NAVIGATION
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Janaina Medeiros
Not today Justin

#extradirty
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

Origami Around
$LAYYYTER
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oozey mess

PR's Tumblrdome
Three Goblin Art
DEAR READER

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blake kathryn
Cosmic Funnies
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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JVL

@theartofmadeline
Stranger Things
Today's Document
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@angelstatistic
NAVIGATION
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˚₊‧꒰ა ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ about me masterlist tiktok
Spencer loves to make things a little easier for you..
pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
tags: fluff, you're on your period, bf!spencer
summary: You got your period on a Monday morning and you were completely out of it, but your boyfriend, Spencer, is right there to make your day a bit easier.
w/c: 0.9k
a/n: I'm on my period, curled up in bed, trying not to off myself and wrote how I think Spencer would take care of his girlfriend if she came into work after getting her period that morning (so fun)
PROMPT LIST!!!
request the number and who you want it with in my bio!
aaron hotchner, spencer reid, derek morgan, emily prentis
1. "Since when did you ever care about me?!" "Since fucking forever, you idiotic dunce!"
2. "I can't leave you alone for one second without you hurting yourself, can I?" "I mean, I'm fine so it's okay-" "No, it's not okay not when I feel like I'm going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you've hurt yourself."
3. "Well, I'm sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened and I can't do shit about it." "You... What?"
4. "You think I wanted this to happen? You think I, of all people, wanted to fall in love with you?"
5. "Trust me, I'm also trying to understand how in the shit this happened."
6. "..This is why I knew I shouldn't have gotten close to you."
7. "I'm going to need you to stop for one second because I just find it so incredibly rude that you think I'm not head over heels in love with your stupid, oblivious ass. Are you a brick? Because you're dense as fuck."
8. "Tell me how I'm supposed to un-love you, then. Tell me. Spare me."
9. "Yeah, well, if I could, I'd lose feelings for you. But it's not that easy. It's not that easy to just let go of someone you've held onto for so fucking long."
10. "What part of "I want you, and only you' do you not understand?"
"What the hell were you thinking?!"
11. "You disappear, don't answer your phone, and I'm supposed to just-what? Pretend that's normal?!"
12. "You could've died. You almost did. And you didn't even think to tell me where you were going?"
13. "Do you know how many worst-case scenarios I played out in my head tonight?!"
14."I thought...god, I thought you were dead!"
15. "Don't just shrug! Shrugging is for when you forget your jacket, not when you reappear bleeding!"
16. "You scared me. And I don't do scared, okay? I'm the calm one. I'm the together one."
17. "You don't get to act like this didn't matter. Because it mattered to me. You matter to me."
18. "You can't even open the painkillers without shaking." "So get your ass over here and open them for me."
19. "What the hell are you doing? Get back inside, you're already hurt!"
20. "I broke my leg, not my arm. I can still shoot."
21. "Don't wait up." "Wait up? Sweetheart, if you think you'll be going alone you must've hit your pretty head."
22. "If you try to climb that wall, I will fucking knock you out." "I'm concussed anyway; won't even feel it." "You're not making the point you think you are."
23. "You know I've had a crush on A for years. What are you trying to do, steal them from me?" "Exactly! It's been years! I figured you were never going to make a move." "OH! So you are trying to make a move on my girl!"
24. "Excuse me. You mind knocking it off?"
25. "Hey, back off. You are getting a little too comfortable with —."
Take a breath s.r x reader
WARNINGS: drugs (opioids), drug purchasing, implied addiction, angsty undertones, mentions of tobias hankel, season 2 spencer reid.
please read the warnings!!!
|| meeting spencer reid through your dealer was not what you had planned for the night.
✦ ───────────── ✦
It was past midnight. The street behind you was empty — this part of the city had a way of emptying out after a certain hour, the kind of neighborhood where people learned not to be outside if they didn’t have a reason — and the alley ahead was darker than the street, the single bulb above Marcus’s door a distant yellow point that barely made a dent.
You’d been here enough times to know the route by feel. Counted the steps from the corner. Knew where the uneven pavement was, the stretch that pooled water when it rained, the dumpster halfway down you had to squeeze past.
You knew all of it.
What you didn’t know was the man standing at the entrance of the alley with his arms crossed tight across his chest and his eyes fixed on the far end of the alley like he was doing a risk assessment.
He was tall. Thinner than he should’ve been. Dark jacket too light for the temperature, like he’d grabbed the wrong thing on the way out the door and hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. His hair was a little long and he kept pushing it back from his forehead with one hand in a way that suggested habit rather than intention.
He looked, distinctly, like someone who should not be here.
Your healed boots slowed.
He heard you — looked over — and for a second you both just stood there in the mouth of the dark alley, sizing each other up the way people did in these situations, running the quiet calculus of threat or not, known or unknown, safe to proceed.
His eyes were sharp. You noticed that first. Whatever else was going on with him, whoever he was, the intelligence in his face was immediate and obvious. He clocked you and you clocked him and you reached the same conclusion at almost the same moment:
Same reason.
He looked away first. Back down the alley.
You walked forward until you were a feet away from him, keeping your eyes on him.
“First time?” you asked. You kept your voice low. Habit.
He glanced at you. “Uh- No, well- yes, i-its my first time buying.” He met your eyes. “Is it that obvious?”
“Little bit.” You nodded toward the alley. “You’re doing the thing where you stare at it like it’ll get less sketchy if you look long enough.”
That made him pause for a second. “Does it?”
“No,” you said. “It doesn’t.”
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Didn’t quite get there, but almost.
You looked at him sidelong. Up close he was younger than you’d first thought, or maybe not younger, maybe just — worn, in a way that didn’t quite match his age, whatever that was. There were shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with the lighting. “So whats your name?” you asked. “Spencer” you could tell he was slightly nervous. You hummed. “Whats yours?” you answered with your name.
Another few seconds of silence passed,
“You know Marcus?” you asked.
“Someone gave me his name. Uh, Joel? i think” He said it carefully. The phrasing of someone used to being precise. “he said he was — reliable.”
“He’s consistent,” you said. “That’s probably the most generous thing I can say about him.” You pulled your jacket tighter. “You got here a little late. He gets twitchy after midnight.”
“I got held up.” Something in the way he said it suggested he didn’t want to explain further.
You didn’t ask.
That was the thing about these nights, these places — there was an unspoken agreement about not asking. Everyone here was carrying something and no one owed anyone else an explanation. You appreciated that about it, in a grim kind of way. It was one of the few places where the weight of things felt evenly distributed.
“I can go first if you want,” you offered. “Introduce you. He’s less twitchy if someone vouches.”
He looked at you. Really looked, for a second, like he was recalibrating something.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” You shrugged. “Come on.”
The alley was narrow enough that you had to walk slightly ahead of him, and you were aware of him behind you — his footsteps careful and deliberate, avoiding the same puddle you skirted without having to be told. He was observant. You filed that away without meaning to.
The door at the end was metal, painted black, no number. The bulb above it buzzed faintly. You stopped at the door facing it, Spencer to your right. You couldn’t help yourself, you turned your head to him, “Are you sure about this?” you knew it meant next to nothing coming from you, i mean you were there for the same thing as him, why would it back him down. “Im sure”
Then you looked back at the door, you raised your hand into a slight fist and knocked twice.
A pause. Then the sound of a lock turning.
Marcus opened the door and looked at you, then past you at the man beside you, and his eyes narrowed.
“Who’s he?” Marcus looked him up and down.
“He’s fine,” you said. “Joel sent him.”
Marcus looked for another moment — he had the particular stillness of someone who survived by reading rooms — and then he stepped back and let you both in.
Spencer couldnt help himself but profile you both. Marcus was tall, shorter than him, but still tall, he had a buzzed haircut and full beard and mustache, he looked around his mid twenties. He had a joint in hid hand, his pupils were huge and he seemed relaxed.
You on the other hand, didn’t seem so relaxed. You bounced on your heels, swaying your legs and playing with a strand of your hair. Your face was a bit tight, but still held a respectful smile, you needed it. He could tell you were a frequent user, knowing the dealer by name and the dealer knowing you by name? yeah. pretty frequent. You looked young though, maybe late teens early twenties.
