching outfits when we’re eighty, going to senior discount days at the theater.”
Those are the words that bring him back to reality, and the fall is harsh and he’s mortified that he’s done this to you.
You hiccup for air, pushing his hand away that tries to grab the suitcase. “I was going to walk down the aisle to an instrumental version of Heartbeat by The Fray, it’s unconventional but it’s my favorite song.”
“I know.” He whispers sadly.
“We didn’t make a deposit on that little venue with the pond, they gave our spot away but that’s okay, we were going to figure it out because we always do. We always do, Spencer.”
You’re not even sure you’re making sense but he understands, you could go mute completely and he’d understand because you’re his person, who he’s ruined.
“I know. I know, baby, I know.” He keeps repeating, adjusting to pull you away from the mess and into him.
With no strength left, you have no fuel for the fight. You fall into him, face in his chest as he sits against the bed and hugs you like he’s not seen you in years. It’s what it feels like, he hasn’t had you this close in too long. His fingers press into your skin, the warmth is almost groundbreaking in feeling, makes him unsure of where to hold you because he wants to touch everywhere, all at once. A lifeless frame full of hunger, you can’t move as you feel his caring grip in your hair, his lips to your crown as you can’t seem to get a solid breath in.
“Don’t make me leave you.” You plead, curling into him like a whimpering dog, clutching his chest to make sure there’s still a heart in there that beats for you.
Spencer’s crying now, the familiar feeling of fear in his lungs that don’t want to expand if you’re not around. He drags hair out of your face and presses his forehead to yours.
“I don’t want you to leave. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” He says with the emotion of the man before.
And just like that, you waltz right back into each other, you know the steps. Sitting in your fairytale, on the cold hardwood floor, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you both determine this isn’t the end of the greatest love affair they’ve ever seen.
You’re not sure how long you stay like this, in his lap, face red and salty as you stare at your bare left hand, but eventually the tears stop for the both of you. Spencer is the first to speak, he gently shifts, his hand sliding up your arm and shoulder to rest on the side of your neck, as if he’s checking your pulse.
“I’m sorry.” He rasps. “I’m sorry for everything, all of it, every single thing I did and said and ruined. I’m an idiot, angel, and you don’t know how lovely you are.”
Like water to a flame, those words are cooling. The grief and remorse in his tone makes you grab that hand checking your lifeline, and hold it.
“I’m sorry too.” You say. “For everything that went wrong and the fact I couldn’t do anything about it.”
His chest shudders, he leans down and kisses your forehead. “It doesn’t matter, it’s over now.”
You tilt your gaze up to meet his eye. “Is it?”
Bless you and the ground you walk on that he should worship better. Spencer gently runs his finger down your cheek and across your jawline. He nods then. “Yeah, baby, it is.”
hii! i lovedd 'lover's rock' sososo much and would absolutely love if you'd write more about that reader & spencer's relationship! maybe the way it develops or their dynamic when they are like 100% official? anything'll do but the way you wrote reader is so unbelievably me i was absolutely eating it upp!!! i love you & your writing!
Hiiiii!!! Thank u sm !!! Lover’s Rock got so much love, here’s a part two!
My Spencer Reid requests are open!
Everybody Loves Somebody ~ S. Reid
Part II of Lover’s Rock
Spencer!Reid x Fem!Twee!Reader
Warnings: 18+ content, brief smut, reader gets wine drunk with BAU women. Reid being dirty, reader being dirty. Idiots in love, omg so cute, season 6/ 7 Reid is soooooo boyfriend. Morgan thinks Reid’s gone crazy. Um yeah okay enjoy
86% of Americans believe in true love, but only 67% of them say they’ve experienced it. That’s a statistic Spencer told you once.
How lucky you are to be apart of that 67%.
How lucky you are that you didn’t settle, that you waited painfully long for it to feel right, because it feels so right.
Ever since that everything but casual hookup, it was like a stone that was always supposed to be in motion, finally started rolling. Spencer took you to dinner, a nice Italian hole in the wall because you mentioned a love of pasta, then he started to call at the end of the day just to talk, and a second date became of that. It’s like he blinked and all of a sudden you two were spending all of his free time together, watching movies, his hand in yours as you dragged him to record stores.
He seriously thinks that in the moments you’re half dressed in his bed, rambling on and on about something you think is important enough to talk about until you practically pass out, that it’s all a dream and he’ll wake up alone come daybreak.
It never happens though, he wakes and you’re curled into his ribcage like that’s where you belong.
You do, he determines.
So three months of this honeymoon dance, the words ‘I love you’ come out unexpectedly in one of Spencer’s ramblings as the breeze blows in, feeling awfully like the winter that’s coming soon. You were bundled up beside him, hand in his like it always is as he tells you about work and how Morgan is always after him about the ‘scandalous love affair’ he’s having with ‘bar room girl’. Aka you.
“They ask so many questions, it’s unbelievable the lack of privacy I have. You know what he told me?” He had asked, which you answered with “What did he tell you, handsome?” before he continued.
“He seriously asked me if I was keeping my options open just in case you turned out to be crazy, clearly he had to be joking because there are no other options. Not that I would want another option! I wouldn’t, you’re the option I’ll stick with- no not an option just, well, you’re you and I love you so I don’t really care if you turn out crazy. I’d see the signs by now anyway.”
You stopped your stride, looking up at him with wide eyes and a wide grin.
“What?” You question.
“Well I’ve been with you long enough to learn your habits and if you were crazy then-”
“No.” You stop him. “You love me?”
He faces you, realizing he had just said it. But even if he wanted to try and back track, he couldn’t, he’s smiling too wide.
“Yeah, I do. I love you.”
“Good. I love you too.” You say, watching your words click in his brain and immediately his hands are cupping your face and he’s kissing you in the middle of the sidewalk, leaning over you as you laugh against his lips. Spencer doesn’t do PDA, or so he thought until he learned that it’s sometimes the only way you’ll understand his feelings and how he can’t put them into words.
You adore the sporadic behavior, getting kissed on sidewalks and trains and movie theater seats and anywhere else he thinks you’re far too beautiful in.
That’s what life has been like for six months together, madly and truly and deeply in love, deeply intimate in every word and touch and action. He goes to work and you’re the thought in the back of his mind as he crakes cases, you teach students and find yourself smiling at any free moment you have to think of when you’re going to see him next.
Now, the team has noticed the shift in their beloved Dr Reid, how he didn’t go out with them like he used to, how he spent a lot more time texting, how he’d casually mention you, but Spencer was a selfish man who wanted you to be something of only his. He shared his whole life with his team and even if they were his family, he took pride in knowing he had an escape they didn’t, which was you.
If the world got too much, you were there with your quirky outfits and strawberry lipstick to stain his cheek. You were his fix. Screw drugs, he had your laugh engraved in his head and that was far better than a needle.
That being said, there were times he was feigning, going through withdrawal all over again when he was gone for too long.
Like now. When he’s been everywhere but where you are for a week and three days just because he had back to back conferences and then fell right into a case.
He was tired and drained and felt a migraine coming on, painfully antisocial as he leaned back in the seat in the jet. Momentarily, he takes a second to breathe, then immediately digs his phone from his pocket and messages you.
He knows that you’re probably just getting home from the school day, that you’re probably sitting down at your desk to grade papers or work out lesson plans. He’s learned your routine in and out, it might be a little stalker-ish if he really thinks about it, so many cases has he worked where the unsub knows where a girl is at 4:30pm.
He’s no unsub, he just loves you enough to know everything about you.
Morgan, nosy like always, notices the way Spencer softly smiles at his phone.
“What are you grinning at, lover boy?” He asks, watching the way Spencer’s expression quickly shifts.
“Nothing.” He states, putting his phone away.
Morgan smirks. “Oh don’t be coy with me, we all know you’re dying to get home to that girl of yours.”
Spencer’s brows furrow, he opens his mouth to deny but the words don’t come. So he gives into it instead.
“So what if I am?” He questions, making Morgan- and Emily who is now paying attention- laugh.
“Aw, Reid, you’re all twitter-patted.” The dark haired agent says in a sweet tone.
Spencer presses his lips together and looks away.
“He’s not even trying to deny it.” Morgan tries to jab.
Only Spencer just shrugs. “Why would I try to deny it? I’m in love with her.”
The two widen their eyes.
“That’s a big word to use.” Emily hums.
“It’s a big feeling to have.” Spencer states. “You know, I’m used to feeling like I’m slowly going crazy everyday but ever since I met her, I don’t really feel it as intensely. It’s all the chemicals released in my brain I think, the dopamine and oxytocin over powers anxiety. Maybe it’s a placebo effect or something but I’ve never felt better than I do with her, so in short words, she’s cured me.”
For a moment, the two are at a loss for words, staring at their friend. It’s no negative thoughts they have, because they are overjoyed that their nerdy, awkward sidekick has finally found a match.
“I’m happy for you, Reid.” Emily smiles. “Sounds like she’s a good fit.”
Spencer, who could never speak ill about you, nods. “She’s probably the only one out there for me so yeah, she’s a good fit.”
“And you have me to thank for having her.” Morgan smirks. “Without me, you wouldn’t have approached her at the bar, you would’ve sat with your nose in that book and died alone.”
“Wow. Very encouraging.” Spencer says dryly.
“I want to meet her. I’m sure the whole team does.” Emily says, changing the subject.
“What’s that?” JJ adds in.
“Reid’s gonna introduce us to the girl who makes him leave the office at a decent hour.” Emily states before he can protest.
You aren’t going to like this idea, but the team is all talking about it like it’s the biggest news ever. He’d get you to settle and agree somehow, just so Morgan will finally see why he is so infatuated with you.
Besides, Rossi is already planning a night at his mansion for the team just so Spencer can bring you along.
- - - -
You completely lose track of the time as you continue to prepare dinner in his apartment, adding homemade sauce to pasta, cutting up seasoned chicken.
That’s probably why you don’t realize Spencer is home until he’s shutting and locking the door behind him.
He smiles in surprise as he sees you, dancing around his kitchen, hair clipped up in a messy updo, knee socks sliding around the floor.
“Hey.” He speaks, causing you to startle and flip around to face him.
Immediately, you’re joyous.
“Spence! Hi!” You rush to him.
He’s never been greeted so warmly until you, and now he can’t have anything different.
His arms encircle your waist as you clumsily throw your arms around his neck. The first words out of your mouth are ones he had never heard that often before you.
“I missed you.” You say, hugging him tight.
He pressed his nose to your hair, soothed by your citrusy shampoo. “I missed you too. I thought we were going to meet at the restaurant?”
You pull back only enough to see his face, your hand in his hair. It’s shorter than when you met, but it’s a good look for him.
“I know but I got impatient and figured I could surprise you with dinner. Is that okay? I suppose I could have asked. I used the key you gave me, I figured that the key meant I could stop in but I really should have asked, huh? Sorry, you know I get ahead of myself. Is this a violation of privacy-”
His lips find your rambling ones, immediately shushing you. It’s a warm welcoming feeling, something the both of you have missed terribly. You sink a little more into him, eyes shut in bliss as you slowly mold your lips with his, savoring it, deepening it.
“You being here is perfect, I gave you that key for to use. Thank you for using it.” He says closely as he pulls back, leaning his forehead to yours.
You sigh with a smile. “I really missed you.”
“I really missed you too.”
There’s a very peaceful silence for a moment, filled with your hands on his chest and your lips trailing over his face.
“Hey, sweetheart?” He asks before you press into him again, a little deeper now.
You hum in question against his lips.
“Where are your pants?” He asks, all muttered.
He really wasn’t complaining if you decided a new fashion trend was wandering his apartment in knee socks and funky patterned boy-short underwear.
“Red wine tragedy.” You state, pushing his coat off. “The cork wouldn’t budge, I put a little elbow grease into it but the thing toppled over when it popped and it was like a crime scene. Red stain everywhere.”
He tosses the coat to the arm chair. “That answers my next question as to why you’re wearing my Lacoste shirt.”
“My clothes are in the bathroom sink, had to scrub them down, though I think they can’t be salvaged.” You frown, turning back to the dinner, reaching for your wine glass.
Spencer just stares, watching how domestic it all is. You in his clothes, making dinner.
“Are you tired? Hungry?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at him.
“Hungry, yes. Tired, not yet. Are you staying the night?” He asks, coming behind you, kissing the top of your head as he leans to pick at ingredients and snack on them.
“Oh…do you want me to?” You question, trying to be coy like you don’t already know the answer.
“Of course I want you to.” He responds, making you chew your lip.
“Good, because my bag is already in your bedroom so it would’ve been really awkward if you said no.”
Spencer laughs, squeezing your hip in affection before he goes to clean up and get out of his work clothes. He takes a quick shower, warm water rushing over him, but he doesn’t want to be away from you for too long.
He comes out in sweatpants and a graphic shirt you’ve finally returned back to him.
