valerie

twt @cowboy1ikereid | she/her | taking requests

[cowboy1ikereid]

Updated Masterlist

Started: 20/10/24

Last updated: 21/10/24

Total works: 3

Spencer Reid

Comfort / Angst

the archer ~ s.r.

little things ~ s.r. (a little smut too)

Fluff / Comfort

sweet creature ~ s.r.

[liarscursed]

── .✦ jonathan christopher (jace) herondale

[hihomeghere]

Here is my collection of Red Dead Redemption fics! I hope you enjoy! All of my fics are f!reader if not specifically mentioned

Smut 💋, Fluff 🪽, Angst 🗯️

Rdr2 Boyfriend vibes

John Marston

Burning Love Set in the epilogue of RDR2. You stumble upon John in Blackwater after being alone for years. When he invites you to visit Beecher's Hope, will you be able to fight feelings that have been building ever since you were kids? 🪽💋

Gloves John goes crazy over you dressed up for a job, more specifically your white gloves 🪽💋

Based off an ask 💋

Right Person, Wrong Time You and John have constantly been at each other's throats until you left the gang after he chose Abigail over you. When you return you find him gone, leaving Abigail and Jack. You create a relationship with Abigail and Jack, but what will happen when John returns? 🗯️💋

Part Two of Right Person, Wrong Time

Arthur Morgan

Fakin' It After a botched robbery, Arthur and you take refuge in a hotel, hiding from the O'Driscolls outside your door. When they do decide to search for you two, how will you throw them off your track? 💋

Fishing in the Dark You and Arthur have a private evening away from camp on the Dakota river. 🪽💋

Dreams Arthur starts having dreams of starting a family with you 🪽

My Eyes Only Arthur thinks you look like a work of art 🪽

Salt and Pepper Arthur notices his hair is starting to gray 🪽

Deserving. 6. I won't let anything happen to you, I swear. 34. I think you're showing. 36. You're glowing. 41. The baby loves hearing you sing/speak. 83. Was that a kick? 🪽

Blue Ain't Your Color Loosely based on the song, Blue Ain't Your Color 🪽

Little Things Arthur returns from a successful job and wants nothing more than to bury himself in you 💋

Prompts : #30 I just want to be yours. #50 We need to talk about last night 💋

First time : You want Arthur to be the one to take your virginity, you just dont want to tell him💋

Baptized by Fire, Arthur Morgan x Reader x Charles Smith

Series masterlist

Charles Smith

Knight in Shining Armor 1. "Kiss me" "What-", 81. "Your heart is racing." 🪽💋

Prompts : 12 "You look so much softer, so much calmer, I wish you could see yourself as you sleep."13"Sleeping with you was the best sleep I've gotten in years." 54“Here, take my blanket.”55 “You’re cute when you smile, you should do it more often.” 61 “I said I’d take care of you.” 🪽

Desperado Set four months after Charles leaves with the Wapiti. You and Charles try to figure out what to do after the gang falls apart. Comfort fic 🪽

Javier Escuella

Prompt : #19 You're leaving now? 🗯️

Prompt: "You heard me. Take. It. Off.” "Do I look like I’ve moved on?”

Kieran Duffy

Prompt : #66 Were you touching yourself? 💋

[harpsinfinity]

The welcome you deserve

Leon kennedy X gn!reader

Genre: fluff

REQUESTS OPEN !!

No warnings for this one, just wholesomeness :)

Pls listen to this whole reading:

It seemed like the world was weighing him down with each step he dared to take, anchoring him. But he wouldn't let that stop him, the heavy drag of his boots against the floor couldn't keep him away from his love. Hell, even if the world burned down he'd still make sure you were right there. Safe and protected in his loving arms.

Finally he thought, home at last. Away from whatever the hell kind of hell he faced during his time parted from you. His movements were almost sluggish, eyes laced with exhaustion as he managed to swing the door to your home open.

There, you were greeted with your, very tired, boyfriend. His hulking form almost slumped, as if he was to fall over flat on his face any minute. His eyes met yours, a shine of adoration for you breaking through them.

"welcome home, baby"

A smile graced your lips as you let the man inside before wrapping your arms around him. Trying to give him your best bear hug. You couldn't have been more joyful that Leon had come home, even if he was worse for wear. You'd always build him back up though, always.

Your hand connects with the side of his face, leaning up on your tip toes to press a loving kiss to his lips. Oh, how you'd missed the feeling of his lips on yours, how he held you in his arms and gave you praise after praise.

Leon mumbles a "missed you, angel" a huff of fondness coming from him.

You took one good look at his worn out form, clicking your tongue as you decided it was time to give this man the best pampering session, and sleep, of his life. He deserved it after all, for being so strong and brave during his mission, protecting the country from all those hellish creatures.

"c'mon, let's get you cleaned up" you chimed.

With a tired nod, Leon allows you to take his hand in yours, threading your fingers together, and lead him to your shared bathroom where he'd be lulled into a world of tranquility.

In no time your ran a bath, filled with warm water and all the bubbles someone could wish for. You even lighted candles and scent sticks, you really went all out for your boyfriend. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon was both comforting for welcoming, something Leon had been looking forward to.

You helped Leon out of his clothes, tossing them in the washing basket for the next days washing session. The pair of you entered the bath, letting Leon rest his weary head against your chest. The warm water caressed his muscles, such a satisfying feeling after being caked in sweat and grime with no way of removing it. Leon always found it to be such an awful feeling.

From there, you gave the blonde mop on his head a wash. He was due a haircut but, that could wait until he was well rested. Your fingers made careful work of massaging the shampoo into his scalp, you used yours as per his request. It pulled quiet groans of content from him, feeling the tenseness of his muscles vanish with each scrub.

You swiped back the wet locks of his hair, pressing gentle, tender kisses all over his handsome face. His stormy blue eyes gazed into yours as you pressed another kiss to his lips, his eyes were practically heart shaped as he admired your face. The face he'd been dreaming for so long, you'd kept him going. The thought of you was enough to keep him strong.

"don't deserve you, angel. You're too good to me"

Leon murmured lowly, humming in delight as your nails found his back, tracing gentle patterns along it. You cupped his cheek once more, pressing one more kiss to his lips and between his brows before replying:

"you deserve the whole world, baby, jus don't know it."

That seemed to make his heart flutter, though he wouldn't admit it.

Soon, your now relaxed and pampered other half was clean, dried, dressed and ready for bed. Accompanied with being in your arms, tucked in.

His head was stuffed in your neck, inhaling your scent that he had missed so much. He had a loose grip around your waist and your legs tangled together.

With one of your hands rubbing up and down his back, and the other tangled in his hair, it was impossible for him to fight off the sleep that pleasantly plagued him.