Inside was what it always was: a single room, no windows, walls that had been painted over so many times the texture was more paint than wall. A bare bulb. A small table. And alot of cabinets behind it. Somewhere in the building above you, a television played too loud. It smelled like cigarettes and a pharmacyand something older underneath, something the paint was trying to cover.
Marcus stood with his arms crossed and ran through the transaction with you the way he always did — short, clipped, efficient, a man who wanted you in and out as fast as possible — and you tucked your purchase away in your bag and stepped to the side and nodded toward the man you’d brought in.
“What do you need.” Marcus looked at Spencer when he asked. He didnt know what to say. Hed never bought anything before. All he has used were the ones he took from Tobias. “Dilaudid” was all he could spit out.
Marcus looked at him. “You know how strong that is?”
“Yes.” The man’s voice was steady. Whatever nerves had shown at the mouth of the alley were gone now, tamped down behind something controlled. “I know what it is.”
Marcus held the look a second longer, then turned and opened a box on the table.
You watched the man step forward and complete his transaction with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d made peace with what they were doing, or was at least done arguing with themselves about it. There was no fumbling, no hesitation once he’d decided. He pocketed what he’d bought and stepped back.
Marcus jerked his head toward the door.
You both left.
The alley was cold. You walked to the street end of it without speaking, and you were about to turn in your direction — opposite ends of the city, probably, different trains, different lives — when he said:
“Thank you. For the introduction.”
You looked back.
He was standing in the weak orange light from the streetlamp, hands back in his jacket pockets, and he had the look of someone surfacing from something, some internal negotiation that hadn’t finished yet.
“Don’t thank me,” you said. Not unkindly. “Just watch out for Marcus. He’s fine until he isn’t.”
A nod. He seemed to be working up to something. “And also be careful with it, Opioids are strong, like, really strong. Especially dilaudid” You seemed hesitant when you said it. You cut him off before he could speak “And i know you know, but still. Be careful Spencer”
He looked at you for a bit before answering. “I will, dont worry” you only gave him a small smile in return.
“Well,” you said. “Good luck, Spencer.”
“Yeah.” He looked down the empty street, then back at you. Something complicated in his face. “You too.”
You turned and walked in your direction.
He turned and walked in his.
The city swallowed both of you up, and the alley went dark and quiet behind you, and somewhere in the building above Marcus’s door the television kept playing, too loud, into the empty night.
THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR 200 FOLLOWERS !
i lowks cant believe it i love you all so much
in appreciation im gonna start a 200 special mlist!! ill take requests and write them ASAP!
ill take them for spencer reid and aaron hotchner but if the request is something im uncomfortable with, i wont be writing it and ill say why
spencer making reader squirt by accident 🤰🤰🤰 he just cant stop fucking her and they're in a really overstimulating (in a good way) position!!!! she didn't even know she could do that
spencer reid makes fem!reader squirt for the first time
literally thank u for requesting this, these are always so so hot to me LMAO. i hope u like how it turned out!
pairing: spencer reid x single mom!reader
summary: spencer wants you to meet his team at rossi's, theo is scared of their reaction.
tw: mentioning of absent dad, fluff and comfort, dad!spencer vibes.
word count: ~1.7k
Part 2 of big shoes to fill
CHOSEN FAMILY
Spencer planned to pick you up at 5:30 p.m. He had gotten home pretty late last night from a case in California, so he went straight to his place, not wanting to wake you or Theo up.
You spent two hours getting ready, searching for the right outfit, doing your makeup, and styling your hair. You needed to look nice. It was the first time you were meeting Spencer's friends at one of their houses for a dinner night.
Eventually, you picked your favorite blue dress that flowed from your waist to your knees, with tiny daisies printed on it. You waved your hair and chose the special-occasion perfume you'd once received as a birthday gift.
All You Have to Do Is Ask
pairing: Spencer Reid x reader (no use of y/n)
tags: MDNI, smut, s1!spencer, virgin!spencer, no penetration, fingering
w/c: 1.6k
summary: you catch Spencer a little "excited" on the jet and offer him some help, telling him that all he has to do is ask. And to your surprise, he actually does a few days later.
a/n: just some smut I wrote before dozing off last night bc I have a weak spot for s1!virgin!spencer
+thank you twin @hotchnerss for being the judge of what I wrote while half asleep, mwah :)
“We really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” you stood in your lace black bra and gray slacks in front of a fully clothed Spencer who was sitting on the edge of your bed.
Aliens and apple slices s.r x reader
|| spencer reid x jack hotchners babysitter
~…………………………….~
The BAU bullpen was, by most standards, not an appropriate place for a four-year-old.
Jack Hotchner, however, had never been consulted on that opinion. Today though, spencer and JJ were tasked to look after the toddler while his father was in a meeting until his babysitter came and took him home. JJ and Spencer loved Jack, he was a kind and smart toddler. So to say they were shocked at how he was acting today was an understatement.
Jack was sat on top of Spencer’s desk with his legs swinging — on it, not at it, because the chair was too big and he’d declared it “boring” — with his arms folded tight across his chest and his bottom lip pushed out far enough to cast a shadow. In front of him, spencers hand held a paper towel with genuine optimism, and on said paper towel, several offerings: half a granola bar, half a banana, and a neat pile of red apple slices that Spencer was still holding out at arm’s length like a peace treaty.
“Jack,” JJ tried, using the warm voice she reserved for Henry when he was being particularly unreasonable. “Buddy. They’re apple slices. You like apple slices.”
Jack looked at the apple slices.
Then he looked at JJ.
Then he stuck his tongue out at her.
JJ straightened up and looked at Spencer. Spencer looked back at her. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
“I have a PhD,” Spencer said, mostly to himself. “Three of them.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
Spencer crouched down slightly to be at eye level with Jack, tilting his head with the careful, methodical energy of someone approaching a problem they genuinely intended to solve. “Okay, Jack, did you know that apples contain something called quercetin? It’s an antioxidant that actually supports—”
Jack blew an m&m directly into Spencer’s face.
JJ covered her mouth. Spencer stood back up very slowly, blinking.
“I’m going to get him a juice box,” JJ announced, and she was absolutely laughing as she walked away.
Spencer sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and held the apple slices out again gamely. “Alright. New approach. What if—”
The elevator doors opened.
Jack’s entire demeanor transformed in under a second — the folded arms dropped, the pout dissolved, and he launched himself off the desk with the full confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of falling.
“Hey!”
Spencer looked down at the little toddler running towards the elevators, then he looked at what Jack was after.
You started babysitting Jack when he was only a year old, so Jack quickly bonded to you since he spent most of his time with you because his dad was too busy working, not that he minded it, Jack loved you, and you adored the little gremlin. You met Aaron Hotchner when you were serving him at a diner you worked at, that diner? worst place. Your manager was a sexist asshole who payed you less than the guys working there. You heard Aaron talking about how he needed to take jack with him to work since his babysitter canceled again. So when he called you over asking for some water, you couldn’t help but intrude a little. “Are you looking for a babysitter?”. And then that was that. Of course he didnt hire you right away, he sat u done on the chair infront of him and started asking questions. You told him you were in college, you lived on campus not far from here, youve loved babies and that youve babysat before. Even then he told you he wasnt sure yet and that hed call you back. It was only till after he made Garcia do a backround check on you that he called you back.
You caught him on instinct, one arm hooking under him as he collided with you, the other steadying his weight as he scrambled up onto your hip like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. You laughed, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head.
“Hey, you,” you said warmly. “You ready to—”
“They were so mean to me.”
You pulled back to look at his face. He was devastated. Genuinely, completely, dramatically devastated, both small hands fisted in the front of your jacket, his expression the particular flavor of betrayal usually reserved for Greek tragedy.
“Who was mean to you sweet boy?” you asked.
He pointed.
You followed the direction of his finger to find a blonde returning from the break room with a juice box, and a tall man — lanky, cardigan, slightly bewildered expression, still holding a paper towel of apple slices — standing by the desk. Your gaze settled on him for just a moment, the way you might clock a new variable in a familiar equation.
Spencer Reid, for his part, forgot how to do anything.