The two of you sit and eat dinner and you listen to every single word he has to say before you explain your day and everything you didn’t cover in the nightly phone calls he made to you while away. It’s sometime after cleaning up, after the two of you washed dishes while bumping hips, that Spencer notices the trickle of things that have made their way amongst his belongings. Some have come over time, like a collection of cd’s, books, scarves you constantly forget to grab on your way out. Some things are new, like the makeup products in the medicine cabinet, your favorite snacks in the fridge.
“Did you move in while I was gone?” He laughs, coming to sit beside you on his couch.
Your legs immediately are tugged into his lap, his hand rubbing your calves.
“What? No.” You state, taking your hair down. “I just came by to collect your mail and put it on the coffee table …and to water your plants.”
Spencer cocks his head, looking at you in question. “I don’t have any plants, lovely.”
He watches your smile grow. “I got you some plants.” You say with a giggle.
That explains the golden pathos on the television stand and the small fiddle leaf fig by the window.
He thinks it’s charming, endearing. He noses your hair line, drawing you closer to him. “I no longer live alone, it seems.” He hums.
“Does that bother you?” You question, leaning your head into the space between his collar and jaw. The perfect you size space.
Spencer is quiet for a moment, then he shakes his head and speaks something into existence that he probably should have taken more than a second to think over.
“No, it doesn’t. Actually, I think I want you to move in. Permanently.”
Why should he have to think about it? It’s you, he wants you around 24/7. You could be his home, you could greet him like this always, your perfume could linger around like a friendly ghost.
“Is that a joke? I know you have an odd sense of humor.” You say, pulling back to look at him.
Spencer smiles gently, fingers tucking hair behind your ear. “No joke. I want you to be here with me all the time, I’m selfish like that.”
“You aren’t selfish.” You scoff playfully, but your expression quickly turns into one of concern. “But-but are you sure? I’m probably not a good roommate, I can be messy and I sleep weird hours. And I leave wet towels on the floor a lot, and sometimes forget to put the toothpaste away.”
Spencer shakes his head. “That’s fine, I’ll pick up the towels and put the toothpaste away.”
You continue to fuss. “But what about all of my things? I have a lot of stuff, you’d have to move things around and you’d get sick of all my shoes in your closet.”
“I don’t have much in my closet as it is, I’m fine with sharing. I’ll get another bookcase for your books.”
“But-”
He cradles your face in his hands. “But I love you and I’d be happy to trip over your heels forever. Now, do you want to move in or not? You can say no.”
You don’t want to say no.
“Your apartment is bigger than mine…and your shower has better water pressure.” You slowly say, cheeks still squished slightly between his palms.
Spencer begins to break out in a grin, but he lets you finish.
“And I could get to work faster…and I like the thought of never having to go back to my apartment for clean clothes.” Then you pause and look back up to his eye. “It would be nice to share something with you besides my entire heart and body and soul.”
How dare you say something so loving and honest, and just sit there like you were always meant to say these sort of words to him. Spencer is going to be love sick his entire life, he has no back bone, he is not a man but your man and this is all he has ever wanted. He starts to nod with starry eyes, slowly bringing his face closer to yours. “So?” He presses.
“So yes, I want to move in!” You say in a gleeful tone, throwing your arms around his neck as you rush a kiss to him.
You can’t help the cheerful laugh that leaves you, it makes it hard to kiss when Spencer is doing the same thing, completely at your will as you nudge him to shift and lay down on the cushions, you falling on top of him.
This is usually how it goes.
Someone makes a small move and then both of you get carried away. Neither of you ever seem to mind. You could spend an hour kissing and doing nothing else, but you haven’t felt the heat of him in ten days and nights, so you’re hungry for the breath in his lungs and the electricity in his fingers.
Spencer’s hands start to wander as you sit on his hips, kissing him slow and deep. They smooth up your thighs, over your underwear and up your back. Your mind is always as good as blank whenever those hands are on you.
“I’m never leaving again.” He declares, trying to work on the buttons of his shirt that you wear.
You sit up to help him. “That’s not possible.”
“I’ll find a way to make it happen, I only ever want to be here.”
You push the fabric off, leaving you in your lacy bra that he thinks is almost too pretty to take off.
Almost.
“Right here? On your couch?” You question sarcastically, fingers in his hair as he sits up to taste the skin of your neck.
“Yes, on my couch, about to show you how much I missed you.” He clarifies.
It’s blissful and exciting, how he ends up between your thighs, giving you relentless pleasure with no indication that he’s ready for you to return the favor. He’d stay like this all night if you wanted, tongue on nerves, fingers drawing out pretty noises from your blushed lips. It’s because it’s as good as breathing, having you reacting the way you do, tasting you in the most intimate way.
“Spence, baby.” You whine, legs threatening to shut.
He’s working you up, pushing you closer to the edge, looking up at you with those big brown eyes of his. Your hand tightens in his hair, holding him close as you plead for your finish. There’s no need to beg, Spencer would give this to you all day long.
When you do get to that point, it’s throwing you into another existence momentarily. A rather desperate moan frees from your throat, your head digging into the arm of the couch. It makes you feel warm and shaky. You have to blink harshly for your vision to clear.
“I- mmm.” You hum as he comes up to kiss you, it’s sinful the way you taste yourself on his tongue. “I think you’re the most perfect person in the history of persons.”
Spencer chuckles. “I’d correct your grammar but I don’t think your minds working at full speed right now.”
It’s true, everything is slow and fuzzy, yet you still find the urge to ask for more.
“We don’t have to.” He says, wanting to make sure you don’t feel obligated.
You never do, your drive just happens to be something he marvels at. In all actuality, he’s learned that he can match your pace, so it’s always fine. The two of you could spend nights on end falling into each other, either softly or with a hunger.
Tonight is probably one of those nights.
That’s how it seems when he has you in the bedroom after taking you on the sofa.
It’s your shared apartment now, he could probably have you on every available surface. But he has you in his sheets, teeth dragging across his skin, bare and the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Sex is never just sex with Spencer, even when it feels like it. Like when he comes straight to your apartment after a bad day and you offer yourself as a cure. It’s never just using each other, it’s all feeling and praise and making sure the other is reassured and happy. It’s nerves on fire and constantly stroking those deep, hidden parts of heavy pleasure inside each other that have never been brought to life. There’s borders pushed, you just let it happen because there is no way you’d ever want to say no and deny yourself the feeling of what he does to you. He has you arching with an empty head thrown back against the pillow as your tongue goes lame and you can no longer properly tell him how amazing it feels. Spencer has an idea, given the way you shudder and make the most criminal and attractive sounds he’s going to be replaying in his mind forever.
You learn a lot about care in the moments following bliss. Spencer could be compared to an animal of prey, the way he comforts without question, wipes tears from your face and does anything you ask of him.
“Hey.” He calls softly, leaning up on his side, watching you with your messy hair sprawled on the pillow. “You still with me, angel?”
You hum, head feeling heavy as you turn it to face him. You’re there…most of you is.
You suck on your bottom lip like you always tend to do, not needing words as you nod.
His hand reaches for your cheek, thumb brushing the flushed skin. “Overwhelmed?” He asks in an intimate tone, one he only uses with you.
You curl yourself closer to him. “A lot of feelings…I feel a lot.” You jumble, brows furrowed as you try to get power back to your limbs.
He hums, understanding, adjusting to hold you. “It’s the endorphins.” He speaks. “You have a high release of them during sex, then it all comes crashing down post orgasm. Your body’s trying to regulate your dopamine, because you got a thousand milligram shot of it basically, and now the high is coming to an end.”
You love it when he proves just how smart he is. It’s also insanely hilarious if you think about it, because he was just leaving bruises on your thighs as he pushed deep inside of you over and over, and now he’s explaining the science behind everything he made happen for you. To say the least, you were insanely in love with how much of a nerd he is.
“I feel good though. Not sad or anything…just sensitive.” You breathe out, somehow your voice trembles and squeaks, nudging closer to his skin like you need it pressed to yours or you won’t live.
“What do you need?” He asks in concern, tightening his arms around you like a weighted blanket.
You could cry. You won’t, but you could at the way he’s so caring and gentle. In what life do you do good enough in order to deserve him?
This one.
Shifting to see him face to face, your hand rests on his jaw, your thumb brushing the stubble there, and then traces to his upper lip. You like when he doesn’t shave, it makes him look more mature.
“I just need you.” You tell him, continuing your slow rubbing motions. It’s all you can say because you’re not sure he’ll understand that you have the urge to be wrapped in his skin and bones entirely, like you could just absorb into him and be your happiest.
Spencer knew in all of those years of awkward strike outs and getting ignored, that when the day came when he’d have a you to tell him sweet things and caress gently, he’d have to recognize the feeling. He’d have to be aware that this was a gift and to not be blind to the fact in front of him. The fact being that he has someone to love who loves him back just the same, and now he has to use that fact in every choice moving forward.
‘Honeymoon’ months have come and gone and though the two of you did argue once in a blue moon, things were great and were going to stay great.
He thinks a lot about this as he stares at his book page, leaned back in a chair next to the sill of the tub you reside in. Warm water relaxes you, scented bath soap makes your skin smell fresh.
You’re watching your painted toes pop up from the water, perfectly content with his hand twisting a strand of your hair around his fingers.
“I like my bedsheets…they’re soft and broke in.” You say promptly.
“I’ll take my sheets off the bed, you can put yours on.” He tells you.
You turn the hot water dial on and off with your foot quickly. “You’ll let me put my stockings in your sock and underwear drawer?”
“Of course.”
“You won’t laugh at me when I come to bed in nightgowns because I spent way too much money at a 1960’s lingerie store?”
“Did you really do that?” He asks, looking down at you, taking better notice of your hair as he does.
You must have given yourself a trim again, your bang part isn’t straight. You’re always changing your hair on the whim and it’s never perfect, but it always looks great on you.
“I was really bored while you were gone.” You exclaim. “The girls and I went shopping and I somehow ended up with lace teddy’s in four different colors.”
“Which colors?”
“Yellow, pink, blue and purple.”
“I like purple.” He nods.
You smile, then turn over to gaze up at him, arms resting on the edge of the tub. “I love you.”
He looks away from the inked words on the page and to you, resting your cocked head on your folded arms. “I love you too.” He says, leaning down and kissing your temple.
Then he drops the bomb.
“Oh, we’re going over to Rossi’s and you have to meet the team.”
“Now!?” You panic.
“No, no, angel.” He laughs.
- - - -
“My hair.” You fuss.
“You’re beautiful.” Spencer reminds, leading you to the escalator after you get off the metro.
You’ve made every excuse in the book not to go tonight, you’ve worried yourself sick about absolutely nothing.
“Is Rossi really rich?” You ask, wrapping your arm around him as he crowds your space on the moving stairs, hand on your waist, not minding one bit at how you shrink into him as he faces forward.
“Extremely rich, actually. Sometimes I think I should write a book or two and live his lifestyle.” He tries to joke, but you merely groan.
“I should’ve worn different boots, nicer ones.” You sat into his sweater vest.
“Why didn’t you?” He asks.
“These are my nicest boots!” You protest, and Spencer just laughs because he knew that’s exactly what you’d say.
He likes that fact, that he knows you well enough to predict the words from your perfect mouth.
His hand rubs your hip, feeling the thick material of your coat. “Your shoes aren’t going to make them love you, honey, they’re going to love you because you’re you.”
A frown pouts at your red stained lips despite the way you swoon over his sweet words. Spencer is always good at stringing together terms of endearment to make you feel warm and fuzzy.
“Yes, I’m me, and people tend to not like me for obvious reasons.”
He doesn’t like those words coming from your mouth.
“I like you.” He chimes.
“Yes but you’re weird.”
“That’s no way to speak to your boyfriend who just put together a brand new bookcase for your things.”
You smile now, still clinging to him as the two of you head up to the night street. You’ll get a cab and you’ll be unsteady all the way to Rossi’s mansion of a home.
“I’m scared.” You squeeze his hand, staring at the iron door knocker.
Spencer squeezes back. “They pick on me, but they won’t pick on you. Besides, if you want to impress Rossi, just say a few things in Italian and tell him about your year abroad.”
“Vuoi fare sesso con me?”
His brows draw. “What’s that mean?”
You bite your smile. “Something I really can’t say to your boss.”
He rolls his eyes and knocks on the door.
This is the end. They’ll hate you, you’re sure of it and then Spencer will break up with you because his team will tell him he should ditch you and-
“Reid! You’re finally here!” An older man opens the door, dark hair slicked back, maintained facial hair, gold chain. He quickly ushers the two of you inside.
When his attention is turned to you, he is warm and inviting, introducing himself as David, calling you Italian terms of endearment, leading you to his living room after taking your coat.
The team- more like a family- is all talking amongst themselves with drinks in hand and laughing.
You’re thrown into the mix and come to realize you made it all up in your head.
The wine helps.
While the others are still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that Spencer Reid who doesn’t shake hands is showing signs of PDA, the girls who have been plotting for some time are pulling you away from him.
Spencer watches your eyes widen and he opens his mouth to suggest that maybe it’s not the best idea but Morgan sits him back down.