It was no suprise when you heard soft snores against your neck, a fond smile gracing your lips before you pinned a kiss to his head and decided it was time to join him in Dreamland.

[delphi-shield]

on the exhale // leon s. kennedy

Leon x Reader Fluff wc: ~2.5k read on ao3 shoutout to dana for wedging this idea into my brain, i also need leon to praise me for doing the bare minimum.

summary: After your home gets broken into, Leon insists on teaching you how to shoot.

content: mentions of a break-in, extensive discussion and use of firearms, leon being a big nerd (i can't NOT fuck him energy), established relationship, gender neutral reader.

You gave him a scare. Came back home from grocery shopping to find your door busted in and called him, all blubbery and panicked. You were lucky that you hadn’t been home when it happened. Crying to your boyfriend for help made you feel silly now, but at the time it had been the only thing that had made sense. It should have been cops first, Leon second, and he would tell you as much later.

“I’m gonna come home,” he’d told you. That only made you cry harder. Through your tears, he managed to make out the reason - you didn’t want him to get in trouble at work.

Bullshit, he’d thought. After all he gave to this place, they could stand to let him cut out early for an emergency. Thank God - that useless bastard - he wasn’t on deployment when all of this had happened. He rattled off instructions for you. Don’t go in the house, call the cops, wait for him to show up.

Leon doesn’t get frazzled often, but you saw the urgency in how he moved then, hopping out of his car before he even cut the engine. He hadn't thought to tell the cops he was your boyfriend, just flashed his badge at the officer who tried to stop him, teeth bared when he told the officer to move. He doesn't usually swing around the weight of his position like that, tries to leave who he is during his working hours at the door and shoulder who he wants to be when he's with you instead - but damn, if it wasn't effective.

He'd slid his arm around your waist, pressed a kiss to your hair and said, "You okay, baby?" and it was probably only then that the officer pieced together that Leon wasn't here on official business.

You were starting to think this whole thing scared him more than it scared you. It was damn near an argument. He made it clear that he wanted you comfortable enough to know how to shoot if it came down to that. He seems convinced, privately, that it would come down to that eventually. Like an attack is inevitable. You had laughed at the idea. After all, who would target you?

Leon doesn't want to give you the long, long list of answers to that, but his silence says enough.

That was that. He was teaching you how to shoot. No more avoiding it. If it buys him some peace, you’ll fire off a few rounds. Maybe it will even be fun. After all, Leon had almost seemed excited when he insisted he teach you. It's an excuse for him to take you out in his Jeep and drive around the countryside if nothing else.

“Are you sure I'm allowed to be here?” You ask, poking your head out the window of his Jeep.

Leon doesn't even turn around. “I’m sure.”

 A man shouldn’t look so good hunched over a rusty padlock, ugly boot propped up on the bottom bar. He swings the gate open, spinning the padlock on his index finger. Wrangler’s shouldn’t be that appealing, either, like they’re molded to him. Maybe it’s just the way he walks. The confident sway of his hips could make anything look good.

He swings himself back into the driver’s seat, pulls through the gate, and asks you to shut it behind you. You take the padlock from him. It’s hard to imagine you have the same confident stride Leon had. You feel like you’re shuffling your feet in the dirt, like the gate is so much heavier and your fingers so much clumsier. Leon’s eyes are on you the whole way, even when you clamber back into the passenger seat. Not that you notice.

The range is little more than a grassy field ringed with shooting bays. You don’t know what you had expected - maybe something a little more clinical. A quick look around fills you with relief. It looks like you’re the only ones here right now. 

Leon pulls up in front of one of the pistol bays, already explaining range etiquette to you. You help him unload, picking up a bag that you nearly drop with a muffled whoa.

“What the hell did you pack?”

“Ammo.” 

Jesus. Was he planning on forming a militia?

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Leon doesn’t do anything casually. You haul the ammo over to the closest table, hefting it up and thunking it down. Your hands settle onto your hips.

The bay is roughly 50 feet deep, the berms healed over with grass. The flat of the bay is tracked with dirt paths, clearly worn over time. A line hangs at the far end, where Leon clips two targets. He trods his own path back and unpacks his assortment of handguns on the picnic table. At his direction, you unload cartons of ammunition, organizing them by their different packaging. 9mm. .45.

The handguns look, for the most part, the same. Some are slick, carbon black, others dull, burnished metal. Your eyes are drawn to a boxy handgun, all sharp angles, the grip pebbled.

“You look nervous,” Leon notes. He straddles a bench, gesturing for you to join him.

“I am.”

Leon laughs. He nudges a magazine towards you, picking up one himself. “Don’t be. I’ll show you. Here - watch me.”

He thumbs rounds into the magazine. He makes it look easy, like he's loading a pez dispenser. You try to do the same and your thumbs come away sore and raw.

“It comes with practice.” He shrugs. He already has another two magazines loaded by the time you’ve finished your first. You hope he’s right, but you have a feeling your hands are going to ache after this.

He pulls one more gun from its case. It's worn, clearly seen plenty of use. The polymer is dulled and scuffed compared to some of the other weapons that he's laid out for you. It looks like someone took a file to the barrel and sanded it at an angle. He handles it with care, looks it over twice before he sets it away from the other pistols.

“What’s that?”

“This?” He says, laying out a stock next to it. That makes you arch a brow as well - a stock for a handgun. “She’s more of a novelty, honestly.”

“She?” You grin.

Leon rolls his eyes. He really should have known you’d tease him for that one. He flips the gun over and draws his finger across the engraving at the bottom of the grip. ‘Matilda’.

Before you can make some smart-ass comment, he clarifies. “She’s a novelty. My first gun. Can’t get rid of her, even though I probably should.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Quicker to tell you what’s not wrong,” he says, loading the magazine fondly. “The trigger is heavy as hell. There’s no rear sight. This is a military model, so if I attach the stock it fires in a three-round burst, but the way the barrel is cut slows down the way it cycles, so you lose a lot of -”

Yeah, he’s lost you. He looks so passionate when he speaks, though, you can't help but stare. You cushion your cheek on your fist just to watch him for a moment. You can't remember the last time you saw his eyes light up like this. You ask questions just so he'll keep talking – “Double action - what does that mean?”

And he's off talking again, showing you the difference on two different pistols.

He catches on to your game after the third question, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He sets Matilda aside, warning you off of trying her for now. His hand nestles home in the small of your back, urging you closer.

“Try this one first,” Leon says. It's smaller than the others, glimmers with a sheen that seems to have worn off the rest. You miss the full name - the something-or-other Shield. He runs you through the gun, shows you the safety and hands you the magazine.