He was aware, distantly, that this was an embarrassing response to a person simply existing in his vicinity, but his brain, which usually had plenty to say about everything, went abruptly and completely offline. You were standing there with Jack on your hip and a slightly frowning look aimed in his direction and he could not locate a single word in any of the six languages he spoke. You looked breathtaking. This was your first time at the bau, yes, hed heard about you from jack and aaron but hed never actually seen you. It was clear you’d came from class, hence the books peaking out of your bag zipper.
You looked back at Jack, then at Spencer and JJ again, and the small frown deepened with theatrical suspicion. Slowly, you walked over to them,
“Were you two being mean to my favorite boy?”
“Yes,” Jack said firmly, before the two even had a chance to reply.
“We were trying to feed him,” the girl said, with the weariness of someone who had been through a minor military campaign. “He won’t eat anything.” You soon recognized her from the pictures in Aarons living room, this was JJ.
“They were gonna poison me,” Jack stage-whispered to you, as though this were classified.
“They were—” You blinked. Then you looked at JJ. Then at the tall, still-silent man beside her. He was wearing a thick brown sweater with designs all over it, god he looked cute. This was Spencer.
JJ glanced at Spencer, who appeared to be experiencing some kind of internal systems error, and made the executive decision to speak for both of them. “We gave him the apple slices from the break room. He’s been up on that desk for twenty-five minutes refusing everything we offer him and making faces at us.”
“I made one face,” Jack said primly.
You looked at him. He had the grace to amend: “Two faces.”
JJ shook her head with a small smile, glancing toward her own desk where papers waited. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said diplomatically, and retreated with the grace of someone who recognized a handoff when they saw one.
Which left you, and Jack, and Spencer, who was still holding the apple slices.
You looked at what was in his hand. Then you looked at Jack, hiking him a little higher on your hip so you were face to face with him, eyebrows raised.
“Jack. Honey.” You kept your voice gentle, even as the corner of your mouth twitched. “Red apples are your favorite. Why won’t you eat them?”
“Because they’ll poison me,” Jack repeated, with total sincerity.
“Sweetheart, they won’t poison you. They’ve been washed. They’re very clean.”
“No!” He shook his head, with the gravity of someone correcting a fundamental misunderstanding. “I’m not talking about the apples.” He pointed again at Spencer. “I’m talking about him. And JJ. They’re gonna poison me. That’s what I’m saying.”
You stared at him. “…You think they’re going to poison you.”
“Uncle Morgan said,” Jack said, with complete confidence, “that JJ and Spencer are aliens and they electrocute people who touch them.”
The silence lasted approximately one and a half seconds before you couldn’t hold it anymore.
The laugh came out startled and genuine, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. Jack watched you with a very serious expression, clearly not understanding what was funny about the very serious threat he’d just described.
You got yourself together. Mostly.
“Jack,” you managed. “Baby. Uncle Morgan was playing with you. I promise — I promise — they are not going to hurt you. They’re not aliens.”
“Yes they are.”
“They’re not.”
“They’re gonna electrocute me.”
“They’re—” You looked up at Spencer, who was watching this exchange with an expression you couldn’t quite read — somewhere between charmed and completely overwhelmed — and made a decision.
You reached out and poked him on the arm. The arm not holding the apple slices. Firmly, squarely, two fingers against the sleeve of his cardigan covering his bicep.
“See?” you told Jack, turning back to him. “I touched him. I’m okay.”
Jack looked at your arm. At Spencer’s arm. At you.
“That’s his sleeve,” Jack said, with devastating four-year-old logic. “You didn’t touch his skin. It’s the skin.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He had a point.
You were aware, in some peripheral way, that what you did next was perhaps slightly beyond the normal bounds of meeting someone for the first time. You were also aware that you were being out-argued by a toddler in front of a stranger and that Jack would not eat his apple slices until this was resolved to his satisfaction.
You reached over and took Spencer’s hand.
Not his sleeve. His hand. You wrapped your fingers around his, spencers hand gripped yours and his thumb went to your knuckles, you held up his hand, clearly, visibly, between the three of you, and looked at Jack with raised eyebrows.
Spencer stopped breathing.
“See, baby?” Your voice was easy, unbothered, warm. “He’s not hurting me. Look. I’m holding his hand and I’m perfectly fine.”
Jack studied this with the intense scrutiny of a small scientist reviewing data. He looked at your joined hands. At Spencer’s face. At your face. Back at the apple slices.
And then, slowly, with the air of someone making a significant concession, he leaned forward and took an apple slice from Spencer’s paper towel.
You exhaled in quiet triumph.
Jack chewed. Reached for another slice. Then stopped.
“You have to keep holding it..” he announced.
“Jack—”
“Or he’ll electrocute me!”
You looked at Spencer. Spencer looked at you. Something almost like a smile was happening at the corner of his mouth — hesitant, a little undone — and up close his eyes were a very particular shade of brown that your brain filed away without your permission.
“Okay,” you said, and kept holding his hand while Jack methodically worked through the rest of the apple slices, unhurried, occasionally swinging his feet and humming something that might have been a cartoon theme song.
Spencer Reid stood very still and said nothing and was genuinely unsure if his heart was beating at a normal rate.
When the last slice was gone, Jack wiped his hands on his jeans with great satisfaction and announced, “Okay. I want to go home now.”
You laughed, shifting him back to a more secure position on your hip, and let go of Spencer’s hand. “What do you say Jack?” you nudged him, “Thank you!” jack beamed. You looked up at him, and there was something warm and a little amused in your expression.
“Sorry about him,” you said. “And — sorry about the, um.” A small gesture between the two of you. “I don’t usually just grab strangers’ hands. I’m—” you told him your name.
Spencer’s mouth opened. A sound came out that was not, technically, a word.
“Spencer,” he said, finally. Just his name. That was all he managed.
But you smiled at him like that was enough, and it kind of felt like it was.
“Bye Spencer” Your voice was like honey saying his name. You kissed Jacks cheek and told him to say bye.
“Bye, Spencer,” Jack said, pointing at him seriously. “Don’t electrocute anyone.”
“I’ll — do my best,” Spencer said.
You were still smiling as you turned toward the elevator, shifting Jack against your side, the two of you already deep in some murmured conversation about what he wanted for dinner. Spencer watched the elevator doors close.
“Looks like pretty boy found pretty girl.”
He didn’t have to turn around to know who that was.
Derek Morgan materialized at his shoulder with the energy of someone who had been watching this entire interaction from a safe distance and enjoying every second of it. He was grinning the way he grinned when he had something very good and intended to make it last.
“Couldn’t speak, huh.”
“I spoke,” Spencer said.
“You said your own name, man.”
“That’s — speaking.”
“Hotch’s kid’s babysitter.” Morgan shook his head slowly, savoring it. “You gonna be weird about this for a while, or—”
“I’m not going to be weird about anything. I don’t know her. I met her for four minutes.” Spencer quickly came to his own defense.
“She held your hand.”
“For Jack. She held my hand for Jack, it was a child-management strategy—”
“You watched her walk to the elevator.”
“I was just—”
“Spencer.”
“I don’t know her,” Spencer repeated, with slightly less conviction than the first time.
Morgan looked at him for a long moment with the particular expression of a man who had just filed something away for future use, extensive future use, possibly for years. Then he clapped Spencer on the shoulder and walked away, still grinning.
Spencer stood where he was.
The bullpen hummed around him — keyboards, phones, Garcia’s distant laugh from the break room, maybe she was talking to Emily. Normal. All completely normal.
He looked down at his hand.
The paper towel was still in it, empty now, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. He was looking at the other hand. He turned it over once, a slow, slightly disbelieving motion, the way you might look at something that had been briefly, unexpectedly extraordinary and was now just ordinary again.
His hand, which was also just his hand.
He stood there looking at it for probably too long.