That’s how you end up in the guest bathroom with a bottle of wine and three women who ask you question and question. And as the four of you get tipsier and tipsier, all nerve is lost.
“We moved in together.” You say after handing the bottle to Penelope.
The three exclaim in surprise.
“He never tells us anything.” JJ frowns, possibly the most lightweight of them all.
Emily, who you learn gets more buzzed off of energy than anything, snickers a bit. “Sorry, I just got the image in my head of Reid sleeping in a twin size bed next to yours.”
The rest of you join her laughter.
“We share a bed.” You state, wondering why you thought these women were going to be monsters.
“Aw does he wear his pajamas and night cap too?” Penelope giggles. “Oh! Oh! Does he snore?”
She proceeds to imitate a very fake yet cute way of snoring.
“No, no. You guys have no idea what you’re talking about. He-he’s very normal, no striped pajamas, no oil lamp-”
“Ha! Oil lamp, that’s a good one.” JJ snorts.
“-just normal night routines, normal sex life, normal-ish sleep schedule.”
The three pause and you don’t even realize what you’ve given them.
“Normal sex life?” Emily questions, leaving you to drink from the bottle in confusion.
“Huh?”
“You said normal sex life.” Penelope presses.
“Oh…yeah.” Your cheeks go red.
The three cringe.
“Oh, ew.”
“Yeah, there’s no way Reid has a sex life and I don’t.”
“I’m never gonna get this image out of my head.”
Meanwhile, in the living room, Spencer is getting a similar interview.
“You love her?” Rossi asks with a proud smile.
“I do.” Spencer nods.
“She’s going to be moving in next.” Hotch jokes, fully being satire.
“No, she’s already done that. I’m going to marry her next.”
The men freeze and their eyes widen.
Their Spencer Reid, the young genius with a funny haircut who was just 24, is sitting here now talking about marriage.
“You’re too young for that, kid.” Rossi states, the others seeming to agree.
Only Spencer has thought of this for countless nights. Sure, he isn’t going to marry you tomorrow but he is going to marry you.
“I’m thirty, that’s a very average time for a man to marry. Besides, why would I push it off? I’m not waiting to be sure if she’s the one, I already know that.” He says like it’s so simple.
There’s no reasoning with him because he already has his reasons. The men realize this and accept it, because who were they to try and damper his mood? Everybody loves somebody, and Spencer finally fits that description.
- - - -
Crash
“I broke your plant.” You frown, stumbling over your feet, clinging onto Spencer as he pulls you through the apartment.
“That’s alright, it was more your plant than mine.” He reassures, trying to get you to the bathroom.
He knew he shouldn’t have left you with JJ, Prentiss and Garcia for that long. Now all three of you were wine drunk. He’s just grateful he only has to take care of you. Emily passed out on Rossi’s couch, Morgan was trying to wrangle Penelope when the two of you left.
“Your friends are nice.” You slur, hair in your face as he flicks on the bathroom light and sits you on the closed toilet seat.
“Yeah, real nice.” He huffs, pulling your hair up into a bun before going to grab your toothbrush.
“You’re mad?” You frown, mouth opening as he starts to brush your teeth for you.
Spencer looks down at you, one hand holding your chin while the other works the brush back and forth. “No, angel, never at you.” He reassures.
Once that task was tackled and he helps remove your makeup, he supports you all the way to the bedroom where he sits you in the bed and crouches to unzip your boots and pull them off.
Your eyes squeeze shut in hopes to get rid of the blur, and you yelp as he tugs your stockings down too roughly on accident. As your head hits the mattress, you erupt in a fit of giggles. Spencer can only apologize with a smile and kiss your knee.
“You’re taking my clothes off.” You state the obvious.
“Yes, I am.” He says, sitting you up after he pulls off your skirt to pull your sweater over your head.
“Careful now, I’m a married woman.” You joke, pulling at his sweater vest.
“Oh, are you?” He questions, pushing your hands away. The action draws a childish whine to escape you.
“No, sadly I’m not. I’m a spinster.” You sigh.
“That’s not what that means, lovely.” Spencer laughs.
“Doesn’t matter! Take off your clothes.” You whine and pull at the sweater again.
“Hey, I’m trying to get you ready for bed.” He dodges your advances once more, though it’s hard when you’re begging for a kiss.
Spencer kisses your nose and then goes to the dresser to retrieve a t shirt to slide on you when you’re just down to your underwear.
“I want a real kiss.” You frown, refusing to get in bed until you get it.
Spencer leans to softly peck your lips, once, twice, three times.
“Get in bed, I’ll get you some water.” He says, pulling back and motioning to the pillows.
With an audible humph, you do your best to crawl to your spot and slide into the sheets that came from your old apartment.
Spencer returns quickly with a glass of water, sets it on your bedside table and proceeds to get changed himself, well aware of your gaze.
“Spencer?” You question.
“Yeah?”
“You should make me your wife, I’d be a good one.”
He looks over at you, mostly covered in darkness accept for the light coming in from the window. You look so peaceful, watching him with love, saying the most perfect things.
“I know you would, pretty girl.” He smiles.
You’re satisfied with that answer.
Patting the empty space, you beckon him to your side, wanting to be tangled together. Spencer comes to his side of the mattress, the side closest to the door, and slips under the covers and helps you adjust into him.
Mostly incoherent, you speak. “We could get married, I could change my last name to Reid and we’d be the smartest couple around, you and me.”
Spencer hums, lying on his back as you nuzzle into his chest. “That sounds pretty nice.”
“I won’t ever ask for a divorce either, I wouldn’t even spend all your money.”
“Is that what you think wives do?”
You shrug. “That’s what my dad says about my mom.”
Kissing your head, he beckons you to go to sleep and you could continue this conversation another time.
“…Take your clothes off.” You say, shut eyes and mischievous smile.
bombshell of the bau was soo good, I need more of those two pls!!!
Aghhhhhh thanks! Okay, upon popular demand, here’s a part two.
Bombshell Of The BAU~ Part II
Spencer Reid x Fem!Agent Reader
Summary: With all the attention you get, it’s hard to hide something as scandalous as what you and Spencer have going on. Often times, it comes down to stolen moments and too close calls.
But you don’t expect the team to find out the way they do.
Warnings: Tehehehehe. Okay, 18+ content, suggestive material, smut, MDNI, um they’re so cute! Morgan being a c!ck block on like too many occasions, slight voyeurism kinda?? Exhibitionism kinda? Two second mention of Reid’s addiction. Reader gets hurt by UbSub but she’s fine. Idk, enjoy.
“You sure you don’t want a drink?” Emily asks as she walks with you down the hallway.
You pull the clip from your hair so it softly falls down around your face. A sigh leaves your pouty lips that are long gone of lipstick.
“After the day I had? I’d much rather take a very long shower, order room service on Hotch’s dime and watch Sex and The City.”
Emily laughs. “That sounds pretty perfect to me. Hey, did Morgan really make you crawl up in that attic?”
A shiver runs through you. “I don’t want to relive that trauma.” You claim.
She rubs your arm affectionately. “Well, you try your best to recover.”
“I’m a fighter, I’ll be okay.” You say dramatically, flicking your hair out of your face.
Emily drops you off at your door. “Call me if you need anything.” She says.
“Aw, sugar, I can always count on you.” You place a kiss on her cheek, the way you always do as a goodbye to your female agent friends.
You dig the room key from your pocket and press it into the slot. Though, you don’t push the door open, you instead look to the elevator where Emily disappears in, headed down to the lobby where most of the team resides.
When the coast is clear, you briskly turn further down the hall, passing multiple doors until you come to stand at the right one. Sparing another glance over your shoulder, you raise your knuckle to the wood.
The door opens after two knocks, and that arm raised in the air is grabbed and tugged, making you fall swiftly into the room.
You let out a soft giggle, though it’s cut off by an equally smiley kiss.
The door clicks shut behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck.
“Spence.” You sigh dreamily against him. “Long time, no see, handsome.”
He pulls back to look down at you, that lopsided smile you love so much, playing on his lips.
“I saw you this morning at the station.” He reminds, letting his hands roam up your sides to hold your face.
He’s learned how to be comfortable in his actions, knowing now that you aren’t going to push him away when he reaches out. For three months, the two of you have been hiding this well kept secret, and maybe it was wrong to keep something like this from the team but…
Both you and Spencer agree that it’s nice, having something to yourselves.
So that’s why the two of you steal away any moments you can, like being on the same hotel floor after solving a case.
You give a pout. “But I’ve been stuck with Morgan all day. He was so cruel to me.”
Spencer matches your rutted lower lip. “Oh, he was cruel, huh? How was he cruel, angel?”
You love it when he calls you that.
Your hand slips into the hair on the back of his head, it’s definitely gotten a little longer.
“Made me follow him all around town, boosted me up into an icky crawl space to search for evidence.” You explain, trying to kick your heels off.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Spencer jokes, his thumb rubbing your cheek.
“It was a miserable, miserable day.” You sigh, dropping a few inches in height once your shoes are off. “But I’m here now and let me tell you, I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
Spencer gets that slight blush he always does. “Have you?”
“Mhm.” You nod, pulling him down for another searing kiss.
Instantly, lips are parting and he’s tasting that unique-to-you taste of your tongue. Maybe it’s a placebo effect, but after awhile, he’s addicted to that sweet flavor that lingers on your lips.
You sigh and melt into him, ready to forget about all the work the two of you went through today. Taking your hand, you grasp one of his and bring it down to your belt. He gets the hint, then quickly tries to get you out of the clothes you can’t bear to be in any longer than you need to be.
While you pull his tie loose, he pulls the concealed carry holster from where it was tucked inside your waist band. He sets it on the nearby table, then pulls your shoulder holster off. You chuckle against him as you pull his own fire arm off and join it with the other two.
“So many guns.” You comment.
Without a risk in the way, he untucks your blouse. “Occupational hazard.” He adds.
Slowly, articles of clothing are making a home on the floor, and once you’re down to your underwear, you’re falling onto the bed with a laugh.
“You’re on my hair.” You wince.
“Sorry.” He adjusts, gripping your waist as he flips the two of you over.
Knees on either side of his hips, you’re free to do the thing you’ve been thinking about all day. Your favorite thing is the little gasp Spencer gives you when you first create a dizzying friction against him. You absorb it with your mouth on his, hands on his cheeks, manicured nails slightly pressing into his skin. You still haven’t figured out what flips inside of you, or what it is exactly that he does that makes your brain think ‘I want to eat him’.
“What time are we flying out tomorrow?” You ask, placing his hands on your hips.
His fingers flex into your skin, and drags you against his lap.
“7:00.” He answers, knowing how much you hate early mornings, and long flights home.
“I have a bone to pick with that Hotchner guy, I think he’s out to get me.” You huff. “He ships us out when the sun comes up, he puts me with Morgan all day, and he never lets me hang around when you’re doing paperwork in the briefing room.”
Spencer, much more brave now, trails his lips down your jaw and neck.
“That’s because you’re distracting.” He states.
You gasp. “I am helpful!”
“Helpful when you have your hand between my legs under the table?”
You giggle. “I’m helpful in more ways than one, baby, and you are no better than me.”
With a slight disbelief of his eye, he pulls away from tracing your pulse with the tip of his tongue, and shakes his head at you.
“How am I no better?”
You slightly tug at the ends of his hair. “Spence, you almost got us caught when you shoved me into the conference room on your lunch break and Emily was looking all over for me.”
He smirks, feeling all too proud of himself for that bold move. “It was my lunch break…I was having lunch.”
Ever since Spencer learned how much he enjoys his face between your thighs, it’s like he’s a junky all over again and can only go so long without making you fall apart for him. You remember thinking that there was no possible way the two of you could get away with it as he pushed your skirt up and sat you on the edge of the table, kneeling before you. You also remember thinking this was one of the hottest things he has ever done.
In the beginning, you were worried that he thought you only wanted sex. The sex, it’s great, it’s …well, it’s wow. But being with Spencer means laughing more than you ever have, spending days off together, holding his hand in public and going to as many bookstores as he likes. It’s all so much more than you ever had before.
At work, it’s the same as it’s always been, you shamelessly flirt and Spencer, being the victim of your sultry ploys, keeps stumbling his words and hardly ever raises red flags.
Sure, the team noticed that he’s a little more out of his shell, has more confidence about him, but they just think he started believing all those compliments you tell him. In all actuality, he just feels proud that he has someone like you in his life, whose socks end up in his laundry and who leaves lipstick stains on the collars of his shirts.
Fingers trace up your spine, raising goosebumps on your skin as they aim for the clasp of your bra. He’s getting pretty good at undoing the hooks.
But just before he can try to beat his time, a knock comes from the door.
The two of you pause, your lips pull back, your fingers leave his hair.
“What do we do?” You whisper.
Panting slightly from the lack of oxygen he receives when your tongue is slotted to his, he just shrugs. “Maybe they’ll go away.”