It’s the basics he’s been telling you since before you even got to the range - finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Only point the gun at something if you intend to shoot it. He shows you proper stance, flexes his knees to emphasize his stance, and you can’t help the little laugh that slips out of you. His brow furrows.

“C’mon, this is serious.” Your laughter dies quick. You quiet, start taking it a little more seriously, chase the hearts from your eyes for the moment.

It feels like you should be taking notes with the amount of information he’s telling you. You nod along, trying to mimic his stance as best you can. Finally, Leon presses the gun to your palm, his hands covering yours to adjust your grip. His touch lingers, fingers sliding along your wrist as he steps away.

“Remember,” he says, loud enough for you to hear over your hearing protection. “Squeeze.”

Squeeze. Okay. You can do that. Just squeeze. You try, curling your index finger. You tense in anticipation of the shot.

The gun snaps in your hand. The grip sears into the soft skin of your palm. The ejected shell casing sizzles past your ear. You swallow the lump in your throat. You’d squeezed the trigger just how Leon had told you to, and you’d still jumped, pulling your shot up and away from where you had been aiming.

You look over to him, about to say you’re doing this wrong, you’ve got to be messing something up - you can’t even tell if you hit the target. Leon’s giving you a thumbs up and a dorky smile when you look over, though, and any thought of backing out splinters into a laugh. His voice is muffled by your earmuffs, but you think you hear him say ‘keep going’.

The rest of the magazine goes by quicker. You never quite get used to the bark of the gun, but you manage to hit the target more than once, letting out a surprised oh! each time. The slide kicks back and you barely notice - you try to fire again and it only clicks limply.

"Not bad," Leon says. You snort, but you’re smiling despite it, removing your earmuffs. Your shots are all over the place. He stares down range, hip cocked against the bench, arms folded across his chest. “You're pulling up and to the right - see?" He says, pacing down the range, gesturing for you to follow him. You trod over spent casings, catching up quick. He points to the groupings, circling them for you as if you were having trouble seeing the holes you had put all over the place.

He walks you back, talking you through pointers while you try to cram that information in along with everything else. You slide another magazine into place and try to get back into position. Your feet shuffle uncertainly on the concrete slab. Something about this is so embarrassing, being so wet behind the ears at something he’s so passionate about - you can hardly swallow around the lump in your throat.

“Hang on.” Leon’s voice cuts through your nerves. You move to lower the gun, but he stops you with a feather-light touch at your elbows.

He moves you into position, his leg wedging between yours, kicking your feet where he wants them. His touch is a suggestion, guiding you into proper form with the faintest press.

“There you go,” he rumbles. He’s pressed so close you can feel it vibrate down your back. His hands slide down your sides, fingers curling into your hips.“Nice and slow. Take your time. When you’re ready - exhale and squeeze.”

How the fuck are you supposed to breath deep and slow, concentrate on firing on the exhale, when his hands are gripping your hips like that? His breath puffs hot against the back of your neck. His voice drifts to you through your earmuffs, cloudy and dreamlike.

“Nice and slow. Squeeze.”

His hands press your hips, kneading - and then he steps back. You take a moment, let your breathing even, find your rhythm. In and out - on the exhale. You squeeze the trigger again, just like he showed you. The gun jumps, but you’re ready for it this time, the shock absorbed in the roll of your shoulders.

Center mass. On target, roughly where you had been aiming. You lean back into Leon’s chest, grinning.

“Good job,” he says. His hands slide up your arms, squeezing your shoulders. “Much better. I’m proud of you.”

A little thrill rattles up your chest. You’re going to have to unpack all of that later.

“Can I see you do it?” You ask, stepping away from the bay. You drop the magazine just like he showed you earlier. All right- maybe not just like he showed you. You fumble with it, just a little, and he does have to remind you to fish out the chambered round.

“I wasn’t going to let you have all the fun.” He says, subduing a grin. He gestures for you to put your earmuffs back on and takes Matilda in hand.

It’s a night and day difference from the way you had shot. He’s quick and precise, comfortable even with the gun he had spent minutes telling you was ungainly. A tight cluster of shots in the chest of the target, two rounds in the head - just to show off, you’re sure. It’s a blink and you miss it exhibition.

And yet, Leon clicks his tongue. “I’m pulling left. See?”

“Mm…” you pop your head to the side, pretending you see what he does. You step up to him, chest pressed against his back and hands at his hips, tormenting him the way he had just done to you. “Maybe if you just…”

Your hands slide to his front, coasting up his chest. He huffs a laugh and it presses his pecs into your hands.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” he says, laughter wobbling his voice.

“I’m taking it just as seriously as you are.”

There’s no arguing with that. He sets Matilda aside and turns to face you. “People pay good money for lessons like these.”

“Yeah? You’re a really hands-on instructor.”

He doesn’t bother hiding his laugh this time. “C’mon. Let's shoot through a couple boxes, get you comfortable. I’ll take you to lunch when we’re done.”

“I thought you packed lunch.”

“Yeah, well. I wanna treat you.”

“You spoil me.”

“I know,” he says, affecting an exasperated sigh. He disentangles himself from you, quickly loading the magazine for your pistol and sliding it over to you. He nods towards the gun you had fired earlier. “That’s why I bought that for you.”

That little shit. You should have known he’d pull something like this.

You open your mouth to argue, but Leon seats a magazine into Matilda and turns to face the target again. “Going down. Earmuffs on.”

Bastard won’t even let you argue about it.

[delphi-shield]

connection buffering . . . ↺

di!leon x reader - long-distance relationship - part 2

previous part

you weren't bluffing.

you'd made the sign. wrote his name in big block letters, too confident in how you wrote the first half of his name. the 'EDY' crowds together at the end. 'E' shoves 'D' close to the end, 'Y' drawn paper thin and cocked to the side, threatening to topple off the edge of the paper. leon finds he's not too tired to laugh.

he had the whole goddamn flight to figure out what to say to you, but when he sees you standing there with that sign in your hand, scanning the crowd for a man you expect to be two inches taller, it all flushes out of him to make room for the queasy feeling in his gut. when you finally spot him (thank god; the words had gotten lodged in his throat, your name running around his mind again, again, again, lodged so deep in the crevices that he couldn't pry it free and force it out his mouth) your smile nearly blinds him. he shields his eyes with a hand, watches you bounce on the balls of your feet.

he flicks your sign with a finger. the only words that make it past the lump in his throat are, "messed up the kerning, huh?"

you tip your head, puppy-dog cute. more adorable in person. "the what?"