Then he folded the paper towel very carefully and went back to work. But that was the day that Spencer made a mental note to thank Derek for calling him an alien infront of Jack. One day.
empty seats 5.5
@anndooodles @sophuckingobsessive @holmesry @siriuslyvalO3 @aninhasmind @orphicus @alien-555 @dearestsam @hiddentattooodyssey @lilloves-34 @theredvelvetbitch @fr0ggyv1b3 @geni-627 @loadedwafflefries @noba-noba @heyitsriiii @rosie-posiegamer@unlikelylovebarbarian @im-makapaka @the-honeydew-diary
empty seats 1.5
@anndooodles @sophuckingobsessive @holmesry @siriuslyvalO3 @aninhasmind @orphicus @alien-555 @dearestsam @hiddentattooodyssey @lilloves-34 @theredvelvetbitch @fr0ggyv1b3 @geni-627 @loadedwafflefries @noba-noba @heyitsriiii @rosie-posiegamer@unlikelylovebarbarian @im-makapaka @the-honeydew-diary
Empty seats 05
store
~…………………………..~
Your new desk was pristine. Fresh out of the box, still smelling faintly of plastic and that particular vanilla scent that came with FBI-issued furniture. You’d decorated it minimally—a photo of you and Mark from last year, a small plant, your pens.
You’d deliberately not looked at the desk directly in front of yours when you arrived this morning. But you knew who sat there. You’d felt his eyes on you the entire time you were setting up.
“Welcome to the BAU,” JJ had said, squeezing your arm. “Glad to have you.”
“Thanks for being here,” Penelope had gushed, and you’d genuinely smiled because Penelope was impossible not to smile at.
Hotch had shaken your hand and explained your role—special agent, consulting on cases, going into the field. Spencer had nodded at you from his desk when you made eye contact, a small, careful gesture. Professional.
You hadn’t spoken to him since you’d walked through the doors this morning. It felt important to establish that boundary right away.
The morning was spent getting oriented, meeting with different team members, reviewing case files. By noon, you’d started to relax. This might actually work. You could do this. You could be professional, keep your distance, and make it through each day without—
“We’ve got a case,” Hotch announced, and the bullpen shifted into motion.
-----
The briefing room was chaos in that controlled BAU way. A serial killer in Virginia, three victims so far, likely to kill again. The profile was discussed, assignments were made, and then Hotch looked directly at you and Spencer.
“I need you two to head down to the archives. There was a similar case about five years ago—sexual sadist, low self-esteem, worked in construction. I want those files. Cross-reference with our current unsub.”
Spencer nodded. You nodded.
“You two familiar with the archive system?” Hotch asked.
“I can find my way,” Spencer said quietly.
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just gathered your notepad and headed toward the elevator with him, very aware of Morgan’s eyes on your back.
-----
The archive was in the basement, and it was somehow both colder and warmer than you expected. Sterile. Fluorescent lighting casting everything in a sickly glow.
Spencer walked toward the files first, and you followed behind him, reading the labels on the boxes. He was reaching for one on a higher shelf when he turned back to you.
“Don’t let the door clo—”
The heavy metal door swung shut behind you with a definitive SLAM.
You both froze.
“…Why?”you asked slowly,
Spencer turned to face you fully, his expression a mix of resignation and something that might have been relief at finally being alone with you.
“Because,” he said quietly, “you can’t open it from the inside.”
You stared at him. Then you walked to the door and tried the handle. It didn’t budge. You tried again, pulling harder.
“It’s definitely not opening,” you confirmed.
“No,” Spencer agreed. “It’s not.”
You stood there for a moment, then you shook your head and got back to work. You and Spencer moved efficiently through the files, pulling the ones that matched Hotch’s criteria. Within five minutes, you had a stack of seven boxes.
And nowhere to put them except on the floor. And nowhere to go except to sit on the floor yourself.
So that’s what you did. You sat down with your back against the cold metal shelving, and Spencer, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned against the wall across from you. Neither of you had your phones—they’d been left at your desks. The building was going to notice you missing eventually.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the hum of the fluorescent lights and the sound of both of you breathing.
Then, quietly, you said: “Come to the wedding.”
Spencer’s head snapped toward you. “What?”
“The wedding,” you repeated, not looking at him. “I want you to come. I meant it when I said you were all invited.”
“You’re… inviting me?”
“Yes,” you said simply. “You should be there.”
You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his gaze on you like a physical thing. After a long moment, he said softly, “Okay. Yeah. I’ll be there.”
-----
Ten more minutes passed in silence.
“How are you liking it here?” Spencer asked finally. “The transfer.”
“It’s good,” you said, and it was true. “Everyone’s been really welcoming. It’s a good team.”
“You’re a good addition to the team,” he said carefully.
You finally looked at him. He was sitting in that particular way he did when he was nervous—knees bent, arms wrapped around his shins, completely folded in on himself like he was trying to take up as little space as possible.
“Spencer,” you said, “I think… I think we should be friends.”
He looked up at you sharply.
“I mean it,” you continued. “We’re going to be working together a lot. We’re going to be on cases together, in cars together, in briefings together. And I don’t want it to be awkward. I don’t want the team to feel uncomfortable. So… can we just be friends? We can do that, right?”
He was quiet for a long moment, and you could see the calculation happening behind his eyes—the weighing of how much of his true feelings he should let show versus how much he should bury.
Finally, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, we can be friends.”
You nodded, and the relief that flooded through you felt tinged with something else. Something that felt a lot like loss.
-----
Another ten minutes crawled by.
Then you heard footsteps. Heavy, confident footsteps. The door swung open from the outside, and Derek Morgan stood there, a smirk already forming on his face.
“Well, well, well,” he said, looking between you and Spencer. “What do we have here? You two stuck in a closet?”
You felt your face flush, but you stood up quickly, brushing off your pants.
“We got locked in,” you explained. “The door won’t open from the inside.”
“Locked in, huh?” Derek’s smirk widened. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
You rolled your eyes and held up your left hand, wiggling your ring finger so the diamond caught the light. You walked past him as you said, “Yes. Stuck,” emphasizing the word as you passed.
Derek’s expression shifted immediately to something almost apologetic, and you heard him say quietly behind you, “Oh. Oh, man, I didn’t mean—”
But you were already walking back toward the elevator, carrying the files, Spencer behind you carrying the rest.
-----
Walking back to the elevator was quiet. You were a few feet ahead of them and got into an elevator, you figured they were to far behind so you didnt bother holding it for them. Spencer and Derek were walking side by side, both boxes in hand. But then, suddenly, Spencer dropped his boxes said, “I need to use the restroom,” and peeled off toward the bathroom.
Derek watched him go, then without warning, he turned sharply and followed, his earlier humor completely gone. He knew Spencer didnt need to use the bathroom, he always talked about how the basement bathroom was dirtier than the others.
-----
In the bathroom, Spencer stood at the sink, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white.
You’d invited him to the wedding. You wanted to be friends. You’d said it so reasonably, so calmly, like you weren’t absolutely dismantling him in the process. Like you weren’t telling him, very clearly, that whatever he felt, whatever he’d been carrying for the past years, was something he needed to bury.
Friends. You wanted to be friends.
He couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight, and the fluorescent lights seemed too bright, and he was thinking about you in that supply closet—so close he could have reached out and touched you—and you’d asked him to come to your wedding. To watch you marry someone else. To sit in a chair and smile while you promised your life to a man who wasn’t him.
His hands were shaking. He couldn’t get air into his lungs properly, and there was this pressure in his chest that felt like his heart was trying to claw its way out.
The door opened, and Derek was there immediately.
“Hey, hey, I got you,” Derek said, and his voice had shifted into that gentle, careful tone he used when someone was breaking. He guided Spencer to sit on the floor and crouched down in front of him. “Breathe for me. Just breathe, man.”
“I can’t,” Spencer whispered. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Derek said firmly. “Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on.”
Spencer tried, but his breath came out in hitches.
“She invited me to the wedding,” Spencer said, and his voice sounded shattered. “She wants to be friends. She—Derek, I—”
He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say out loud that he was in love with her, had been in love with her, would probably always be in love with her. That the past 4 years of trying to move on had been for nothing because one week back in the same city and he was right back where he started—completely undone by her.
“I know, man,” Derek said softly, rubbing Spencer’s back. “I know. But you’re gonna get through this. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
“I don’t feel strong,” Spencer admitted, his voice barely audible. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”
Derek just held him there on the bathroom floor of the FBI field office, letting Spencer fall apart against his shoulder, offering what comfort he could.
And Spencer let himself feel it all—the heartbreak, the longing, the terrible, impossible love that was going to haunt him every single day now that she was working three feet away from him, asking to be friends, inviting him to watch her marry someone else.