Just like that, your hips continue their motion and he’s going to free your chest.
Another knock.
“Reid, it’s Morgan.” The voice comes.
Spencer lets out a rather irritated huff, his eyes shut as he swallows hard, willing the man to just go away.
“Reid! Open the door.”
Nope, he’s not leaving.
“Son of a bitch.” He grunts.
“Oh, watch that dirty mouth, Doctor.” You tease as he pulls you off his lap.
He stands, running through mathematical formulas to try and calm down in his boxers. He scoops up a sweatshirt that lays on the back of the desk chair and pulls it on. In a panic, you roll off the bed and hide behind it on the floor, trying to be as quiet as possible.
“Reid-”
Spencer pulls the door open. “What?” He snaps.
Derek is surprised by his bluntness, but he takes in his disheveled appearance and is more confused.
“What were you doing?” He asks.
“R-reading.”
Derek looks at his bare legs. “Without pants on?”
Go away, go away, go away.
Spencer breathes out. “I was about to take a shower. Now, what’s up?”
Morgan folds his arms over his chest. “Everybody is downstairs, don’t be a loner up here.”
Spencer shakes his head. “I’m pretty tired so uh, I’m gonna turn in.”
Morgan looks at him for a moment too long. “You sure you’re okay? You seem…flushed.”
“I’m fine, Morgan, really.” He reassures.
Laying face down on the carpet for a few minutes while the two men hash out whatever it is Morgan needed to, you come to the realization that you’re actually exhausted. By the time Spencer finally gets Derek to leave, you’re sitting yourself back up on the bed with a frown.
“What is it?” His brows furrow as he sees your expression.
Never have you ever had a partner so attentive, so loving in every touch they gave you. But Spencer runs his fingers through your hair as you tell him how you long for sleep, and he reassures you that it was okay you weren’t in the mood anymore.
He brought your bag from your room to his, though you truly just fell asleep in a t shirt and panties.
In the morning, you pretend you were in your room the entire night, and you meet the team in the lobby, fresh faced and ready to fly home.
“What’s your plans for this weekend?” Morgan asks after discussing with Emily what she’ll be doing.
You, who is currently taking up too much space on the couch, look over at the pair and shrug.
“I’ll have you know I have a very hot date with my bathtub when I get home and a very big plan to clean my apartment.”
That was all a lie.
You’d be over at Spencer’s this weekend, you’d be spending all your time with him, acting like a normal couple in public, having dinner and he’d get flustered when you’d kiss him in public.
But the team can’t know that.
Spencer comes back from the back of the jet, only to see his spot on the couch has been taken by your legs. He stares at you for a moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to sit here?” You innocently question.
“Yeah, I’d prefer to.” He nods, watching you smirk.
“All you have to do is ask nicely.”
“Please?”
You sit upright, planting your feet on the ground. “Always so eager to beg.”
Emily laughs, Spencer goes red in the face.
To them, it’s exactly how it always has been between the two of you.
He sits beside you, not too close, but your fingers twitch to reach over and touch him. Your nails go to your mouth instead to keep them busy.
Without truly paying attention, Spencer reaches over and tugs your hand away from your mouth and instead hands you a sucker he pulled from his bag.
It’s such a domestic act that though there’s nothing too suggestive about it, Emily notices. She clocks the behavior as something a little odd. Sure, you and Reid have always been close but since when has he carried around things for you?
Truly, you should’ve known that Emily would be the first to suspect something, but you continued on blissfully, believing that the team was so caught up in everything else that they wouldn’t catch what was happening right under their noses.
“The station was able to get us last minute rooms but there’s only four available, some of us are going to have to double up.” Hotch says nearly a month later on a case in a small Texas town you were only supposed to be in for the day.
But when the case turned into something far more complicated than anticipated, the team opted to stay for a bit longer.
The team shares a few looks as Hotch holds the motel room keys in his hand, all knowing that he wasn’t about to bunk in with Rossi anytime soon.
“I’m not sleeping with Reid.” Morgan declares as he begins to feel like it’s going to be assumed. “Make the girls share a room.”
All three of you begin to protest, knowing you’re fine with sharing but not fine with Morgan making that decision for you.
He holds his hands up in surrender.
JJ, always such a leader, looks to you. “If you and Prentiss want to share, I’ll bunk with Reid.” She sighs.
Spencer starts feeling like he’s a child again, watching his parents talk about custody, knowing one parent truly doesn’t want him.
The suggestion, though innocent, has your nails pressing into your palms. It’s a terrible idea in your mind, because here is a chance to stay with your golden boy for the night and it’s getting taken away.
“I’ll stay with Spencer, I don’t mind. Is that okay with you, Spence?” You turn to look up at him, innocent smile, sultry eyes.
“Oh, uh, yeah, sure. Fine- it’s fine with me…I’ll take the floor.” He stutters awkwardly, sealing the deal with a cricked smile that’s very Spencer Reid.
Hotch narrows his eye as he hands you a room key. “Keep the flirting to a minimum.”
“How can I when he just makes it so easy?” You joke, taking the key.
As you grab your bag, Morgan begins to uncontrollably laugh.
“Go easy on him.” He jokes. “He’s a romantic.”
“Morgan.” Reid sighs, following behind you.
“You have a fun sleepover! Hey, you still got that whistle? Yell fire if she gets to be too much!”
I glanced back at Morgan, shaking your head before looking to Spencer. “Come on, lover boy, I don’t bite.”
“Yes you do.” He mutters.
“Only sometimes.”
Hotch prays he’s not going to get an email from HR. He’s already hearing it from Strauss, a meeting needs to be set up for inappropriate conduct between coworkers, and everyone knows Garcia and Morgan aren’t the only ones to blame, not when you’re addressing Spencer as ‘handsome genius’ in work emails.
The door clicks shut and you turn the lock, letting out a sigh and taking in the modest room, everything decorated in a dated western fashion.
“Were you serious about taking the floor?” You ask, causing him to look back over to you.
“If you want me to, yes.”
Bless him and his gentleman qualities, it has you wanting to jump him in the most passionate way.
“Now, why would I want you to be down there when I’ll be up in the mattress all alone? Here I thought you had a high IQ.” You tease, opening your go bag. “You mind if I shower? You could join me if you want.”
The offer is tempting.
“I better stay here in case someone comes knocking, might be a little suspicious if we’re both dripping wet at the same time.” He says, feeling proud that he still can think logically, though it’s far too hard when you’re around.
A smirk pulls at your soft lips. “I thought I was the only one who knew anything about being dripping wet.”
Spencer becomes flush, his cheeks burning as he says your name, prompting you to stop your explicit behavior.
“Sorry, baby, it’s just so easy.” You come to kiss his jaw before finding your way to the bathroom.
The shower is warm and the low light in the bathroom is soothing, you rinse clean and shampoo your hair, making the steam smell like your scent. Spencer browses the minimal television selection, then fights his urge to unmake the bed because he knows you’ll want to adjust the blanket and sheets a certain way.
“The water pressure is surprisingly good.” You say after about fifteen minutes, coming out, releasing that waft of steam.
Toweling your hair, you come back to your bag to find your various travel lotions, though you don’t get very far because Spencer is looking at you like you just hung the moon.
“What?” You ask, slightly adjusting your robe with an unsure smile.
He smiles softly. “I just…it’s unfair how beautiful you are in every form.”
Your heart swoons like it always does when he’s around.
“You have no room to talk, mister.” You remind, abandoning the skin care and come to stand between his knees that he parts for you.
Your finger traces the line of his jaw as his hands gently place on the backs of your thighs.
“You’re so sexy with your hair pushed back like this. Did you start wearing it like this because you knew it would drive me crazy?” You ask coyly, half teasing, running your fingers through it.
“It’s getting long.” He says.
“Nonsense, I love it.”
“You love everything.”
“I love you.”
The two of you pause. Those are three words you haven’t exactly expressed often. It’s been said, in a ramble from Spencer where it just came out and you had beamed up at him like you’ve won a prize.
Now, you say it with certainty, and he wants to hear it again.
“I love you.” You say with more intensity, leaning down to where you have his face in your hands, holding him there as you kiss him.
“I love you too.” He mumbles against your lips.
You don’t pull away when he slowly reaches for the tie of the silky robe, you’d never reject him.
He’s already lost his shoes and socks, his tie and the top buttons of his shirt, but he loses more as you help him. Further up on the bed, you let the open robe fall off your shoulders, not feeling bashful as he studies you with his eyes.
Spencer could never look at you in anything other way than adoration.
“Hotch is dumb.” You decide in his lap, placing his hands on your hips.
“We’re taking advantage of the situation.” Spencer declares, face falling to your shoulder as you sink further down onto him.
“I feel no remorse.” You breathe.
This isn’t the first time you’ve had sex, the first time was a long time coming and it was perfect. So gentle and warm and everything the two of you craved. You laid in his sheets and traced the freckles on his skin and it’s a moment you think of often because you often don’t get them.
Now, you have a moment and are seizing it.
“You okay?” You ask with the drag of your hips.
“You’re heavenly.” Spencer proclaims, tasting the clean skin of your neck.
“Spence.” You gasp, getting the hang of a rhythm. “Fuck.” The word leaves your lips as soon as he thrusts up into you.
You and Spencer have always worked well together so this is no different.
It’s addictive, the feeling stirring in you, the shear pleasure washing over him. He knows a thing or two about addiction and he can confidently say that you make him feel far better than any needle in the vein did.
At some point, with your hands in his hair, mouth hot against his, and his grip moving you how he wants…
Your phone rings.
At first, you do your best to ignore it, but it continues in an annoying fashion.
“No.” You plead, trying to chase that oncoming feeling.
“Who is it?” Spencer breathes heavy as you reach for the device.
“Emily.”
His head falls in defeat, movements slowing, prompting you to answer.
You do your best to not sound aggravated as Emily asks if she can bring dinner by, but the idea of a burger does sound nice.
“Yeah, we could eat.” You state, free hand over Spencer’s mouth to keep him quiet as your slow movements continue.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” Emily states in a kind yet suspicious tone.
“Will do, thanks Em.”
You throw the phone away, overwhelmed and determined to reach the high that was slowly slipping away.
“I hate our team sometimes.” You determine, frustrated that you lost momentum.
Not so gently, Spencer adjusts you to be on the mattress, taking over when you threaten to call off the entire idea because there was a stumble in the step.
“They should just know not to call on the off chance two coworkers are breaking HR rules.” He jokes, entering you without hesitation, making you gasp out.
The roll of his hips is slowly bringing you back to the precipice at a dangerously fast rate, leaving your legs to shake a touch.
“Emily is going to be here soon.” You stress, digging your skull into the pillow.
“We’ll be done before then.” He assures, reaching his hand down to rub his thumb against your clit in a hot friction.
“Emily could stand here and watch for all I care.” You state, pleading for a release. “I just- I need it, baby, please.”
“I know, I know, angel, you’re going to get it.”
How could a man be so soft when he’s doing such dirty things to you? It’s a mystery you’ll never quite understand, but Spencer has always been a wonder, so this is to be expected. He’s coaxing you to the finish, letting you suck on his shoulder to keep your noises down.
And when it happens after the build up of waiting for weeks, it hits like a tidal wave, leaving you speechless, open mouth gasping silently for air. Spencer is shuddering and pressing his face into that space between your jaw and collar bone.
You half expect a phone call, some kind of urgent message that will ruin this moment but nothing comes. It’s just you and Spencer.
At some point after getting cleaned up, you lay side by side, limbs tangled. Your eyes threaten to shut at the way he traces the shape of your face.
“Sometimes I’m just waiting to wake from this dream.” He whispers, tucking hair behind your ear.
You hum. “It’s not a dream, that’s what makes this so great.”
He shifts slightly, tilting his head down to brush his nose to yours. “Sometimes I think it is, because in what reality am I really the person you choose?”
You don’t like that, it obvious on your face. “I’d choose you in every universe, even if you don’t choose me.” You say sternly, a hand pushing his hair back.
He likes when you’re genuine. Well, you’re always genuine, but you also always have a face on, one of coyness and humor. When you’re like this, emotionally bare, he likes you the most.
“I’d never not choose you.” He states before turning to kiss your wrist.
You want to comment about how romantic he is without trying, but Emily knocks like you knew she would.
The two of you spring up, thankful you’re already dressed. You take a calming breath as you head to the door, and Spencer quickly tries to straighten the wrinkled sheets.
Emily isn’t dumb, she knows something is different, but she truly doesn’t suspect anything yet, which is questionable because she has a perfect view of signs that indicate adult activities when she comes in to deliver the burgers.
She goes and tells JJ that the two of you act different, a little more guilty, but Emily doesn’t know for sure until a completely different scenario comes about.
Two weeks later, when you’re sent into a living nightmare. Hotch makes the call to send you into the Unsub’s house alone first, you do it without hesitation because that is just how you do your job when it comes to the life or death of three missing children.
“House is clear, I’m going down to the basement.” You say into the com on your vest, confirming your safety to the team.