"kerning." silence. you shake your head a little, blank look in your eye. leon tries to swallow, feels barbs jab into his throat. ten minutes on the ground and he's fucking up already. his gut turns. he tries to blame it on airplane peanuts. "the space between the letters."

he should get back on the plane. if he flashes his badge and declares it official business they have to let him on, right? brass wouldn't be happy with him, but what are they going to do? he's leon fucking kenn--

you laugh and his thoughts screech to a halt, plane crash on the concourse. footsteps pound past him - or maybe that's his heartbeat in his ears. your laugh is prettier in person, too.

"okay, all right." your face lights up, eyes squished to make room for your smile. "why do you know that?"

mentally, he flips through a rolodex of excuses. he moonlighted as a graphic designer (false), he was really into fonts (no strong opinions, really), it's classified (outright lie). he settles for the truth, shrugging.

"late night wikipedia dive."

you laugh again. his heart is a bird, fluttering in his chest, battering itself against his ribs to get to you. what the hell is wrong with him? he hadn't felt like this in years, thought he wasn't supposed to feel like this anymore. when you were an adult you grew out of this sort of giddiness. he'd choked it down every time he'd checked his phone under the table at an intelligence meeting, dismissed it as heartburn. he's supposed to want. it's supposed to be a blaze that swallows him up. confident and bold and all-consuming. not fidgety and desperate.

he's not anxious. he's a grown man. he's met presidents, plural. he doesn't get nervous meeting people, even if they're stunning, even if his hands twitch to hold theirs.

does he hug you? kiss you? slip his hand into your back pocket and guide you out of the terminal, lead you blindly to a car that isn't his, take you to an apartment he's only ever seen portions of on a 15 inch screen, ask what he can make you for dinner in your own home? that's what he wants. skip over all of this and slide right into familiarity, fly right past all the work it takes to get there. you've done the leg work, right? you know how you feel about each other. he's here. that says enough, doesn't it?

he's eternally grateful that you reach through his thoughts and pull him into a hug. your face stuffs into his shoulder, words muffled. "i'm so glad you're here."

you inhale deeply and he swears his heart does a backflip. jesus, he needs to get a physical. this can't be normal.

it's you who loops your arm with his, you who tugs him into motion. you rattle off questions that he answers as best he can. it feels like drowning, like he can barely keep his head above water. his flight was fine, thanks for asking. no, he didn't get any sleep. he never sleeps on planes. it's a long story. he didn't need a nap, but yeah, he could go for a coffee.

you know this great place, you reassure him. really low-key. he treads water in the parking garage while you dig for your keys. you drop them - twice - and he wonders if you're struggling to stay at the surface, too.

as a last act before sinking into the passenger seat, he rescues your sign from the trash, folding it neatly and tucking it into his pocket.

he looks up from buckling his seat belt, beckoned by the way you call his name. he's still smiling when you cup his cheeks and kiss him.

by day two, he's decided you need a new apartment. he hasn't told you that yet, figures it comes off too pushy, but he would fly back down to help you move if you wanted. (if he thinks it hard enough, won't you ask him to?)

don't misunderstand - he likes what you've done with the place. honest to god, you're a miracle worker with decor. you could really shape his place up.

it's just that your front door is less than secure. your locks are ran through. it would take him less than a minute to break in. he doesn't even want to think about your windows. other than being drafty, they're just another completely unsecured access point.

you'd invited him to sleep in your bed the first night, and he had every intention of doing so. he'd just passed out on the couch before he had the chance. leon had woken with a pillow stuffed under his head, thick, handmade blanket tucked over him. it was sweet. really.

but it wasn't the same as sleeping next to you.

leon has every intention of sleeping in your bed that night. you'd filled the day with a tour of your city, pointing out your favorite and least favorite spots, telling stories that let him imagine the streets as a stage, you as the star, top billing as far as he's concerned. everything had been optional, as you'd feverishly reassured him after every stop. he could change the itinerary with one word. the only mandatory stop had been lunch with your friends. a good sign, he thinks. if you're confident enough to introduce him to the people in your life, then you see this going somewhere, right?

by the time you hit your last stop, it feels like he's emerged from a war zone. leon would know. he's been run ragged on back to back operations before, but this - the pressure of trying to be right for you, to show you who he is, waiting on pins and needles for you to sour on him and push back from the closeness he craves - this is truly exhausting.

you must feel it too, offering to pick up dinner on your way home in lieu of cooking. he waves away apologies, reaches past you to hand the cashier at taco bell his card when you try to pay. the food is gone by the time you pull your car into the parking lot.

both of you have the same idea. you're just as worn out as he is (makes him wonder if you're doing the same thing, all anxious energy, making sure to put your best foot forward, always stumbling and falling into a better impression than the one you set out to make) and bed comes naturally to mind. he slips into the side closest to the door and you stop him immediately, voice teasing.

"uh, that's my side." you poke at his ribs. the awkwardness had melted over the course of the day together. you were playful, eyes bright and laugh loud. touch came easy between you now, both playful and lingering. the comfort that had been stirred up and tossed into disarray by physical proximity had settled back in.

leon's eyes flit to the door over your shoulder. it's not a big deal, he tells himself. the odds of something happening were astronomically low.

but he knows his luck with astronomically low odds. one in a million is too risky. he's got to be closer to the door, won't be able to sleep if he's not. his hands wrap around your waist, urging you on top of him. he doesn't miss the way you stiffen, the momentary hitch of your breath, but you let yourself get swept along all the same, drape yourself over him as he guides you to.

"just sleep like this." leon shifts lower to make more space for you. he presses a kiss to your head.

it takes longer than he expected for you to relax. slowly, when his hands still at your back and his breathing evens out, your limbs loosen. your weight thickens atop him, pressing him further into the mattress. it's all he can do to remind himself that he's tired, that starting something now would lead nowhere fast.

leon stays awake until he's certain you're out cold. the door remains unbreached, your home still safe. he can't bring himself to regret his caution.

when he's finally able to sleep, he sleeps hard. he wakes to your fingers carding through his hair, his cheek cushioned against your chest, completely flipped around during the night. it's the best night he's had in years.

on day three, leon wonders if he should be more obvious.

he's been putting out all the signs, carefully curated his touch to be lingering, to make you burn for more, but each time you settle against him and offer up a contented "this is nice."

does there need to be a neon sign draped around his neck that says "take me for a spin", arrow blinking down toward his crotch? you'd let him press against your back during an afternoon nap, knee wedged between your legs, arm curled around your stomach to keep you next to him. he woke from dreams where he was bolder, where he wasn't afraid of losing you with that lingering confidence, pressed kisses to the back of your neck until that gauzy empowerment lifted.

hell, he'd woken up that morning laying half on top of you, his head nestled in the valley of your chest. you'd pet his hair til he woke from nuzzling your tits in his sleep.

he abandons subtlety during the credit crawl of eight-legged freaks, a 'classic' you had insisted on making him watch. (you'd laughed when he had commented he could keep you safe in the event of giant spiders. he hadn't been joking, but he still hasn't grown tired of hearing you laugh.)