He was going to have to watch her be happy with Mark, and he was going to have to smile, and be professional, and pretend that his heart wasn’t breaking all over again.
Because that’s what friends do.
—————
The week went by in a blur of profiling, cases, and an ease between you and Spencer that surprised you both. You fell into an easy rhythm—inside jokes during briefings, conversations about cases, moments of genuine friendship that made it easier to pretend that your heart wasn’t lying to you.
He was good. He was professional. He was everything a friend should be.
And it was killing him. You could see it sometimes, in the way his eyes would linger on you a moment too long, in the way he’d tense when Mark texted you, in the careful distance he maintained whenever you got close.
But you didn’t think about it. You couldn’t afford to.
-----
Mark arrived at the precinct on Thursday with a stack of cream-colored envelopes and the kind of smile that made you remember why you’d said yes to him in the first place.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, kissing you in front of everyone. It was a claim, subtle but unmistakable. He greeted the team warmly, even stopping to shake Spencer’s hand. “Reid, good to see you. Hope you’re taking good care of my fiancée at work.”
Spencer’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course.”
Mark left with another kiss to your forehead, and you were left holding the stack of engagement party invitations.
The moment the women spotted them, you were surrounded.
“Ooooo, are those wedding invitations?” Penelope squealed, bouncing on her heels.
“No,” you laughed. “Engagement party invitations. Mark wanted to do something before the actual wedding. It’s next Saturday on a yacht.”
You started handing them out. JJ, Emily, Penelope—they all took theirs with excitement and congratulations. Rossi took his with a wink. Hotch accepted his with a nod. Derek took his with a smile that was sad around the edges, understanding written all over his face.
Then you got to Spencer.
You walked over to his desk and placed the invitation in front of him gently. “I want you there,” you said quietly. “It’s important to me.”
He looked at the invitation like it was a live grenade. Then he looked up at you, and you could see the war happening behind his eyes.
“I’ll be there,” he said finally.
You squeezed his shoulder—a gesture you’d started doing over the past week, a small point of contact that was friendly but not intimate—and walked away, missing the way his hand came up to touch where you’d squeezed, like he was trying to hold onto the feeling.
-----
The yacht was beautiful. Pristine white, glittering in the afternoon sun, decorated with soft lights and flowers in shades of white and gold. Mark’s family was there, your family, friends, colleagues. It was elegant and perfect and everything an engagement party should be.
Everything was going perfectly.
You smiled for photos with Mark. You danced with your father. You gave a toast about how excited you were for your future. Mark gave a toast about how much he loved you, how lucky he was, and the crowd ate it up.
But around seven, as the sun started its descent toward the horizon, you felt the weight of it all pressing down on you. You needed air. You needed a moment.
You excused yourself and made your way to the sundeck, away from the noise and the lights and the expectations.
The ocean was calm, the sky painted in shades of orange and pink. The wind was soft, carrying the salt smell of the sea. You stood at the railing and breathed, letting yourself feel everything you’d been pushing down.
“Don’t do it.”
You turned sharply at the voice.
Spencer stood there in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“What are you talking about?” you asked, though your heart was already racing because you knew. Somehow, you knew.
“Don’t marry him,” Spencer said, and his voice was raw. “Don’t get married. Not to Mark. Please.”
“Spencer, you’re being ridiculous—”
“I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them. “I’ve loved you for 6 years. I never stopped. When I saw you at that precinct, it was like the past decade just… disappeared. Like no time had passed at all because I’ve been carrying this the entire time.”
“Stop,” you whispered, but he kept going.
“Breaking up with you was a mistake,” he continued, stepping closer. “The biggest mistake of my life. I should have fought harder. I should have come back and made you understand that you were everything to me. You are everything to me.”
Tears were swelling in your eyes now, and you hated yourself for it.
“These past years,” Spencer said, his own voice breaking, “every day I’ve thought about you. Every single day. Do you know what that’s like? To miss someone for that long? To wonder what they’re doing, who they’re with, if they ever think about you?”
“Spencer, please—”
“I’m asking for another chance,” he said, and now he was right in front of you, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. “I’m asking you to choose me. Choose us. We could be happy. We were happy.”
“I can’t,” you whispered.
“Yes, you can. You can—”
“Everything okay?”
Mark’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. He was standing in the doorway to the sundeck, champagne flute in hand, his expression shifting from casual to confused as he took in the scene, you gripping the railing, Spencer standing close to you, the obvious intimacy of the moment.
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
You turned around and looked at Spencer, walking towards him “I love him, spencer” you whispered.
You walked toward Mark and kissed him, putting everything you could into that kiss—reassurance, commitment, a desperate plea for him to believe you. When you pulled away, you looked into his eyes and saw the doubt there, the question.
But you didn’t answer it. You took his hand and walked back inside, leaving Spencer alone on the deck.
-----
Spencer stood there, watching you disappear back into the party, and the dam broke.
He sat down on a lounge chair and put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he cried. All of it came pouring out—years of longing, the hope that had flickered back to life when you walked into his precinct, the agony of the past week pretending to be your friend while his heart was screaming for more.
He’d laid it all out, and you’d chosen Mark. You’d kissed Mark. You’d walked away. You loved Mark. Not Spencer.
“Oh, honey.”
Spencer looked up to see Penelope standing there, with Hotch behind her. Their faces said they knew exactly what had happened. They didn’t ask.
Penelope sat down next to Spencer and took his hand, and Hotch stood nearby like a silent sentinel.
“I think she loves you back,” Penelope said softly, trying to be comforting. “I think she’s just scared.”
Spencer let out a laugh—bitter and broken and completely devoid of humor.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “She’s going to marry him. And I’m going to have to watch it. I’m going to have to stand there and smile and be happy for her because that’s what you do for people you love.”
Penelope squeezed his hand, but there was nothing either of them could say that would fix this. Hotch placed a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and they stood together on the deck as the sun finished setting, leaving everything in darkness.
Spencer had confessed his soul, and it hadn’t been enough.
It had never been enough.
@anndooodles @sophuckingobsessive @holmesry @siriuslyvalO3 @aninhasmind @orphicus @alien-555 @dearestsam @hiddentattooodyssey @lilloves-34 @theredvelvetbitch @fr0ggyv1b3 @geni-627 @loadedwafflefries @noba-noba @heyitsriiii @rosie-posiegamer@unlikelylovebarbarian @im-makapaka @the-honeydew-diary
Aliens and apple slices s.r x reader
|| spencer reid x jack hotchners babysitter
~…………………………….~
The BAU bullpen was, by most standards, not an appropriate place for a four-year-old.
Jack Hotchner, however, had never been consulted on that opinion. Today though, spencer and JJ were tasked to look after the toddler while his father was in a meeting until his babysitter came and took him home. JJ and Spencer loved Jack, he was a kind and smart toddler. So to say they were shocked at how he was acting today was an understatement.
Jack was sat on top of Spencer’s desk with his legs swinging — on it, not at it, because the chair was too big and he’d declared it “boring” — with his arms folded tight across his chest and his bottom lip pushed out far enough to cast a shadow. In front of him, spencers hand held a paper towel with genuine optimism, and on said paper towel, several offerings: half a granola bar, half a banana, and a neat pile of red apple slices that Spencer was still holding out at arm’s length like a peace treaty.
“Jack,” JJ tried, using the warm voice she reserved for Henry when he was being particularly unreasonable. “Buddy. They’re apple slices. You like apple slices.”
Jack looked at the apple slices.
Then he looked at JJ.
Then he stuck his tongue out at her.
JJ straightened up and looked at Spencer. Spencer looked back at her. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
“I have a PhD,” Spencer said, mostly to himself. “Three of them.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
Spencer crouched down slightly to be at eye level with Jack, tilting his head with the careful, methodical energy of someone approaching a problem they genuinely intended to solve. “Okay, Jack, did you know that apples contain something called quercetin? It’s an antioxidant that actually supports—”
Jack blew an m&m directly into Spencer’s face.
JJ covered her mouth. Spencer stood back up very slowly, blinking.
“I’m going to get him a juice box,” JJ announced, and she was absolutely laughing as she walked away.
Spencer sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and held the apple slices out again gamely. “Alright. New approach. What if—”
The elevator doors opened.