But you speak too soon, the Unsub does something the profile was wrong about. Hotch sent you in there because he suspected the man to be submissive to confident women of higher standard.
Though you were cautious, you weren’t expecting the Unsub to attack you at first chance.
You do your best to fight back and get the kids free, but you’re completely blindsided. Who knows what would have happened if SWAT and the team didn’t storm in when they did.
When you sit in the back of the ambulance, in shock, a paramedic cleaning up the gash on your forehead, Spencer is there with concern and comfort.
“The kids?” You ask.
“They’re safe, they’re going to be okay.” He reassured, holding your hand between both of his.
“I didn’t…I should’ve-“
“Shh.” He frowns. “You did good, angel, everything’s alright. Do you feel okay?”
Your brows draw and you shake your head. “I don’t feel well. Do I look well?”
“You have a concussion, sweetheart.” He says, gently pushing your hair back behind your ear.
“Am I still gorgeous?” You ask in a dreamy voice.
“You’re always gorgeous.” He assures, cradling your cheek. “You’re just gorgeous with a head injury that you’re going to go to the hospital to get it looked at.”
Your eyes shut as you hum, the warmth of his palm runs through you. The two of you embrace gently, completely forgetting how casual you are supposed to be appearing.
The team sees it now, of course they do.
You’ll have to explain the secret you’ve been hiding from them later, but now you’re just listening to Spencer’s voice murmur to you, wrapped in his FBI jacket, fighting the urge to adjust his hair.
in which you have to get your tetanus shot, and spencer is there to hold your hand. and… tease you. just a little bit. (bandages universe)
fluff
warnings/tags: needles/r has needle phobia, flirty!reader, idiots in love, teasing, not established relationship yet, anxiety, Spencer makes a joke abt his addiction, did I mention IDIOTS IN LOVE
a/n: works as a standalone, as do all the bandages fics I believe. anyway hope u like! <3
“Spencer, I don’t think I can do this.”
He sets down his shoddy hospital coffee and grabs your knee to stop your leg from its rapid bouncing, exerting a gentle pressure when you don’t immediately comply.
“Yes, you can. Just breathe, okay? Try to relax. It’s much harder for your brain to remain in fight-or-flight if your body is relaxed.”
“No, it’s—I feel like I can’t breathe right now,” you say, chest constricted in a vice of panic. “I think my heart is beating too fast, I—”
Footsteps approach from the hallway and your head snaps up, cold dread filling every vein in your body—but they continue past your door.
“Oh my god, I’m losing it. I’m going to die here,” you rave, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. The gauze wrapped around your hand presses against your brow and beneath it a cut throbs dully—a cruel reminder of what it is that you’re doing here in the first place.
Spencer gives up on trying to make you stop bouncing your leg, and instead the hand travels to your jaw to find your pulse. His fingers feel cool against your warmed skin, accentuating the constant thrum of your heart. You watch his face anxiously as fifteen seconds go by.
“Your pulse is pretty high,” he admits gravely, returning his hands to his pockets. Your brow knits at his sudden solemnity as you look up at him. “I’m not a medical doctor, but… we might have to take you to the hospital.”
Any trace of worry withers from your face. “Truly hilarious.”
The corner of his mouth turns up a little.
“See? You’re calm enough to make a sarcastic joke at my expense. If you were actually going to die I doubt you would be able to do that.”
“Wanna make a bet?” you snap.
“Definitely not,” he smiles, warm eyes alight and not at all fazed by your attitude. “You’re the last person I’d bet against.”
“Ha,” you say bitterly, eyes darting to the door again. “In that case I might just take my chances with tetanus.”
“I just watched you slice your hand open on a rusty fence, take down a man twice your size, and get ten stitches without flinching. Needles should be afraid of you.”
At least now your face is warming from the compliment and not the anxiety.
“It’s... different. Like, stitches and shots. Shots really fucking freak me out. I don’t know if you could tell. I’m sure I seem really chill about it.”
He nods sagely. “Trypanophobia. It’s among the most common phobias in the world, next to Arachniphobia, Ophidiophobia, Acrophobia, Aerophobia. You have Astraphobia, too, don’t you? Fear of storms?”
“Spencer.”
“I also used to struggle with needles, actually.”
You look back at him, suddenly curious.
“Used to?”
“Yeah, but I pretty much got over it when I got all the vaccines for my clearance at the Academy. Becoming addicted to intravenous drugs helped, too, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” he muses, examining the art on the wall behind you and taking a sip of his coffee.
At that exact moment, the door opens and a very professional, very exhausted-looking nurse hurries in. You hardly even register her because you’re staring at Spencer, trying to figure out if you just heard him right. He’s looking right back at you over the rim of his cup, eyes dancing with what looks like suppressed mirth.
The nurse says something, and you bless her with an ‘uh-huh’, unable to take your eyes off of Spencer.
“I must be hallucinating,” you say.
“What? You’re the only one allowed to make off-color jokes at inappropriate times?”
“I didn’t even know you could make a regular joke, honestly.”
“You ready, dear?” says the nurse, swabbing your upper arm with an alcohol wipe.
“Ah! Spencer!” You yelp, thrusting out your hand for him to take. He quickly sets the cup back down on the window sill and takes your outstretched hand, stepping closer.
“Relax,” he laughs upon seeing how your shoulders have risen to meet your ears. “Don’t look over there. Look at me.” Gently he brushes a loose strand of your hair behind your shoulder, redirecting your focus toward him. At this point you’ve gone catatonic anyway, so you don’t resist, although it doesn’t seem to matter much because you’re basically blacking out. “Literally relax your arm. I'm serious. It will hurt less.”
“Small pinch, darlin’,” the nurse says, and you clench your jaw so hard you’re afraid you might break a tooth, and maybe some tetanus-induced lockjaw wouldn’t actually be so bad, and she’s touching your arm now, and who made that extremely undignified squeaking noise, and— “And you’re done.”
You frown.
“I’m done?”
“You’re done,” the nurse repeats. Logically she has no reason to lie to you about this, but you look over to check anyway because there’s simply no way you’re done just like that. Sure enough, she’s smoothing a band-aid over your shoulder and pulling your sleeve back into place.
You look back at Spencer as if searching for a second opinion, utterly baffled. He carefully frees his poor hand of your bone crushing grip and grabs your discarded FBI jacket from the chair, handing it to you.
“That’s it?” you say, taking the jacket and absent-mindedly folding it on your lap.
“That’s it. You did it.”
“Really? That’s all? I feel like it can’t be that easy. I don’t even think I felt anything,” you ramble, rolling your shoulder around, and finding just a bit of soreness.
“You were so brave,” he nods, stepping closer to wipe something warm and wet away from under your eyes. “Americans can rest easy knowing they’ve got someone like you in the FBI.”
“Shut up. Am I crying?”
He laughs, and the twinkly sound fills you with even more joy than normal. Everything seems a little brighter, a little warmer—probably another adrenaline rush or a result of your brain releasing a trace amount of opioids in response to the pain.
“Just a little bit.”
“You two are FBI?” The nurse says, like she can’t quite believe it.
Before you can tell her that you don’t very much like her tone, Spencer nods.
“Behavioral analysis unit.”
“Oh! You guys catch all those serial killers?”
He nods politely, giving her a flat smile. “That’s the goal, yes.”
“Wow. There’s a meet-cute to tell your children.”
You snort and immediately clap your good hand to your mouth, looking up at Spencer to see how he’ll react. Of course he’s already red and stammering.
“Oh, no—I—maybe I misled you, we’re not, uh… we’re not together. Not like that. We are partners in the, in the sense of our job, not—we’re not romantically involved. Just—co-workers. Friends. We’re, I’d say we’re good friends. I mean, she’s great. She’s very nice, and, well—maybe nice isn’t exactly the right word, but she’s, you know—”
“Spencer,” you interrupt.
“You ready to go?” he says immediately, looking very grateful that someone finally cut him off. Works like a charm, every time.
You stand, and to your surprise, wobble a bit on your feet. Spencer steadies you with a hand to your waist. “Woah,” you mutter, trying not to look too disoriented.
“You need to eat,” he says. “With how anxious you’ve been you probably completely burned through whatever calories were in your system. It’s a parasympathetic nervous system response to adrenaline.”
“I know what it is.” You grab his hand and turn to the nurse, who is looking at the two of you with a bemused, slightly clinical interest. “Um... thanks? Right?”
“Okay,” Spencer says. “We’re leaving now. Come on. Go.”
As he’s herding you out the door, you keep trying to look at him over your shoulder. “Is it weird that I kind of liked it? Does that, like… point to something?”
“Never repeat that,” Spencer says, shaking his head, but you can hear the strain of a hidden smile in his voice.
You smile up at him as the two of you walk down the empty hallway, swinging his hand in yours.
“She thought we were together,” you say, and it’s almost a gloat, though Spencer can’t quite wrap his mind around what that might mean. Instead, he relishes the weight of your hand in his. He doesn’t exactly remember when that became commonplace, but he never takes it for granted. He can’t help the smirk across his face which always lets you know he’s going to say something snarky.
“She just doesn’t understand that you need constant attention or you’ll die.”
Luckily, you’re used to each other. Quips are just one prevalent dialect in your vast love language.
“Yup. I’m a delicate, rare flower.”
Spencer scoffs lightly.
“Yeah. Like deadly nightshade. Or water hemlock.”
“Those ones are pretty, right?”
He squeezes your hand. Imagines telling you that he’s in love with you and has been for a very long time.
Instead, he thinks about dinner.
“Gorgeous. Where do you want to eat, Belladonna?”
for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!
You begin to have intimate dreams about your roommate, Spencer. [9k]
c: pining roommates, dreams, tipsy non-confessions, spencer being a sweetheart. fem!reader. this fic was requested!
｡𖦹°‧⭑.
i. a dreamt bruise
“What are you doing?”
Your chest lists slightly forward as a body warms your back. Arms wrap around you, solid but gentle, arms you’ve been held by a thousand times.
You cover them with one of your own. “What does it look like I’m doing?” you feel yourself ask.
The room is golden, gaussian, better now he’s behind you.
“I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.” His voice is soft in your ear. His hair presses to the side of your face as he hugs you —you’ve never felt love like this. It’s palpable. It’s in his hands.
Nobody’s called you dove before, but he is, he has. It might feel strange if it weren’t for how softly he said it, affection in the very marrow of the word, warmth of it kissing your cheek as he holds you. He says ‘dove’, and it feels like he loves you. Feels like you’ve done something beautiful to earn it, but that’s the beauty of it: you didn’t do anything.
The room turns narrow, sunlight on the dining room table of your apartment. A table usually crowded thickly with books, or your work. A space has been cleared away and filled with pieces of a jigsaw.
“I thought you were going to do this with me,” you say, dragging a piece across the table with your fingertip.
“Maybe later.”
“You can’t stand there all night.”
Are you sure? you think he says, but things are hazy, and he’s turning you toward him suddenly, you’re standing, the puzzle forgotten. “How’s your bruise?”
“What?” you ask, almost sleeping as a big, kind hand drags up the front of your shirt, holding it to the underside of your breast.
“Does it still hurt?”
His thumb brushes over your contusion, skin on your side, your back. It’s tender. Any breath is lost, any sense of breathing at all. You’re not a girl so much as something being touched with care, warm joy and love and a contrasting ache wedged under your heart as he draws a circles into your skin.
He hums sympathetically, the weight of him ebbing as he leans away, letting your shirt fall back into place.
The dream stretches on for a lifetime, the two of you standing in your living room, dining table behind you, couch and TV opposite. Your life in one room, his life, his books, his furniture, but your home. You know it all well, just, in the light, you can’t see the stitching.
He takes your face into his hand. Nobody’s ever touched you like, turned your face up like they were moving through honey, staring at you with eyes that shade of brown. Brown, brown… so big. So melting.
Spencer holds your face gently.
His nose touches yours. He tips his forehead into yours, his breath skimming lips he’d just warmed as he says, “Don’t worry, alright? You’ll be okay. Just take it easy,” he says, the last of his pleading lost to your mouth.
You wake up with a caught breath.
Your eyes are glued together, eyelashes threaded, gummy. You turn into the pillow beside you, slightly deflated and cold where you’d turned away in the night.
The room is dark when you manage to pry your eyes open. You close them just as quickly, begging your body to sleep, to plunge back into the dream. Just five more minutes of golden colour, hugging your pillow, love in somebody’s hand, in Spencer’s hand… five more minutes…
Your eyes open again.
Spencer’s hand on your cheek, guiding you carefully upwards for a kiss.
You raise your hand, feeling along the swell of your bottom lip with your thumb and index finger. They tremble with the weakness of having just woken up. With having something torn away from you.
What was that? you think, the hook of sleep lodged in your throat as you struggle to sit up. Your face tips forwards heavily, but your back doesn’t hurt like it tends to in the early mornings before work. There’s no ache there —your body slept well. You use your hands as anchors and drag yourself foot first from the bed. Your sheets fall to the floor with a quiet shush.