"hey," he asks, hand curling around your thigh. his thumb smooths an arc across your skin, traces the path again and again. "do you wanna..?"

smooth, kennedy.

you look over at him with that same puppy-dog confusion that he's growing familiar with. instead of moving his hand, you draw your legs up and lay them over his lap. how the fuck is he supposed to interpret that?

"do i wanna..?" you parrot back, drawing the words out into the form of a question.

leon hates himself. he wishes he could back out of this. he clears his throat. how the hell do people broach this topic smoothly? he searches for the words, the silence stretching a little too long for comfort. finally, he says the first thing he can.

"like, sex."

real mature, kennedy, he thinks. he wishes he could backpedal, take it all back. he's certain your face warms. before he can issue a take down for his words, (maybe cut out his stupid goddamn vocal cords, if he has the time) you fumble out, "oh. like- right now? uh, i mean, do you want to?"

continuing with the maturity, he turns it back on you.

"i asked you first."

"i don't not want to."

leon shakes his head. his hand cups your ankle. "i really only take 'yeah' or 'hell yeah'."

"i just didn't think giant spiders got you in the mood."

"hey, the more legs the better."

leon knows deflection when he hears it. he's the reigning champ, after all, could play this game with you all day. but he has mercy; he chuckles, lets you get away with it and grabs the remote, declaring it's his turn to pick another movie since your choice was a mood killer.

later that night, curled up in bed with a video playing mindlessly from your tablet, you turn around to face him. he widens his arms to accommodate the movement, circles them tighter once you settle in.

"you're not mad?" you ask, pressing your face into his chest, already hiding from the answer.

"about what?"

"y'know."

"spell it out for me, sweetheart."

he can feel your breath puff against his chest, an exasperated huff. people have done this same thing to him time and time again. he always hated it, being forced to be forthcoming and earnest. (vulnerable, some people call it, but that always made him feel like a wounded bird.) now that he's on the other side, he sort of sees the appeal.

"'cause i don't wanna have sex yet."

there's a 'yet'. that's promising. he saves that little victory for later. his hand rubs slowly, reverently across the planes of your back.

he knows what he's got to say. he knows that he means it. putting the words to it is different. he needs you to understand, has to do this right.

"i didn't come all this way just to hook up."

you hum. "but you still want to."

christ, he's got to man up and say it.

"of course i do." you burrow closer to him, hands fisting against his side. he taps your back firmly. "hey. i'm not finished. i'm attracted to you, okay? like, really attracted to you. it's not- it's not just physical. i want to see if we can make this work. if what we had on the phone was real."

"is it?"

"yeah. i think so."

"sex isn't important to you?"

"it is. it's just not more important to me than you."

you pull your face from his chest, look up at him with big wet eyes. he brushes the backs of his fingers against your cheek tenderly, afraid you'll splinter and those tears will cascade down if he's anything but gentle.

"i think so, too."

you curl back into him, your touch melting from desperate to serene. leon can't help but feel accomplished - as though he's threaded the needle perfectly, cut the right wire just before the clock hit zero. gradually, his breathing falls into step with yours.

"besides," he murmurs, half-asleep. he drops a kiss against the top of your head. "your walls are thin. i don't want you catching a noise complaint."

day four is a glimpse of the life he could have, but it makes him realize what he needs to do to obtain it. the sickly feeling pools in his stomach, leaves him picking at the dinner you made. it's good, he swears. then the lie - just all the travel catching up to him.

he knows by day five that he's got to tell you everything. it's no longer a want - he needs you in his life. he's resolved to come clean.

he nearly does it over breakfast. you set his coffee in front of him, muss his hair before you take your own seat, and it almost comes spilling out onto the table.

i work in national security. i'm a federal agent. there's so much i can't tell you, but it's dangerous. god, it's dangerous. there's so much blood on my hands. it doesn't scrub off but i'm worried it will stain your skin. i think i could love you, if you'll let me. please don't say it back.

"plans today?" he says instead, sipping his coffee.

maybe tomorrow.

day six leaves him melancholy.

you'd insisted that today was for him. whatever he wanted, you would accommodate.

leon worries that his answer is boring. he wants a day in with you. an imitation of what it could be like to come home to this. the idle sounds of you milling about the house could lull him to sleep if it weren't for the words lodged in his throat.

you were doing the laundry. not yours, not his, but the, the definite article that's never felt intimate until that very moment. it silenced him to hear you refer to it that way. he's so tired of reading into every word you say, clinging onto every nuance. he'd forgotten how exhausting this stage of a relationship is. you couldn't send him home with dirty clothes, you explained, and he had no argument against that. his eyes traced after you as you puttered around, busying yourself with tidying. you're so at home. of course you are. it's your apartment. but he wants that. he wants to lift you from this place and into his own home, to watch you make yourself at home and busy yourself with the mundane.

he's got to tell you today. he can't do it over text. it's wrong.

when you finally settle down next to him on the couch, drawing a blanket into your lap, you breach the topic gently, give him a chance to do it himself. leon doesn't realize how obvious he is when he gets that look on his face, all forlorn as if he'd collapsed onto a fainting couch, hand over the back of his forehead. drama queen.

"what's up?" you ask, sitting close - but infuriatingly distant, not quite touching him yet.

"nothing. just looking at you."

bless you for trying to make it easy on him. it's always been like pulling teeth to get him to talk. he's trained to resist torture and coercion, should know better than to melt under a gentle hand or the way your body fits against his side.

you hum softly, disbelieving. so that's it, then. the silence, the 'i'm respecting your distance until you break' tactics. damn, you're good. leon takes a deep breath, chest aching with the weight of what he has to say. now or never.

"look- i'm not who you think i am."

you don't miss a beat. "in what way?"

he has to force the words out. he's acutely aware that this could ruin everything. you could kick him out. block his number, never speak to him again. good. it was safer that way. you deserved a normal life.

"i lied to you. about my work."

"yeah, i know."

"i work in security. national security."

"leon. i know."

his brain reels back a few steps, trying to process your words.

"you know?" he repeats, almost offended. how could you know? was this a set up?

you pull your phone from your pocket, tapping a quick query in. you turn the phone to him. article after article, a few interviews pinned to the top. every link is purple, clicked on and read through. the one that draws his eye is tucked at the bottom of the screen, makes his skin crawl to remember.

KENNEDY, HARPER CLEARED OF CHARGES

"i googled you." you set your phone down on the coffee table.