Jack’s entire demeanor transformed in under a second — the folded arms dropped, the pout dissolved, and he launched himself off the desk with the full confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of falling.
“Hey!”
Spencer looked down at the little toddler running towards the elevators, then he looked at what Jack was after.
You started babysitting Jack when he was only a year old, so Jack quickly bonded to you since he spent most of his time with you because his dad was too busy working, not that he minded it, Jack loved you, and you adored the little gremlin. You met Aaron Hotchner when you were serving him at a diner you worked at, that diner? worst place. Your manager was a sexist asshole who payed you less than the guys working there. You heard Aaron talking about how he needed to take jack with him to work since his babysitter canceled again. So when he called you over asking for some water, you couldn’t help but intrude a little. “Are you looking for a babysitter?”. And then that was that. Of course he didnt hire you right away, he sat u done on the chair infront of him and started asking questions. You told him you were in college, you lived on campus not far from here, youve loved babies and that youve babysat before. Even then he told you he wasnt sure yet and that hed call you back. It was only till after he made Garcia do a backround check on you that he called you back.
You caught him on instinct, one arm hooking under him as he collided with you, the other steadying his weight as he scrambled up onto your hip like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. You laughed, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head.
“Hey, you,” you said warmly. “You ready to—”
“They were so mean to me.”
You pulled back to look at his face. He was devastated. Genuinely, completely, dramatically devastated, both small hands fisted in the front of your jacket, his expression the particular flavor of betrayal usually reserved for Greek tragedy.
“Who was mean to you sweet boy?” you asked.
He pointed.
You followed the direction of his finger to find a blonde returning from the break room with a juice box, and a tall man — lanky, cardigan, slightly bewildered expression, still holding a paper towel of apple slices — standing by the desk. Your gaze settled on him for just a moment, the way you might clock a new variable in a familiar equation.
Spencer Reid, for his part, forgot how to do anything.
He was aware, distantly, that this was an embarrassing response to a person simply existing in his vicinity, but his brain, which usually had plenty to say about everything, went abruptly and completely offline. You were standing there with Jack on your hip and a slightly frowning look aimed in his direction and he could not locate a single word in any of the six languages he spoke. You looked breathtaking. This was your first time at the bau, yes, hed heard about you from jack and aaron but hed never actually seen you. It was clear you’d came from class, hence the books peaking out of your bag zipper.
You looked back at Jack, then at Spencer and JJ again, and the small frown deepened with theatrical suspicion. Slowly, you walked over to them,
“Were you two being mean to my favorite boy?”
“Yes,” Jack said firmly, before the two even had a chance to reply.
“We were trying to feed him,” the girl said, with the weariness of someone who had been through a minor military campaign. “He won’t eat anything.” You soon recognized her from the pictures in Aarons living room, this was JJ.
“They were gonna poison me,” Jack stage-whispered to you, as though this were classified.
“They were—” You blinked. Then you looked at JJ. Then at the tall, still-silent man beside her. He was wearing a thick brown sweater with designs all over it, god he looked cute. This was Spencer.
JJ glanced at Spencer, who appeared to be experiencing some kind of internal systems error, and made the executive decision to speak for both of them. “We gave him the apple slices from the break room. He’s been up on that desk for twenty-five minutes refusing everything we offer him and making faces at us.”
“I made one face,” Jack said primly.
You looked at him. He had the grace to amend: “Two faces.”
JJ shook her head with a small smile, glancing toward her own desk where papers waited. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said diplomatically, and retreated with the grace of someone who recognized a handoff when they saw one.
Which left you, and Jack, and Spencer, who was still holding the apple slices.
You looked at what was in his hand. Then you looked at Jack, hiking him a little higher on your hip so you were face to face with him, eyebrows raised.
“Jack. Honey.” You kept your voice gentle, even as the corner of your mouth twitched. “Red apples are your favorite. Why won’t you eat them?”
“Because they’ll poison me,” Jack repeated, with total sincerity.
“Sweetheart, they won’t poison you. They’ve been washed. They’re very clean.”
“No!” He shook his head, with the gravity of someone correcting a fundamental misunderstanding. “I’m not talking about the apples.” He pointed again at Spencer. “I’m talking about him. And JJ. They’re gonna poison me. That’s what I’m saying.”
You stared at him. “…You think they’re going to poison you.”
“Uncle Morgan said,” Jack said, with complete confidence, “that JJ and Spencer are aliens and they electrocute people who touch them.”
The silence lasted approximately one and a half seconds before you couldn’t hold it anymore.
The laugh came out startled and genuine, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. Jack watched you with a very serious expression, clearly not understanding what was funny about the very serious threat he’d just described.
You got yourself together. Mostly.
“Jack,” you managed. “Baby. Uncle Morgan was playing with you. I promise — I promise — they are not going to hurt you. They’re not aliens.”
“Yes they are.”
“They’re not.”
“They’re gonna electrocute me.”
“They’re—” You looked up at Spencer, who was watching this exchange with an expression you couldn’t quite read — somewhere between charmed and completely overwhelmed — and made a decision.
You reached out and poked him on the arm. The arm not holding the apple slices. Firmly, squarely, two fingers against the sleeve of his cardigan covering his bicep.
“See?” you told Jack, turning back to him. “I touched him. I’m okay.”
Jack looked at your arm. At Spencer’s arm. At you.
“That’s his sleeve,” Jack said, with devastating four-year-old logic. “You didn’t touch his skin. It’s the skin.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He had a point.
You were aware, in some peripheral way, that what you did next was perhaps slightly beyond the normal bounds of meeting someone for the first time. You were also aware that you were being out-argued by a toddler in front of a stranger and that Jack would not eat his apple slices until this was resolved to his satisfaction.
You reached over and took Spencer’s hand.
Not his sleeve. His hand. You wrapped your fingers around his, spencers hand gripped yours and his thumb went to your knuckles, you held up his hand, clearly, visibly, between the three of you, and looked at Jack with raised eyebrows.
Spencer stopped breathing.
“See, baby?” Your voice was easy, unbothered, warm. “He’s not hurting me. Look. I’m holding his hand and I’m perfectly fine.”
Jack studied this with the intense scrutiny of a small scientist reviewing data. He looked at your joined hands. At Spencer’s face. At your face. Back at the apple slices.
And then, slowly, with the air of someone making a significant concession, he leaned forward and took an apple slice from Spencer’s paper towel.
You exhaled in quiet triumph.
Jack chewed. Reached for another slice. Then stopped.
“You have to keep holding it..” he announced.
“Jack—”
“Or he’ll electrocute me!”
You looked at Spencer. Spencer looked at you. Something almost like a smile was happening at the corner of his mouth — hesitant, a little undone — and up close his eyes were a very particular shade of brown that your brain filed away without your permission.
“Okay,” you said, and kept holding his hand while Jack methodically worked through the rest of the apple slices, unhurried, occasionally swinging his feet and humming something that might have been a cartoon theme song.
Spencer Reid stood very still and said nothing and was genuinely unsure if his heart was beating at a normal rate.
When the last slice was gone, Jack wiped his hands on his jeans with great satisfaction and announced, “Okay. I want to go home now.”
You laughed, shifting him back to a more secure position on your hip, and let go of Spencer’s hand. “What do you say Jack?” you nudged him, “Thank you!” jack beamed. You looked up at him, and there was something warm and a little amused in your expression.
“Sorry about him,” you said. “And — sorry about the, um.” A small gesture between the two of you. “I don’t usually just grab strangers’ hands. I’m—” you told him your name.
Spencer’s mouth opened. A sound came out that was not, technically, a word.
“Spencer,” he said, finally. Just his name. That was all he managed.
But you smiled at him like that was enough, and it kind of felt like it was.
“Bye Spencer” Your voice was like honey saying his name. You kissed Jacks cheek and told him to say bye.
“Bye, Spencer,” Jack said, pointing at him seriously. “Don’t electrocute anyone.”
“I’ll — do my best,” Spencer said.
You were still smiling as you turned toward the elevator, shifting Jack against your side, the two of you already deep in some murmured conversation about what he wanted for dinner. Spencer watched the elevator doors close.
“Looks like pretty boy found pretty girl.”
He didn’t have to turn around to know who that was.