It felt so real that for a moment you’re wondering where Spencer went.
He was touching you, he was caressing your waist. You rush to the door of your room, every night left ajar, pushing it open and beelining for the bathroom. You flick on the light and stop in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, wondering if you’re foolish enough to do this, before peeling your shirt from your stomach to analyse your bruise.
It’s not there.
You turn and contort yourself to catch the light. Maybe it was further back? But no… there’s no bruise, nothing for Spencer to check. Your torso is a stretch of unharmed skin to run your hand down without pain.
Your head whirs.
From somewhere in the apartment, Spencer puts down a mug. You flush with heat at the realisation that he’s home, and panic flares when his footsteps move in your direction. Your bedrooms are on opposite sides of the apartment, and there are two bathrooms —the bath and toilet near your room, and the en-suite to his room— meaning Spencer’s coming to see you specifically.
“Hey, Y/N?” he says.
It’s been a few days since he was home, and you aren’t just roommates, Spencer’s your friend. He sounds happy that you’re awake, pausing at your bedroom door.
“I’m in the bathroom!” you say, your dry throat turning your voice to fractures.
“I just wanted you to know I’m home. Are you working?”
“It’s Saturday.”
He laughs. “Oh. I know, I forgot. Well, can I make you breakfast? I was gonna have oats and sliced bananas and stuff.”
“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I’ll be right there.”
“Sorry,” he says, like he’s just remembered where you are. “This is harassment. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
You wash your face and brush your teeth. You head back into your room to change from your pyjamas into loungewear that’s just as soft. The flavour of your dream follows you around, you’d like to call it sweetness, saccharinity, but it doesn’t fit the bill. The feeling you’d woken with wasn’t a sugar high but contentedness, like a warm evening meal. You’d felt utterly sated, your arms reaching out for a body that wasn’t there.
A heaviness takes your heart. Suffocating longing, you carry it to the kitchen with you to find Spencer’s already made you a cup of your tea. He’s warming oatmeal on the stove, blueberries and bananas on the countertop. You sit at the island. You should hug him. If you hadn’t dreamt of his hands on your waist what felt like mere moments ago, you would’ve.
“Did you go shopping?”
“I did, I went to Leaven last night. You were already sleeping at ten.” He peeks at you from over his shoulder. “Long day yesterday?”
“I get too tired by Friday,” you say, averting your gaze to stare down into your mug, steam twirling up to kiss your chin.
“No, I get it. Me too. Are you feeling any better today?”
You were sick when he left. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, good. I’m gonna put the blueberries in with the oatmeal, is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” Spencer’s gaze lingers on you. He turns back to the counter.
He cuts two bananas. You realise he has strawberries, too, watching as he cuts them, wetness leaking from their punnets where he must’ve rinsed them in the sink. He slices out the stems and cuts the strawberries in clean halves like hearts.
“I missed you,” he says.
You can’t read his tone, but you aren’t cruel, even feeling shy as you are. “I missed you too. How was the case? Everyone made it home in one piece, right?”
“Everyone’s fine. Emily got into a car accident and it was pretty bad, but she’s okay now. Recovering from her concussion at home with Sergei.”
That’s good. You’ve met Spencer’s boss, Agent Hotchner (very scary), and Emily, JJ, and Penelope (who aren’t scary at all). You’re glad to hear they’re all okay, because they’re good people, and they risk a lot to keep others safe. You forget sometimes how much Spencer puts on the line whenever he leaves.
You poke at him for details of the case, though legally there are things he has to keep from you, and you don’t mind either way. Nothing personal can crop up while talking of murder, and for now you’d like the conversation to stay far away from you and your bed and your sudden dream.
You assume you’re safe, but then Spencer mentions the bruise one of the sergeants got from their weapon’s kickback and you’re flushing nervously all over again.
Spencer grabs two bowls from the cabinet, dark brown ceramics he got from Koreatown, the perfect size for each helping of oatmeal. The purple from the insides of the blueberries bleed into the oats as he pours.
He lays each bowl with a curve of banana slices, strawberries, and covers half with a drizzle of dark fudge sauce. “Salt?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
Spencer grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer. He grins when he finally turns, bowls held aloft, making his way to the stool beside you. He puts his own down first, then the cutlery, standing ever so slightly behind you as he lays your breakfast down in front of you. “What have you been doing while I was away?” he asks softly.
You can’t look at him. Can’t think.
What are you doing?
What does it look like I’m doing?
I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.
You lean away from his presence, desperate to have him follow, and ashamed. Spencer’s a friend, a good one, he’s kind and loving and handsome beyond description, but you’ve never thought of him like that. Each time your mind slips wondering what he might be like in love, you’ve let the thought go. But now...
You shrug, grabbing your spoon. “Not much, Spencer. This looks amazing, it’s really pretty. Thank you for cooking.”
“No problem. Are you sure you’re feeling better? You don’t look so good.”
You take a quick bite of oatmeal, the spoon scalding your tongue, “Ah,” you say, breathing harshly around it, “I’m fine. Woke up a little wrong, that’s all.”
Spencer sits in the seat next to you with a soft smile. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
Oh, no, you think, reading way too much into how he says it. No, no, no.
—
ii facts
We should explore the city, Spencer declares after breakfast, before we forget what it’s like to be outside!
You were outside yesterday before you got home, and everything sucked as much as it usually did —it’s the weekend, and the point of it is to stay home resting and or lazing, but you wouldn’t usually say no to Spencer so you can’t now. He can’t ever know about your dream, so he can’t know how you’re feeling, so you have to be the friends you’ve always been.
Spencer analyses people for a reason, but you have practice. You’ve successfully hidden what it was that morning that made you feel cagey and tender. He knows something is wrong regardless. He attempts to fix it the best way he knows how: Spencer talks.
“Cheese production globally outshadows coffee, tea, tobacco, and chocolate, over twenty two million metric tons of it every year, with almost half of that made in Europe alone, which is only a half million metric ton more than what’s being eaten. The average American eats forty two pounds of cheese a year, but I don’t really like cheese that much? So I’m bringing the average down. Besides, every time I eat cheese I get strange dreams. There’s actually a chemical in cheese called tyramine which is linked to nightmares. Hey, you okay?”
“Cheese gives you weird dreams?”
“Why, have you been eating a lot of it lately?”
“No,” you say resolutely. “I hate cheese. I’ve never eaten cheese before.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Let’s get donuts.”
Spencer is easily swayed. You glance around the square for the McDonald’s and follow that to the street with the bakery, landmark to landmark, until the smell of sugar and oil is strong enough to follow. “Do you wanna know something about donuts?” he asks, crushing in behind you as you pass through the heavy wooden door of the bakery and join the line.
“Sure.”
“They were first called oily cakes.”
“I knew that,” you say, “you’ve told me that, Spencer. That’s the first fact anybody thinks of.”
“Okay, don’t be rude,” he says, giving you a playful poke in the ribs, right into the bruise that isn’t a bruise.
You look over your shoulder at him, catching his eye. You share a long look that’s daunted on your part and confused on his, brown eyelashes tangling in the corners the longer he looks at you. “What?” he asks, squinting.
”Nothing.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice lowering, quiet to match the hush of the bakery and its humming fridges, “don’t tell me. I’ll work it out eventually.”
“Dude!”
“What?” he asks with a laugh.
“Boundaries!” you laugh back. “Stop trying to figure me out.”
“But there’s something to figure out?”
He’s evil when he smiles like that. His pride is adorable, giving his sweet face an even fresher look. You’d pinch his cheeks if they weren’t already pinking in the October cold. His scarf hasn’t saved him, his coat buttoned tightly no match for the winds. Not to say it’s a bad day. The weather is fine if you keep your fingers in your pockets and your nose in the depths of your coat.
“What do we want?” you ask rather than answer.
They have white icing, chocolate with sprinkles, jelly middles, smiley faces. They have donut holes by the bag. “Hazelnut spread,” you say, pointing at the side of the case. “That looks good.”
He enters in conspiratorial whispers with you. “Apple cider doughnuts with cinnamon sugar,” he says, pointing at the row below. “What about a double chocolate chunk cookie? They look good. Hey, there’s cake in the fridge.”
You let him lean into your side. His hair kisses your cheek.
“Pick whatever you want, okay?” he asks, offering a smaller smile than before. “I’m buying.”
“You can’t, Spencer Reid, I want so many things.”
“It’s fine, I missed you, I dragged you out when you wanted to stay in bed.” He stares at you. “Let me,” he mouths.
You ignore the hot twist of your stomach and nod. Okay.
Spencer buys the baked goods you’d admitted to wanting and the three others you’d eyed, as well as a cookie and two fat slices of red velvet cake. He asks you to carry the box while he pays. The woman behind the counter gives you a knowing look and a flick of her head, as if to say, Lucky you. You can’t quite smile back, distracted by the insinuation. You haven’t thought of it before, but you and Spencer, naturally, look like a couple. You could easily be one. And the idea that she thinks so fills you with a shocking amount of smugness.
You and Spencer head home before dinner. On the walk back, he pulls the cookie apart and offers you half.
—
What if, when you fall asleep tonight, you dream of Spencer again?
You lay on your back with your hand on your chest, drawing circles. The cold of the evening is explained by the rain lashing your window, distant winds coming forceful now. A thunderstorm. You tap the middle of your chest in an attempt to be idle, rather than restless.
It isn’t a dream you’d like to have again, you decide. Spencer had been soft. You’d been familiar with each other.
What would it really feel like to have him touch you like that? Is Spencer confident, when he’s comfortable? Is he imposing?
My stomach, you think slowly, is never going to stop spinning.
“Y/N?” Spencer asks.
You can hear him all the way from the kitchen.
“Yeah?” you ask, raising your voice so it carries.
“Can I come and sit with you?”
It’s an odd request. You know Spencer’s like you, no social butterfly, quiet and content to spend time by oneself because being with others hasn’t always been an option. He isn’t timid, however, and his asking shouldn’t shock you, but it does. “Sure,” you say, shifting onto one side of the bed.
Spencer arrives at the ajar door and lets himself in. He carries two bottles of water and a heat pack, which he likes to use when the weather allows it. A creature comfort, you assume. Something soothing and constant, like the sound of a fan at night, or rain on a window.
“I can’t sleep,” he says, “which doesn’t make much sense.” Spencer sits on the empty side of the bed, his lips pulled into a grimace. “I like the rain.”
He’s more handsome when he’s smiling, but there’s a charm to him as he passes you a bottle of water and crosses his legs. The plaid slacks he’s wearing are rough with age, dark blues that seem black in the low lighting.
“Maybe it’s because of work,” you say.
“Maybe, but I’m pretty used to getting woken up.”
“Right. It’s not easy, though, the stuff you do. It would keep me up at night if I did your job.”
“I think sometimes doing my job is the only reason I can sleep.”
“It's hard. Sounds hard, Spence.” You relax into your pillow, turning to see him. Spencer’s eyes run along your hip for a millisecond, just long enough to remind you that he’s a boy, that he could see you in a different light.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“Was it hard, this time?” you ask.
“No,” he whispers. “I don’t know, it was bad when Emily got hurt, but she’s so stubborn. If Morgan didn’t strap her down she would’ve kept going like nothing happened.”
You and Spencer have lived together for so long that you remember a time before he even knew Emily. You answered his ad in the paper —you hadn’t realised people still put ads in the paper— looking for a roommate. His apartment was already furnished and he didn’t want to change much, but the second bedroom was spacious and the bathroom could be monopolised. As a girl, you’d been a little dubious reading about a single male looking for any gender, but his self-description was inviting. Twenty-two, just finished a doctorate, working for the FBI and expected to be away from the state at least once a month.
You’d met Spencer and felt even less intimidated. He was awkward and dorky but friendly, too, with his glasses he apparently didn’t want to wear, but would eventually give in (before choosing contacts), and his big red sweater fit for a grandpa. “I can make more room for you but I can’t get rid of the books,” he said, “so I don’t expect you to pay a neat half.”
How could you pass it up?
“I can’t believe I’ve never met them,” you say.
“Do you want to?”
He sounds so surprised. “They’re your friends. I’m your… friend.”
“You’re my best friend. I’ll arrange something, or try to. It’s hard to get us all in one room when that room isn’t the conference room,” he says.
“You look nice in a t-shirt,” you say, not thinking as the words come out.
Spencer leans in to whisper, “Thanks. You like this one?”
His t-shirt says, I may be NErDy, but only periodically. The NErDy is made up of elements from the periodic table. It’s a bad pun.
“I love it.”
He reaches for you. Tentative, he squeezes your elbow. “Is there something wrong? All day it’s like… I don’t know, did something happen when I was gone?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But…”
“Please,” you say, as he catches the last bit of light from the hallway, every eyelash illuminated for the counting. “I don’t wanna talk about it, Spencer. But thank you.”
He, in a move that’s almost uncharacteristic, pushes your arm into the mattress and leans over you. “I wanna be the first one to know when you do wanna talk,” he says firmly, holding your gaze.