"and you still let me into your house?" he was serious, but you laugh. leon's brow pinches. "how long?"

you shrug, as if this conversation is about the laundry. "a couple months. ever since you told me your last name."

"months? why didn't you say anything?"

"i was hoping you'd tell me yourself. and you did, sort of."

his mind is still reeling. the drama of it all had his wound up tight. where does he put that energy?

he must look as thrown-off as he feels, because you chuckle, sweep the hair from his eyes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"i get why you don't tell people upfront. just don't hide stuff like that from me again, okay? seriously. i'll be mad."

it's more grace than he deserves. your acceptance churns his stomach. is there another meaning behind your words, a resentment coiling in the pit of your stomach?

you crack open your book and lean against his side. he settles his arm around you, moving slow, scared to frighten you away. only one chapter in, you pass him your phone, a take-out app order, asking what he wants. if you're mad, you hide it well.

day seven is a funerary procession. you help him scour your apartment for things he may have left behind, packing them neatly in his suitcase-shaped coffin. it's amazing how his things had flooded into your apartment during the short course of his visit. he had spread out, made himself comfortable. part of it had been testing how his belongings felt next to yours, how it all fit - the final test he had constructed in his mind. you'd passed that with flying colors, clearly. he's lost track of a shirt somewhere along the way, but he isn't concerned about it. he'll be back. he can look for it another time.

both of you linger at your front door. excuses are myriad, flowing from both sides. reasons to double back, reasons to keep his hand on your waist, your fingers in his hair, your lips on his.

but eventually the time becomes too urgent, the threat of missing his flight too real. he'd joked in the car that if he didn't turn up for work they might just send a helicopter to pick him up instead, expecting a laugh. you only smile, a wry twist of your lips that fades too quickly. you reach for your sunglasses and shove them on. the air is tense by the time you pull into the parking garage, cherry scented car freshener cloying.

“you gonna cry?” he teases.

you sniffle.

“oh my god.” he is such a jackass. “don't cry. i'm sorry, sweetheart. it's okay. jesus.”

“i just don't want you to go,” you squeak. your hands fist the steering wheel tight, knuckles turning white.

leon leans over the center console, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. he shrugs you closer to him, hushing you gently.

"let's plan another trip, okay?" he murmurs against your head, placing apologetic kisses there over and over. "c'mon. it's not forever. it's okay. i'm gonna call you when i land. we'll text, like we always do. it's my turn to pick the movie, so-"

fuck. his voice cracks. he clears his throat, blinks quickly to keep his composure.

"so, i'll pick a good one. wednesday night, okay? you, me, and a really good movie."

steadily, his promises slow your tears. the pressure of time detaches you from his hold. you're with him as far as you can go, waving him off to his gate. his heart sinks like a stone. he hates flights, never gets comfortable on them, but the way home feels longer than usual.

made it home he texts the second he's through the door. you're probably asleep. he hopes you are, at least. it's late for you, and--

yay

before he can bother telling you to go to bed, another message pushes through. his house felt empty before, but your message only deepens the feeling, hollows out the hallways and leaves his bed feeling too big, too cold.

i miss you already. call me tomorrow if you can.

leon squints at the screen.

"is that my shirt?"

you stop mid-sentence. caught red-handed - or, rather, grey-shirted.

it's your movie night since he made it back home. you're curled up in bed, your popcorn off to the side. he can fill in the gaps of your room now, knows what extends beyond the screen - and he knows that shirt. an old work tee of his that had mysteriously gone missing after you did the laundry. well-worn and soft. his name stamped on the back in big, block letters. possessive pride stirs in his chest to imagine you wearing his name.

sheepish, you promise, "i'll bring it back to you. how about next month?"

leon shakes his head. he pulls open his calendar, skimming through the busy weeks to clear the time for you.

"keep it. wear it to the airport for me so i know who to look for."

"you're not gonna make me a sign?"

"the shirt is the sign, sweetheart."

"are you gonna wear a matching one with my name on it?"

"i might." he opens another tab, googling how to make custom t-shirts. "you'll have to get here and find out."

connection restored -`♡´-

dividers from @/adornedwithlight

[missarchive]

american jesus³ ☆

spencer reid

part one part two part three

summary; The delicate veil of secrecy is torn, unraveling a truth neither were prepared to face.

A fleeting mistake reveals their intertwined worlds, forcing them to confront the forbidden desire that binds them. Love and restraint wage a quiet war, their connection teetering on the edge of discovery, threatening to unravel everything they’ve built.

cw; angst, spencer yells at the reader, age gap, sugar daddy/baby dynamics, big big feelings = big big argument, lots and lots of yearning, student/teacher relationship (ezra and aria who?) no smut in this part (i know, disappointing), you'll have to wait for part 4 ;)

an; as always, thank you for taking the time to read my work, i hope you all enjoy. please consider leaving feedback in the form of a comment or an ask if you did enjoy, i always love hearing from you <3

“Can’t believe how lucky I am,” Spencer murmurs, his voice low and steady, almost like he’s thinking out loud. He’s not saying anything groundbreaking, just a simple truth, but you can feel the sincerity in every word.

You’re lying next to him, the warmth of his body pressing gently against yours, the world outside his apartment fading away. There’s no rush, no urgency. It’s just you and Spencer, the quiet hum of the city muted by the walls of the apartment. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm, the touch both soothing and reassuring, like a silent promise.

You turn your head slightly to look at him, catching his gaze, and his eyes soften when they meet yours. “Lucky?” you ask, a small smile playing on your lips. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs, his expression relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—something that makes your chest tighten in a good way. “I don’t know. You’re... everything. You just get me, you know? You always know when I’m overthinking or when I need a minute, and you’re there without making a big deal out of it.”

You chuckle softly, rolling onto your side to face him more fully. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of mind reader.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” he continues, his hand resting lightly on your hip now, fingers gently tracing along your skin. “You’re so... intuitive. So much more than I ever expected.”

You’re not sure why, but something about the way he says it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world he could say that to. It feels real—genuine, even. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, your voice quieter now, the smile still lingering on your lips.

Spencer laughs softly, his fingers brushing over your hair. “I don’t know about that,” he says, though the affection in his voice is undeniable. “But I’m definitely glad you’re here. Glad it’s... us.”

“Me too,” you whisper back, settling a little closer to him, resting your head against his chest. It’s easy, this thing between you. Comfortable in a way that doesn’t need to be overanalysed or explained. You both know where you stand, and that’s enough.

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I really like being with you. More than I can say.”

You close your eyes, letting the simple words wash over you, content in the quiet of the moment. The world outside can wait. Here, with him, everything feels just right.