Derek Morgan materialized at his shoulder with the energy of someone who had been watching this entire interaction from a safe distance and enjoying every second of it. He was grinning the way he grinned when he had something very good and intended to make it last.
“Couldn’t speak, huh.”
“I spoke,” Spencer said.
“You said your own name, man.”
“That’s — speaking.”
“Hotch’s kid’s babysitter.” Morgan shook his head slowly, savoring it. “You gonna be weird about this for a while, or—”
“I’m not going to be weird about anything. I don’t know her. I met her for four minutes.” Spencer quickly came to his own defense.
“She held your hand.”
“For Jack. She held my hand for Jack, it was a child-management strategy—”
“You watched her walk to the elevator.”
“I was just—”
“Spencer.”
“I don’t know her,” Spencer repeated, with slightly less conviction than the first time.
Morgan looked at him for a long moment with the particular expression of a man who had just filed something away for future use, extensive future use, possibly for years. Then he clapped Spencer on the shoulder and walked away, still grinning.
Spencer stood where he was.
The bullpen hummed around him — keyboards, phones, Garcia’s distant laugh from the break room, maybe she was talking to Emily. Normal. All completely normal.
He looked down at his hand.
The paper towel was still in it, empty now, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. He was looking at the other hand. He turned it over once, a slow, slightly disbelieving motion, the way you might look at something that had been briefly, unexpectedly extraordinary and was now just ordinary again.
His hand, which was also just his hand.
He stood there looking at it for probably too long.
Then he folded the paper towel very carefully and went back to work. But that was the day that Spencer made a mental note to thank Derek for calling him an alien infront of Jack. One day.
Empty seats 04
withhold
~……………………………~
Captain Cragen had been smiling when he called you into his office, which should have been your first sign that something was wrong.
“Close the door,” he’d said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
You’d done it, already running through mental possibilities. Nothing catastrophic at work. Your cases were solid. Your close rate was excellent. You’d just wrapped a particularly brutal trafficking ring last week, and the team had come out of it intact.
“How long have you been with SVU?” Cragen asked.
“ 3 years, sir,” you answered, confused. “Why?”
“You’re good at what you do,” he continued, leaning back in his chair. “Really good. Your interrogation techniques are sharp, your victim advocacy is stellar, and frankly, you’ve got a gift for profiling that most people don’t develop until they’ve been doing this for twice as long.”
This was not sounding like a compliment anymore. Your stomach started to knot.
“The BAU has requested you for a transfer,” Cragen said finally. “They’re looking to expand their consultancy work with local precincts, and they want you to be their point person. It’s a promotion, better pay, better benefits, and honestly, it’s a career move that doesn’t come around often.”
You felt the blood drain from your face. “Sir, with all due respect—”
“I already told them yes,” he said gently. “Your transfer goes through at the end of the month.”
“Captain, please. I can’t—I don’t want to leave SVU. This is where I belong.”
“I understand,” Cragen said, and he did seem sympathetic, which somehow made it worse. “But this isn’t about what you want. This is about what’s best for your career. And frankly, what’s best for the Bureau. They specifically asked for you.”
You’d spent the next hour trying every argument you could think of. You’d cited your ongoing cases, your partnership with your SVU team, the trauma victims who’d come to trust you. You’d even tried appealing to Walsh’s sense of loyalty to his own unit.
Nothing worked.
By the time you left his office, it was official. You were being transferred to the BAU effective June 1st.
-----
You didn’t want to go home. You drove around the city for an hour instead, trying to figure out how to explain this to Mark. Because you knew—with absolute certainty—that he wasn’t going to be happy about it.
The BAU meant Spencer. Working with Spencer, seeing Spencer every day, being on cases with Spencer. It meant that whatever fragile peace you and Mark had managed to build over the past week would crack wide open.
When you finally pulled into the driveway, Mark was already home, cooking dinner based on the smell wafting from the kitchen. For a moment, you just sat in the car, breathing, gathering courage.
He looked up from the stove when you walked in, a smile on his face that died the second he saw your expression.
“What happened?” he asked immediately, abandoning the pan. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“What? nothings wrong baby” you laughed. He only narrowed his eyes at you more, “Honey i know you like the back of my hand, what happened at work?-Are you hurt? Did you get attacked?” He knew the expenses of your job, dealing with suspects everyday. “No im not hurt i promise”. His hands were cradling your face, “Then whats the matter?” His eyes showed nothing but love and concern.
You set your hands over his, leaning into his touch trying to find the words.
“They’re transferring me,” you said finally. “From SVU to the BAU.”
Mark froze. His hands were off you faster than you could blink. “What?”
“It’s a promotion technically. Better pay, better title, it’s supposed to be good for my career—”
“No.” Mark’s voice was flat. “No, absolutely not.”
“Mark, I tried to talk them out of it—”
“Did you tell them no?” His hands were clenched at his sides. “Did you actually refuse?”
“I can’t refuse a direct assignment from the Captain and the BAU. That’s not how the Bureau works.”
“So you just accepted it? Just like that?”
“No!” you said, your own frustration rising. “I argued with Cragen for an hour. I told him I didn’t want to transfer. But he’d already said yes to Hotchner, and there’s nothing I could do to change it.”
Mark turned away from you, his jaw working. “This is unbelievable.”
“It’s not like I have a choice—”
“You always have a choice!” he spun back to face you. “You could have fought harder. You could have threatened to resign. You could have done literally anything other than just roll over and accept a transfer to work with the guy you’re clearly still in love with.”
The accusation hung in the air between you like a slap.
“That’s not fair,” you said quietly. “And that’s not what this is about.”
“Isn’t it?” Mark laughed, bitter and sharp. “You get transferred to the BAU, which means you’re on his team now. Which means you see him every single day. Which means all of those feelings you promised were gone are just going to come rushing right back.”
“Mark—”
“When’s your start date?”
“June 1st.”
“Of course it is.” He ran his hand through his hair, pacing the small kitchen like a caged animal. “So in what, three weeks, you’re going to start working directly with Spencer Reid. Do you understand what that’s going to do to us?”
“Nothing has to happen. I can maintain professional boundaries—”
“Can you? Maybe you could but will you actually?” he was lowering his voice by the second.
“I love you,” you said desperately. “Mark, I love you. This doesn’t change anything between us.”
“It changes everything,” he said, and his voice was so quiet now that it was somehow more devastating than when he was shouting. “Because now you’re not just over Spencer. You’re actively choosing to put yourself in a situation where you’ll be around him constantly. And yeah, maybe you’re telling yourself it’s about your career. But we both know the truth.”
“The truth is I love you!”
“Thats not the truth,” he repeated, and then he walked out of the kitchen.
You heard the front door close, hard enough that the pictures on the walls rattled.
You stood alone in the kitchen, with the dinner he’d been making still warm on the stove, and realized that something fundamental had shifted. Mark wasn’t just worried anymore.
He was losing faith that you wouldn’t leave him for Spencer.
-----
That night, you didn’t sleep. Mark didn’t come to bed. Around 2 AM, you found him on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing.
You sat down next to him, and he didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I know you are,” he said, still not looking at you. “But sorry doesn’t fix this.”
“Then what does?”
He turned to look at you finally, and his eyes were sad in a way that broke your heart.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”
You sat there for a long moment, and then you took his hand. He didn’t pull away, which felt like a small victory.
“Mark, listen to me,” you said quietly. “I need you to listen.”
He turned his body toward you slightly, waiting.
“I am over Spencer,” you said, and you meant it—as much as you could mean anything in this moment. “What I felt for him was high school love. First love. It was beautiful and it was real, but it was a long time ago. I was a different person then.”
“But—”
“Let me finish,” you said gently. “Yes, seeing him again stirred up memories. Yes, there’s a part of me that will probably always care about him because he was important to me. But that’s not the same as being in love with him. That’s not the same as wanting to be with him.”
Mark’s jaw was tight, but he was listening.
“I love you,” you continued, squeezing his hand. “I love the man you are. I love how you take care of me. I love how safe you make me feel. I love your smile and your laugh and the way you hold me when I’ve had a bad day. I love that you wanted to build a life with me enough to ask me to marry you.”