How’s your bruise?
You nod mechanically. Spencer recedes. “Okay, good,” he says, grinning.
“Good,” you echo, thinking of Spencer in the dream, his hand on your hip and climbing up your sore ribs. “Let’s watch TV.”
—
iii. scared of snow
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not,” you refute.
“You are.”
Spencer frowns at you, a show full downturn of the lips. A dusting of snow lands in his hair and you both look up to catch it, a drift of it from the marquee as you pass. You don’t remember when it started snowing, but it feels like it’s been coming down for days. It’s in his eyelashes. Your sleeves are wet with it.
“The snow’s making you strange.”
You hold out your hand with fingers parted, feeling his laugh travelling down his arm and into yours as he takes it, intertwining your fingers tightly. He doesn’t feel cold.
“It’s making you strange,” you mumble.
You and Spencer walk down a cobbled road. Snow crunches under your shoes, turned to slush in the high traffic spots by vendors booths left curiously empty of shopkeepers, though their festive wares still line the insides, carved cuckoo birds and metal ornaments, glass balls made to be personalised for mantles. You can smell orange oil and chocolate fudge, crepe carts and churros and cinnamon, and then suddenly any hint of your olfactory sense is gone.
“It’s so quiet.”
“It’s the snow,” he says, pulling your arm against his chest as you walk and walk, your footsteps the only sound. “It acts as a sound absorber when it’s fluffy like this. The sound waves get caught.”
Caught. You think, or say, not sure if it makes it out of your mouth.
“Like you,” he says, stopping in the middle of the road.
“What?” you ask.
Snow lands in his eyelashes. “You’re caught,” he says.
You wake up thinking his hand is on your cheek. Like a nightmare, you start, still picturing his lips moving around the words. Caught, you think again, heart a hummingbird in your chest. Your mouth is dry. The heat is up —Spencer must be home again.
You suck in a deep breath and sit up, curling over yourself protectively.
You dream about Spencer more often than ever, and half the time they’re normal dreams, which is to say, they follow no rhyme or reason, with no discernible plot. Spencer loses all his teeth, or he takes you to the movies to see one of his long Swedish films, or he’s an afterthought, a bystander. The main plot of your dream doesn’t involve him at all.
But the other half of the time is ruining your life. You dream of Spencer holding your hand like you had been, or touching your shoulder. Never again do you dream of that tender bruise, but Spencer lifts your shirt in other scenarios. He pulls your pyjamas off, his hand inching between your legs but never touching, or he helps you out of your bra. And every time you think, why is this happening to me? Perhaps a sex dream could be explained away by want and Spencer’s proximity, but all these constant intimacies weigh heavy in your head.
You head to the shower and picture Spencer helping you out of your bra, and all of you goes hot, so you turn the water to lukewarm and stand until you’re cold to the point of misery. You clamber out and shiver into a towel, then your robe.
Spencer’s humming in the kitchen.
You honestly wish that the dreams made you like him less, that the sound of him might send you running back into your room, but you poke your head out of the bathroom and wait until he enters the living room. He sees you waiting, his face splitting into a smile. “Hey, good morning, did you sleep better?”
You can’t explain the discombobulation of your dreams. Spencer had become convinced you have insomnia. You may have let him assume.
“Slept fine,” you croak.
“Okay, well get dressed and I’ll make you some coffee.”
“‘Kay.” Your stomach pangs with nerves seeing him, reminded of tonight’s big event. “Are we still, uh, on, for tonight?”
“Nervous?” he asks.
You feel like you're about to be a fish in a pool of sharks. “Of course not.”
“Yeah, still on, even JJ.”
Awesome. Spencer turns around to make you your cup of coffee and you go to your room, dressing quickly, two pairs of socks. You tone your face and moisturise, fanning yourself slowly. You don’t hurry to the living room, but you aren’t slow, and it’s not Spencer, you tell yourself. Not Spencer. You’re just craving the warmth of a cup of coffee.
You spend the morning together on the couch. Spencer reads and occasionally chats to you about whatever tome it is that specific half an hour. You make sandwiches at lunch time, he showers in the early evening. You get dressed and primped while he’s gone, and at 6PM, Spencer knocks your bedroom door to ask if you’re ready to go.
“Could I fake an illness?” you joke nervously.
Spencer’s hand falls on your handle. The door is ajar as usual, but he doesn’t tread any further inside.
“Come in,” you say.
Spencer takes a single step inside before stopping. He looks you up and down without the hunger you crave from him, a more clement, familiar appreciation to him as he says, “You look pretty.” He traces your arm, leaving the skin tingly in his wake. “Really pretty.”
“Thank you. I didn’t want to overdress.”
“It’s perfect, don’t worry. And no, you couldn’t fake an illness. They all know when I’m lying, especially Hotch. And Emily, actually.”
You squeeze your hands together tightly at your stomach. “I don’t know why I’m sooo nervous.” You lick your lips. “I feel like I can’t stop fidgeting.”
“They’re used to it, I promise. They know that they’re gonna make you nervous, but they’ve sworn to be on their best behaviour, and besides, you’re not the only plus one. JJ’s bringing Will, and Morgan’s bringing his sister, I’ve only met her once. The focus won’t be all on you.” He lowers his voice. “After two drinks they forget they’re supposed to be scary.”
“What if I say something extremely stupid to your boss and get you in trouble?”
“What are you going to get me in trouble for?”
“I don’t know. What if I accidentally tell him that that sick day you took a few weeks ago was to help me make brownies?”
“Everyone lies about sick days.” He deliberates. “Maybe not Hotch. But I’m pretty sure he knew I was lying, and it’s explainable. I felt… irate.”
You raise your eyebrows. “What?”
“Staying home with you made me feel better. Which made me a better worker the next day, it’s fine.” His phone rings from somewhere in the apartment. “That’ll be JJ. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay. You’re wearing a coat, right? It’s cold. The forecast says snow. It’s thirty degrees out.”
You layer a coat onto your jacket and a scarf to make him happy. You and Spencer get a taxi, black leather gritless under your hands, though you squeeze the seat like it’s gonna stop the car the whole time. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he looks at you unapologetically, and he smiles, and the quiet is as severe as it was in your dream that morning. If this were a dream he’d be leaning over to cradle your ear. He’d ask in whispers if you were alright, and he’d let his hand rest kindly on your knee.
“What?” you whisper.
His lips part like he might answer. The car comes to a crunching stop outside the bar, and whatever it was he was going to say is kept for later. “I’ll tell you after,” he says.
He pays for the taxi before you can work it out and you say thank you to the driver. The sidewalk is clean, broad, and glowing with the last bit of light. The sun sets behind you. The bar beckons in front.
Your fear is daunting.
You have years of practice fooling Spencer. You know that he knows your tells, so you’ve changed them, and Spencer cares about you enough to ignore obvious truths if he thinks you might not want to share. His colleagues, FBI agents trained to detect deception, are going to take one good look at you and know you’re lying about… this.
You’re plagued by dreams of Spencer, but nothing can touch the real thing.
You feel the space between you like it’s aflame. Spencer checks you’re with him and opens the door.
The bar is busy even for a Saturday. You aren’t expecting the volume, the boisterousness of the patrons already slumped together over tables and waiting at the bar to get their drinks. It’s smaller than you’d pictured too, but its size is made up for with a patio at the back, smokers haunting the door, wary of the cold.
You know what his friends look like already, yet seeing them in person is odd. Hotch is taller than you’d thought, Emily more startlingly pretty. JJ’s frowning, and her partner Will looks like he’s about to fall asleep despite a lazy grin.
Hotch notices you first. He taps Emily on the elbow, who pauses in a thought to follow his gaze. Her face breaks into a smile, and if you weren’t in love with Spencer Reid, you might take a tumble for his pale coworker.
“Hello,” Spencer says, ushering you to the table with an arm behind your back.
“Hi,” you say.
“He-llo,” Emily says, leaning into the table, a strand of her hair dangerously close to a short glass of juice. “I can’t believe we’re finally seeing you in person. I’m Emily.”
“Y/N,” you say.
“Aaron,” Hotch adds. (Aaron! He’s far more intimidating casually than as a boss, it seems.)
“Derek was just here,” JJ says in way of greeting, while Will drawls from over her shoulder, “I’m Will, it’s nice to meet you.”
Spencer pulls out a chair for you and promptly sits in the one beside Emily. “Sorry we’re late. I forgot my wallet and we had to go back up to the apartment and the cab I called got so angry about it that he left.”
You slide between the table and your chair, looking to Spencer for guidance, but he’s distracted taking his coat off and you have to look at Aaron instead.
His smile is immediately knowing. Read for filth in seconds. “We don't bite.”
“Not so early in the evening,” Emily says.
You take a shuddering breath, thankful they can’t hear it over the sounds of the bar.
—
“I’m caught!” you exclaim.
Spencer hugs you under the arms. “I know,” he says gently.
“Caught!”
He holds back a laugh as your arms react, practically flung behind his head in a hug that threatens to cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. “I think you’ve caught me, instead,” he says.
You laugh in his ear. There’s gin on your breath and the sweeter smell of orange juice. It’s not bad, but weird to know it’s from your mouth. Or not weird. It gives Spencer a feeling like seeing the soft curve of your hip when you’re lying on your side. Like watching you bite your bottom lip when you’re distracted by the TV and worrying to yourself, which you do more often than not lately. They’re private things that Spencer shouldn’t know about.
“I’m not trying to,” you say, and Spencer can smell the shot of vodka you did too, which is less pleasant. “Not trying to catch you. Not… I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
Over your shoulder, Spencer spots Hotch’s entertained gaze. All the team has done since you sat down together was pick on Spencer and his obviousness. Boyfriend? they’d asked you. Looking? Sights set on someone? All while JJ nudged him under the table.
Things are falling apart now. JJ’d departed to hold Emily’s hair back, and Will with her. Hotch caught the eye of a woman across the way, and they sit chatting amicably at the bar with more peanuts than drinks. Derek, when he did appear, stayed for an hour with Desiree, recounting to you his most embarrassing stories of which Spencer had taken care to shield you from, and laughed at his subsequent blush.
He never wanted you to know about his run in with anthrax, and he especially didn’t want you to know he’d been stripped nude afterwards and hosed off like a muddy dog.
You’d turned to him with wide, worried eyes. “You were poisoned?” you’d asked.
It’s stuff like that that makes this difficult.
“I don’t know if you know this,” he says now, rubbing your back, “but I’m good with difficult concepts.”
“I did not mean to be like this.”
“You didn’t eat much.” Spencer helps you stand on your own two feet. “They kitchen’s still open. I can get you food, how about a burger? Or we can go find you something.“
“What kind of burger?” you ask, poorly concealing your excitement.
Spencer gets you back to the table. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, don’t go.”
“I’m gonna get food. Do you want fries?”
“Spencer, what if I throw up?”
Spencer shrugs. “I can rub your back?”
“I don’t want to throw up.”
“Then drink that,” he says, sliding his glass of coke toward you. “Alcohol irritates the lining of your stomach and increases the production of stomach acid. If you drink,” —he flinches as you knock the cup back— “slowly you can dilute your stomach contents without upsetting it. Slowly,” he says, squeezing your hand, “I’ll order food.”
“No, wait.” You drop the glass and grab him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to throw up by myself.”
“You won’t throw up.”
“Please,” you say, holding his wrist in both hands, your eyes shiny. “Spencer, don’t go.”
“I won’t.” He doesn’t know how true it is and then suddenly he’s sat down. He won’t go. He wouldn’t leave your side ever again if that’s what you asked of him.
He puts your chairs together, entertaining your tipsy thoughts with light conversation and the occasional slight of hand. You have an aura about you, like Spencer’s doing more than close-up magic, hanging on his every word. Your nervousness had you gasping like a fish, not so subtly downing one drink, then another, but now that you’re feeling the effects of them (and a few extras), the tightness you’d held in your fingers is gone. You’re leaning against the back of the chair with all the ease of you on the couch at home, but the easy fondness you’d usually wear while he speaks is replaced by a bright and shining awe. A sweetness like he’s remarkable. The soft line of your lips and your widened eyes.
You’re not the sort of drunk that leaves you listless and ready for bed. This is giggly and fun, and so long as you don’t push it you’ll be alright. It wasn’t enough alcohol to leave you inebriated all night, anyhow. In a few hours the giddiness will wear away, leaving you with a headache and a deep longing for your missed dinner.
“I’m glad you didn’t let me fake food poisoning,” you say.
“Is that what you were thinking? That’s a terrible excuse. You need something with sudden onset symptoms, like an asthma attack, or pneumonia. An acute illness.”
You take his hand. “I love that you know that stuff.”
Feeling as in love with you as ever, and sorry for you drunken state —he could’ve stopped you, he just didn’t think— he folds your hands together, both of his, rubbing the hills of your knuckles with his thumb. Your hands look right together.
That’s what Spencer likes to think, anyway.