So as you crossed the campus the next morning, your bag tucked tightly against your side like a fragile secret, you couldn’t help but think of him. The air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of autumn, and the hum of the campus buzzed around you. Laughter echoed from a nearby bench, the scrape of skateboard wheels over concrete punctuating the morning stillness. It was a world in motion, but for you, each step felt heavier, each breath tighter.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, jolting you from your spiralling thoughts. A welcome distraction. You stepped into the shadow of a quiet corner in the quad, your back leaning against the cool brick of a building as you pulled it out. The message preview glowed softly on the screen, taunting you with its simplicity. Just a few words, but enough to make your stomach twist. You hesitated, the pad of your thumb hovering over the notification, before swiping it open.

@ thefourthdoctor; Big day today, right? How's it going so far?

You smiled to yourself. He had a way of grounding you, even when the chaos of life seemed overwhelming. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as you typed back quickly.

@ laceandliterature; Surviving so far. One more class. Supposedly the professor is a genius or something.

@ thefourthdoctor; Genius professors are overrated. Bet you'll end up teaching them something.

You let out a soft laugh, earning a curious glance from the student beside you. You put your phone away as the chatter in the room began to quiet. The door at the front of the classroom opened, and a tall, slightly disheveled man stepped in.

"Good afternoon," he began, his voice smooth and steady, carrying just enough authority to quiet the murmur of the room. "My name is Dr. Spencer Reid, and I’ll be your professor for this semester."

A cold shiver ran through you, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. For a moment, your brain refused to process them, to connect the dots. It was like a veil had dropped over the classroom, the world outside of him fading into a muffled blur. He was your Spencer—your secret, your late-night confidant, the person who had slowly crept into your thoughts, into your heart.

And now, as you looked up, there he was. Dr. Spencer Reid. The very thought of it made you freeze.

The world around you seemed to tilt, gravity losing its hold, as if the earth had somehow shifted beneath your feet. The air in the room thickened, and your pulse hammered in your ears. You could feel every eye in the room, but all you could focus on was him—on the way his gaze flickered over the crowd, on the moment he paused as if feeling your presence before his eyes locked onto yours.

It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be happening.

Recognition flashed in his eyes, swift and sharp like a lightning strike, followed by something darker—something that mirrored the panic rising in your chest. His steps faltered, a momentary loss of composure. For an agonizing second, he looked like he might trip over his own feet, his hand reaching instinctively to grip the edge of the podium, as though it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His lips parted, as if he meant to speak, but the words didn’t come.

The room around you blurred, every sound drowned out by the rushing roar of your heart, by the sudden weight of the truth crashing down on you. Dr. Spencer Reid, the man you had been talking to for weeks, the one you had come to trust with pieces of yourself you’d never shared with anyone, was standing in front of you—your professor. The line between you had just dissolved into nothing, and the implications hit you all at once.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were filled with something raw and unsettled—confusion, maybe even disbelief, a look that mirrored the one you felt inside. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You were so close to something, to something more, to a feeling you’d been fighting to define, but now… now it all felt tainted. The connection you had with him was something that had blossomed in the quiet, the secrecy, and now it felt so exposed, so fragile, hanging on the edge of something you couldn’t control.

You watched him struggle to regain his composure. His face was flushed, his brow furrowed with tension, but there was something else beneath it—something deep, something that had been there all along, though you hadn’t dared to name it. The reality of the situation hit you with crushing force: the late-night conversations, the casual affection, the way he made you feel seen and heard… It had all been real. But so was this.

He opened his mouth again, but it wasn’t to speak to you—not directly. He cleared his throat, pulling himself together with shaky breath, and in that instant, you knew that everything had changed. He was no longer the man you had been texting, the one who had shared things with you that felt impossible to tell anyone else. No. Now, he was your professor, the person whose authority you were supposed to respect, the person who had the power to affect your future in ways you hadn’t even considered.

You tried to steady your racing thoughts, but the reality of what was happening, what had just happened, pressed down on you. This wasn’t just an awkward surprise. This was a violation of all the boundaries you thought you could keep between your personal life and the rest of the world. You felt your chest tighten as the dread crept in.

You had been so close. So close to something real, something that had started to feel like it could actually be more than just a fleeting connection. But now? Now, you were staring into the abyss of what could only be a mess. His eyes kept flicking to you, but he didn’t speak directly to you again. Instead, he turned his attention back to the class, clearing his throat one more time before continuing, his voice more composed but still carrying an undercurrent of something strained.

"...I’ll be teaching cognitive development this semester," he said, his tone firm but not quite steady. "It’s a challenging course, but I’m confident you’ll all be able to keep up."

His words felt hollow, detached, as though he were going through the motions, but every syllable felt like an echo of everything you could no longer ignore.

You stayed rooted in your seat, a cold heaviness settling over you, your heart racing, your mind reeling. The world had just shifted, and you weren’t sure how to catch your breath.

"Uh," he stammered, his voice betraying a crack of unsteadiness. "As I said, I’m Dr. Reid. I, uh, specialise in behavioural psychology and philosophy. If you need anything, my office hours are listed in the syllabus, which you should have received by email."

He spoke too quickly, the words tumbling out like they might shield him from the reality of the moment. His hands gripped the podium tightly, and though his eyes swept over the room, you could tell he was avoiding looking directly at you. His composure was a fragile thing, threatening to crumble with every second that passed.

Your stomach churned as the implications of this impossible situation sank in. The air in the room felt stifling now, too warm, too heavy. You were hyperaware of him—of the way he stood just a little too rigidly, the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way his voice had wavered when he said anything.

This was the man who had been your confidant, the one who made you feel seen in a way no one else had. And now, he was standing in front of you, holding a position of authority that made every shared moment, every word exchanged, a dangerous secret.

He risked another fleeting glance in your direction, his expression unreadable. The air between you felt charged, like the space before a storm, filled with things left unsaid and too many emotions packed into too little time.

Your mind raced, a tangled mess of shock, dread, and something heartbreakingly close to longing. How could this possibly work? Could it even work at all?

Spencer turned back to his papers, his shoulders tight as he forced himself to continue. But the damage was done. The moment had shattered the fragile wall between your two worlds, and now you were left to navigate the wreckage.

And now, he was standing here, just feet away, your professor.

You could still feel his eyes on you, even when he wasn’t looking directly your way. You knew he felt it too—the electricity, the undeniable tension.

As the class dragged on, each word Spencer spoke felt like it was coming from miles away. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t absorb anything except the overwhelming weight of the truth. Dr. Spencer Reid. The realization kept replaying in your mind like a broken record, the echo of it rattling your thoughts until everything else faded into white noise. You tried to look at him objectively, tried to see the professor in front of you, but all you saw was the man who had become your secret, your late-night refuge. The man who, just hours ago, you had felt yourself slipping closer to, only to have the ground ripped out from under you.