“Then why does it feel like—”
“Like what? Like I’m choosing him?” You shook your head. “I’m not. I didn’t ask for this transfer. I fought against it. But it happened, and now I have to live with it. And I need you to believe me when I tell you that working with Spencer doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
Mark was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “When you saw him that day, you looked at him like…”
“Like what?”
“Like he was your soulmate,” he said quietly. “Like he was everything you’d ever wanted.”
You felt your chest tighten because there was truth in that, somewhere beneath the surface. But that was the past. That was a ghost of a feeling, not a present reality.
“That was nostalgia,” you said firmly. “That was memory playing tricks on me. Mark, I’m here. I’m with you. I chose you, and I’m choosing you again, right now.”
You reached up and cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.
“I love you,” you said, and you kissed him softly. “Only you. Do you understand me? Only you.”
He hesitated for just a moment, and then he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold tight enough.
“I’m scared,” he admitted into your hair.
“I know,” you whispered. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I promise.”
He kissed you then, urgent and desperate, like he needed to convince himself that you were real, that you were his. You kissed him back with everything you had, trying to pour all of your commitment, all of your love, into that kiss.
When you finally broke apart, Mark rested his forehead against yours.
“I’m sorry for how I reacted,” he said softly. “I just… I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.”
“You’re not going to lose me,” you said, and you meant it. You had to mean it. “No matter what happens with work, no matter who I see, I’m coming home to you. Every single day, I’m coming home to you.”
He held you close on that couch until the sun started to come up, and by the time you both finally went to bed, the worst of the storm seemed to have passed.
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Empty Seats 03
symphony s.r x reader
~…………………………….~
You woke up before Mark, the guest room guilt still heavy in your chest. You made coffee—the way he liked it, with just a splash of cream—and when he came out, bleary-eyed and defensive, you were waiting.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately. “For all of it. For how I acted yesterday, for not being clear about… about Spencer. You’re right that I wasn’t over it, but Mark, I am now. Seeing him just brought back memories, that’s all. Old feelings that don’t mean anything anymore.”
It wasn’t entirely true, and you both knew it. But it was the truth you both needed in that moment.
Mark set down his coffee and pulled you into his arms, and you let yourself relax into it. This felt safe. This felt real. When he kissed the top of your head, you felt some of the tension dissolve.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly.
“You won’t,” you promised, and you meant it. Or at least, you meant to mean it.
-----
Work was normal. Mercifully, boringly normal. Your teammates were kind, the day was routine, files on your desk, reports due.
Around five o’clock, Stacy Shepard leaned over your desk and winked. “Hey, some of us are heading to Joe’s tonight for drinks. You in?” Stacy was one of your best friends on the team. When you joined, you were still so young and she had been the one showing you the ropes. Quickly after that, she became the person you went to for advice and fun. She had also taken the spot of being your MOH.
You thought about Mark, you thought about staying in with your fiance, maybe watching a movie, laying close to eachother. “Count me in”
-----
When you got home, Mark was at his laptop on the couch, and he looked up with that small, private smile he saved just for you.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, and pulled you down to sit next to him, his arm automatically wrapping around you. “How was work?”
“Good. Actually…” you nestled into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, “some people are going out for drinks tonight. Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay.” He kissed your temple. “You deserve to have fun with your friends. Just be careful, yeah? Text me when you leave the bar and when you get to wherever you’re going?”
“Always do.” You turned to face him, and he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone.
“I mean it. I love you.”
The weight of those words, given everything that had happened, made your chest tight. “I love you too.”
He kissed you then, soft and sweet, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. When you pulled away, he was smiling that safe, dependable smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place.
You held onto that feeling all the way to the bar.
-----
When you arrived at the bar, you immediately recognized Stacy at a booth in the back. But as you approached, your stomach dropped.
Because it wasn’t just your precinct at that table.
The BAU was there. All of them. Morgan, Rossi, JJ with her blonde hair catching the light, Emily’s dark eyes noting your arrival, Penelope in her characteristic brightness, Hotch with his serious expression, and—
Spencer, looking at you like you’d just walked into the room and taken all the air with you.
Uh Oh.
You forced yourself to smile professionally, to wave, to act like this wasn’t a coincidence that felt orchestrated by the universe itself.
“Hey!” Stacy waved you over enthusiastically. “Everyone, this is my colleague from the precinct. Some of the team wanted to come to town for an after case debrief, and I invited them along. Hope you don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” you said, sliding into the booth next to JJ, directly across from Spencer. You could feel the weight of his gaze but refused to meet it. “Hi guys! Its nice to see you all again.” you smiled.
“Thanks for having us,” JJ said warmly, squeezing your arm. “Stacy has told us great things about you.”
“Only good things i hope”
The evening proceeded with careful politeness. The team asked about your work, your cases, your precinct’s approach to certain situations. You answered thoughtfully, professionally, aware the entire time of Spencer’s presence like a gravitational pull.
“So we heard you’re getting married!” Penelope said brightly, and your stomach clenched. Of course she knew. The team probably all knew. “Tell us everything! When’s the wedding?”
“A few months away,” you said, playing with your drink. “We’re still finalizing details, but you’re all invited! I’ll send out the formal invitations soon.”
You could feel Spencer’s jaw tighten from across the table, but when you risked a glance, his expression was neutral.
For the next couple of hours, you maintained that distance. You laughed at Morgan’s jokes, listened to Hotch’s stories, engaged with everyone—everyone except Spencer. You weren’t rude. You just didn’t seek him out. When he said something, you acknowledged it. But you didn’t encourage conversation.
It was a careful performance, and you played it perfectly.
Around eleven, people started to leave. Hotch had to drive back, JJ had mentioned her kids, Morgan was heading back to his hotel. Slowly, the booth emptied until it was just the stragglers, and then suddenly, it wasn’t.
You gathered your purse and stood, and Spencer was there, helping you with your jacket like some kind of dream from a previous lifetime.
Outside, in the cool night air, Stacy said goodbye and headed to her car. “Dont be late tomorrow y/n! I dont wanna face Cragen all alone!” she called out over her shoulder, earning a “Dont worry!” out of you.
Then it was just you and Spencer, the parking lot stretching empty around you.
“Did you drive?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” you said, not looking at him. “You?”
“No. Took the bus.” He paused. “I was planning to call an Uber.”
You knew you shouldn’t. You knew it was the worst possible idea. But you heard yourself say, “Come on, I’ll drive you. I’m not leaving you out here to get hypothermia.”
It was the kind of thing you would have said years ago, when taking care of him was as natural as breathing.
He hesitated—actually hesitated, as if he wanted to refuse—but then he nodded and followed you to your car.
The drive was mostly silent, the kind of silence that echoed with all the things you weren’t saying. You kept your eyes on the road, your hands on the wheel, every muscle tense.
When you pulled up to his apartment building, he didn’t immediately get out. Instead, he turned to face you, and in the darkness of the car, his eyes were searching.
“Am i invited?” He asked softly.
Your heart nearly stopped. “What?”
“To your wedding, am i welcome?”
You couldn’t look at him. “I… I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know.”
“It’s a big day, Spencer. I can’t just—”
“I know.” He said it quietly, and the resignation in his voice was somehow worse than anger would have been. “I know. It’s just… I needed to know if there was even a possibility that—”
“Please dont finish that sentence” your face turned paler, brows furrowed, and the silence that followed was deafening.
“You should go,” you said finally.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I should.”
But neither of you moved for a long moment. Outside, the city hummed with life. Inside the car, it felt like time was holding its breath.
Then Spencer opened the door and stepped out into the night. “Thank you for the ride,” he said, his voice back to that careful professional tone. “Good night.”
“Good night, Spencer,” you whispered.
You watched him walk into his building, and then you drove home to Mark, your heart splitting like a fault line with every mile.
When you got home, Mark was asleep on the couch, a crime show still playing on the TV. You gently turned it off and covered him with a blanket, kissing his forehead softly.
He stirred slightly, reaching for you in his sleep, and you let him pull you close against his chest.
“Welcome home,” he mumbled into your hair, and you felt something crack inside you.
Because you weren’t sure anymore which home you were trying to get back to.
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soft!domspencer reid, man of theory and experiments and hypothesis', wants to see how many times he can make fem!reader orgasm
18+ smut
wc: 683