You slow like you’re tired, hand lax in his grips. Your mouth opens but nothing follows, no sigh or gripe or conversation.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“I think I’m having one of those dreams again.”
“You’re awake,” he says.
“I don’t know about that. They’re all like this.”
He hums, smoothing his thumb down the back of your hand. “If this were a dream, you wouldn't have control over what you’re doing. Why don’t you do something you wouldn’t do in a dream?”
“Like what?” you ask.
“There’s a ton of stuff you can’t do in dreams. People find they have a poor memory, but I can’t ask you to recall anything. You might not remember regardless. How about temperature?” he suggests. “Most people can’t feel warm or cold in their dreams. Do you want to feel something cold?”
You watch him for a few seconds, your eyebrows pulled together unhappily. “Your hands are warm,” you say.
“Right.” He suspects they’ll feel warmer in just a few seconds when the hot flush in his face manages to work its way down. “I’m warm. So are you.”
“Sometimes I feel like you’re warm in the dream, though. You make me feel warm.”
“It’s remembered, maybe.”
You don’t look any happier. “Sometimes I wish I could stop having them, but…” You duck your head. “Sorry, Spencer.”
“What are you sorry for?”
Your head ducks lower. With a start to his chest, your shoulders shake, like you're inhaling the first half of a sob.
“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching for your cheek, ducking his own head to see you, “what’s wrong? It’s okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry for!” he whispers emphatically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, why would you think that?”
“I keep having these dreams, all the time, and– and I– I’ll mess everything up. Everything we have, I’m going to–” You hiccup, eyes turned glassy, imploring him to forgive you for something you haven’t done. “I don’t feel good.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says, his hand sliding back to your ear, down to your neck, “you’re just drunk. You’re confused.”
“But the dreams–”
“What dreams?” he asks gently.
You blow out a daunted breath. “Where you love me.”
“I do love you.”
“But more than this. You love me more than this,” you say, shaking your head. “I really don’t feel okay… Do you think we could go home?”
You’re so sorry and frowny that Spencer would attempt, in all his unfitness, to climb Mount Everest for you should you ask. “Yeah, we can go home,” he says, rubbing your arm up and down and up again, a line of affection from shoulder to wrist. “I’ll take you home. It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to be upset, I shouldn’t have asked.”
He’s not sure what he asked, really, but the answer upset you. His heart’s racing like he just sprinted the length of the bar and you’re close to tears, this strange weepy sullenness about you as you say, “It’s okay. Let’s just go.”
—
It’s cold to be sitting out by yourself, though the snow stayed its hand another night while the temperature fell again. Your coat poses a weak defence against the chill, nipping at your nose, burning the insides of every breath, and your feet are stiff like ice in your shoes. Yet, the idea of returning to the apartment is a leaden stone in your stomach.
Spencer could barely look at you that morning. You hadn’t given him much of a chance, slipping out of the apartment with little more than a call to say you’d be back later. Your groceries freeze in a paper bag by your feet.
You’re not too embarrassed about getting tipsy. It was drinks with Spencer and his friends, not dinner. Emily had been twice as drunk, and Derek had encouraged you to drink with a round on him. You’re mortified, however, by what you’d said. Your memory is clear enough to know you’d told Spencer about your dreams.
He’d been confused at the time, but he’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out.
“This headache,” you mumble, tipping your head into your hand morosely. You rub your brow, fingers against the ache, the cold getting worse.
Why did it take a dream for you to realise you had feelings for Spencer? And why did you have to realise at all? If you’d never had that dream, never had that phantom bruise, his hands careful and caring and touching up to the band of your bra, you wouldn’t know now what it is to want him. The dream gave you a bruise, and Spencer presses against it real or otherwise every time he looks at you. You were wrong thinking that it never happened; it’s still there, a purple lash against your ribs.
Every time he makes you breakfast, or he texts you from a different state, or he sits down on the couch just to talk to you. Every time he says something smart, or he tilts his head back as he laughs, or he draws a smiley face on the mirror by the door–
“About those dreams?”
You rub your eyes hard. Of course he’d come to find you. “Please don’t.”
“Please,” he says. You see him through your fingers. His thick scarf is unravelled at his neck, his hair ragged around his face like he’s been raking it repeatedly behind his ears.
You straighten.
“I don’t get it,” he says, “you’ve been dreaming about me? Why is that such a big deal?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“I dream about you all the time,” he says. “We’re in each other's lives, we live together, it makes sense that your hippocampus would use me. You have a lot of memories with me.” Spencer crosses his arms in front of you. “It’s freezing.”
“I’ll be home in a bit.”
“I’m not gonna go back without you,” he says, like that’s a given.
You move across the bench to make room for him. Spencer sits.
You settle. The occasional bus trundles past, a limited rota for an early Sunday morning. Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. His lips are already turning blue.
“I know you know what I mean,” you say.
Spencer presses his knees together. “Even romantic dreams where I’m… where we’re together, it’s all easily explained away by brain science. You can’t control what you dream, and I’m not going to hold you to it.”
Silence, silence. You tip your head back to see a horrible grey cloud closing in on you both, the sun a white and gauzy memory behind it. Spencer’s right about control, but he doesn’t get that you like them. It’s not fair to him that you’ve somehow rallied a second life when you’re sleeping, where he’s your mind’s puppet, hugging and holding you, pressing his cheek to the side of your face. Saying things you wish he’d tell you now.
“Well, I like you.”
“What?” you ask, coughing.
“Not to make things awkward or anything, but I like you. Romantically.” Spencer’s voice takes a sharp veer into high-pitched freneticism. “Does that help at all?”
“What?”
“It’s far more embarrassing that I like you on purpose than your accidental dreams, right?” He thumbs at the inside of his wrist. “You don’t have to say anything, or think anything, and I’m not going to change, but I have feelings for you.”
You feel like you’re standing at the top of a very tall building. “Oh?”
“I kind of thought you knew.”
“How could I know that?” you ask, cringing as a cold gust of air bites at your face.
Spencer takes his scarf off and pushes it into your hands. “I don’t know. I guess we know less about each other than we thought.”
The way he says it.
Spencer wraps his scarf around you when it’s clear you aren’t going to do it yourself, and he touches your cheek briefly, a brush of his fingers like he thinks he’s doing something he shouldn’t be allowed to.
“I dream about you all the time,” he says quietly.
A bus passes by and shines headlights at your feet. The wind blows, your ears roar, and just above you, in a cold front to mark the season, snow begins to fall.
You look up simultaneously. A snowflake gets caught in Spencer’s eyelashes.
Just one.
“This is so weird,” you mumble.
Spencer wipes at his eye. “Could you tell me why?”
“I had a dream just like this.”
He laughs warmly. “Of course you did. Forget all reason, then. You’re prophetic.”
“I don’t think I could’ve predicted this.”
“Why? It’s only snow. Virginia gets an inch of snow most Decembers.”
You laugh. In a dream, this is where you and Spencer would kiss or hold hands, or rest your cheek on the other’s shoulder, but neither of you are brave enough. And, as the snow turns to a sleet below freezing, you can’t ignore the cold.
—
iv. the end
The longest anyone has ever slept in recorded human history is eleven days. Two hundred and sixty four hours, or nearly sixteen thousand minutes, just shy of one million seconds of sleep.
The first pillow was invented in Mesopotamia more than nine thousand years ago, in a time where the amount of pillows a person had directly correlated their personal riches. The history of pillows is tumultuous and eclectic. Headrests made of wood, stone, or jade. Curved neck holders worn soft with use.
And, of all Spencer’s gifted facts, you find yourself circling back to the same one as you wait for him to wake: most dreams are no longer than twenty minutes. However, it’s important to note that the longest dream ever officially observed was in 1994, when a man managed to be in REM for just over three hours. You’ve had dreams that felt like they lasted for hours, but likely took place for just twenty minutes. If you could dream for three hours a night, you could live an entire life of longing in a pocket of time.
Thankfully, you have no need to hide from reality anymore. Spencer sleeps beside you and you don’t want to sleep, you just want him to wake up.
“Good morning,” you whisper, drawing your fingertip across his cheek to encourage the hair that’s fallen there back in line.
He doesn’t stir. It’s alright, you hadn’t meant to wake him.
“I love you,” you whisper, shuffling across the sheets to feel the heat and weight of his body against your own. He doesn’t move for a while, snoring gently, his breath kissing the top of your head as you burrow into the slip of space under his chin. Then, as if he were awake, he wraps his arm around you and drags you in further. His face angles down and his nose finds your forehead, and a hum of what you’d personally say is content kisses your brow.
You tuck your hand behind his back and rub a circle.
Spencer didn’t last long after the initial realisation of requited feelings. In a day he’d asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend (vaguely apologetic, still worried about scaring you, though you’d already come clean about wanting him as you’d warmed your cold hands by the stove). A week later he kissed you on a date outside of the cosiest Indian restaurant in Washington, D.C, and things have been nothing but smooth sailing from there.
Now, when he’s feeling romantic, he brings home butter chicken and turns your face up for kissing, fork in hand. Every night before bed, he tells you to have good dreams, a self-satisfaction in his eyes that you dearly love.
You knew he was a dork and you liked him because of it, but the sheer increase in him is amazing. Yesterday he sent you Close to You by Carpenters over text claiming they wrote it about you. When he got home, he tried to make you dance with him in the living room. After two or three kisses, you’d let him pull you to your feet.
Spencer has turned loving one another into an everyday spectacularity, and not some mystical dream you ached for.
He squeezes the skin of your shoulder as he wakes. Heavy in the hands of sleep, Spencer rubs the tip of his nose to yours, nudging your face up, and waiting there with your lips a few millimetres apart as he finds his bearings. You don’t open your eyes. There’s no need.
“Time?” he mumbles.
“I don’t,” —you clear your hoarse voice, his hand flattening protectively behind you— “know, um. Maybe seven. The sun was rising…”
“You could have woken me up,” he says, and kisses you slowly. It’s almost gluttonous, how he does it. Not chaste at all. His hair falls into your face and tickles your cheeks, his nose smushes your own with his easy depth.
You hold his face and kiss him twice, following a line under his chin, where you pause, smelling yesterday's cologne on his skin. “I was hoping I’d fall asleep again,” you confess.
“Oh, no, don’t do that.” He scoops you against him and turns onto his back as you laugh. “Angel. Let’s stay up now. Let’s just… stay here.”
If you stay here he’s going to waylay you with a smattering of his voracious kisses, and he’s going to turn you on your back and kiss your neck. He’ll touch that place on your ribs where you’d once dreamt a bruise. It’s a secret you couldn’t keep. He likes to kiss you there when he remembers, but most of the time his hands run along it without mention. A slow caressing.
You push your face against his shoulder and sigh as his arms close in around you. With a little effort, you get your arms around him in turn, and you hug him for as long as you can stand the pins and needles in your fingers.
“You smell so good,” you mumble.
He pats your back absentmindedly.
Today, you’re going to make Spencer oatmeal with banana and chocolate. You’re going to shower, maybe together if the small space can handle it, laughing at the soap in his eyebrows and the way he squeals when you touch his hips. You’re going to drape yourself across his lap as he reads, and he’ll lean down to kiss the tip of your nose or some other strange part of you unused to affection. The top of your ear, the palm of your hand, maybe the crook of your elbow. He’ll ramble through dinner or creep up behind you to sniff your shoulder, and it’ll all be choices you’ve made. Nothing left to want or wanting, but being in love while wide awake.
“Are you tired?” you ask him.
He takes a deep breath of your hair. “No,” he says, drawing a light line up your side, “I’m okay. There are worse faces to wake up to.”
You try not to fluster noticeably. He’s always been a good roommate. You’re still getting used to the boyfriend part, the intimacy of being complimented, but Spencer seems to have slipped into the part easily.
“Sorry, that was mean. There’s nothing I’d rather wake up to.”
“Thanks,” you mumble.
You’re tired, suddenly. The minutes pass in heavy blinks —you don’t want to sleep now that he’s awake, but being here with him is warming you from the inside out. You doze and wake and Spencer doesn’t say a word. His breaths come evenly against your cheek.
Eventually, he clears his throat, asksing, “Did you dream at all?” His voice is hewn. He rubs your chest, right over your heart.
”I’m not so sure that this isn’t one,” you say, your heartbeat a crawl under his touch.
“That’s corny.”
“Mm, the Spencer in my dreams is usually kinder.”
“Does he ever get to hold you like this?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your chest to wrap it back around you again.
You take a sleepy breath in. “No,” you say slowly, “he doesn’t.”
｡𖦹°‧⭑.
thank youuuu for reading!! please like comment or reblog if you enjoyed!! thank you❤️
this fic was requested! I usually link to the request I was sent at the top, but I lost the post for this one, but this is what the request said:
“hi angel! i have a request for roommate!spencer where r has a very romantic dream about him and starts avoiding him because she's really embarrassed but spencer is so confused as to why his roommate suddenly can't even look him in the eye. maybe one of them realizes their feelings aren't entirely platonic in the end? love you!!!”