When the lecture finally ended, the final bell a dull thud in your chest, you stayed in your seat for a beat too long, uncertain. The others filed out, chattering and laughing, their voices lost to you as if you were underwater. You debated, internally torn between confronting him—demanding answers—or simply running the other way and never looking back.

But before you could decide, before you could move, you caught his eye. Just for a second. It was brief, fleeting, but in that shared glance, you saw it—the acknowledgment, the silent recognition that you were both trapped in the same web of confusion and unspoken desire. His gaze held something more: a question, a plea, a silent call for understanding. You weren’t sure which one it was, but you felt it.

Neither of you said a word, but the air between you grew thick with it, with everything you weren’t saying. It hung there, heavy and suffocating, the invisible barrier that now separated you. You wanted to speak, to ask him what this meant, to demand the answers that both of you seemed too afraid to say aloud. But you didn’t. And neither did he.

This was going to complicate everything.

The days after that first class passed in a blur. The initial shock had dulled, but it had left behind an uneasy tension, a strange sort of tightness in the air between you and Spencer. Something had shifted between you both, but neither of you knew how to handle it, how to navigate the mess of emotions and risks.

In lectures, Spencer kept his gaze trained firmly ahead, rarely letting it wander to your corner of the room. When he did glance in your direction, it was quick, as if he feared even that brief moment of connection might undo him. The smooth flow of his lecture, once so natural, now had a stutter to it when you raised your hand, your voice, anything. The usual rhythm was broken, disrupted by the constant awareness of each other. Every word you spoke seemed to have the weight of a thousand unspoken things behind it, like every sentence was a landmine that could blow everything apart.

Outside of class, things were no easier. The messages between you and Spencer, once frequent and filled with ease, had become painfully measured. You had both learned to carefully choose your words, as if a wrong one could expose everything—the feelings you were hiding, the longing you couldn’t keep at bay, the dangers that now clung to every thought and touch. Every interaction felt like it was wrapped in a shroud of what ifs—what if someone found out? What if this all fell apart? What if it was too late?

But despite the careful distance, despite the impossible situation you found yourselves in, you couldn’t stay away. There was something magnetic between you, a pull that neither of you could resist. Each encounter, each brief exchange, only made it worse, only made you want him more.

And yet, you couldn’t have him. Not like this. Not with the risk of everything unraveling in an instant. But every part of you screamed that you couldn’t walk away, that you couldn’t let go of the thing that had begun to feel so real. And every part of him seemed to feel the same way.

There’s something almost sacred in the way he moves, the way he speaks, each word falling from his lips like it’s meant only for you, like you’re the only one who can truly hear it. You can't help but trace every line of his face, from the sharp curve of his jaw to the faint scrunch of his brow when he's lost in thought. His every gesture seems like poetry, something you could study for hours, even days.

You idolise him in a way that feels almost holy, a quiet reverence in the way you let your gaze linger on him, not just as your professor, but as someone untouchable. Every time his eyes sweep the room, you hold your breath, hoping, praying that maybe this time, they’ll land on you—just you. But they never do.

And still, you can’t stop. He’s your obsession, your quiet prayer whispered to the stars. You don’t just listen to him; you drink in every syllable, every inflection of his voice, as if his words are the only truth worth knowing. And in those moments, the world falls away, leaving only you and him—alone, even if you’re not.

It started in whispers, in moments so small they were almost imperceptible. A lingering glance after class that held for just a second too long. The way his fingers brushed yours when he handed back a graded paper, the touch fleeting but electric. You told yourself these gestures didn’t matter, that they were coincidences or figments of your imagination. But you knew better. You felt it in your chest, in the way your breath caught each time his eyes met yours and lingered.

Then one evening, as you packed up your notebook and pens after a lecture, his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“Y/N,” he said softly, careful not to draw the attention of the few students still milling about. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

You froze, your heart skipping, then nodding as you tried to keep your face neutral. His eyes darted around the room, scanning for onlookers, before he gestured toward the hallway.

The atmosphere in Spencer’s office was tense, a quiet unease pressing down on both of you. The faint hum of the overhead light mixed with the distant sounds of the campus outside, but neither did much to distract from the gravity of the conversation.

Spencer sat behind his desk, his fingers lightly drumming against the edge as he stared at the scattered papers in front of him. His gaze was unfocused, the weight of what he needed to say pulling at his normally composed demeanor. You leaned against the closed door, arms crossed, your posture guarded.

“This isn’t just risky,” he said after a long silence, his voice steady but low. He glanced up at you, his eyes serious. “If anyone finds out, it could ruin both of us.”

You straightened, arms dropping to your sides. “I know the risks, Spencer. But walking away isn’t an option for me, and I don’t think it is for you either.”

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet sigh. “It’s not. But that means we have to be careful—really careful. We need rules. Boundaries. Something to protect us.”

You stepped closer to his desk, pulling a chair to sit across from him. “Okay,” you said, keeping your voice even. “Let’s figure it out. What’s non-negotiable?”

He hesitated, his fingers lacing together as he thought. “First, no public displays of affection. Not even subtle things. On campus, we have to act like nothing’s going on. No lingering looks, no casual touches—nothing.”

“Agreed,” you said, though the thought of keeping that distance stung. “We can’t give anyone a reason to suspect us.”

“And no communication about us through email or official channels,” he added. “If we need to talk, it has to be in person or through something secure.”

You nodded. “There are private apps we could use, encrypted ones. Only for emergencies, though. No casual texting.”

The practicality of it all settled over you both, the careful parameters of what you could and couldn’t do drawing a stark line around the relationship.

Spencer looked at you, his expression softer now, though no less serious. “If at any point this feels like too much—if it starts to put pressure on your life or your future—you have to tell me. I don’t want you to feel trapped in this.”

You met his gaze, holding it firmly. “That goes both ways. If you start to feel like this is putting your career in jeopardy, you need to tell me.”

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Deal.”

The conversation felt clinical, like drawing up a contract, but it was necessary. The risks weren’t hypothetical—they were real, and you both knew what was at stake.

“Do you think this will work?” you asked after a pause, your voice quieter now.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk as he looked at you. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I’m willing to try. For you.”

His honesty grounded you, cutting through the uncertainty. “Then we’ll make it work,” you said simply.

You found ways to navigate the tightrope of your relationship, though every step felt like it could be the one that sent you both tumbling into ruin.

You started meeting in places where no one would recognise you. A quiet café on the outskirts of town. A secluded bench in the park. The conversations were tentative at first, but the connection between you refused to fade.

One night, as the rain pattered softly against the windows of his apartment, you found yourself curled up on his couch, your head resting on his shoulder.

“You know this is insane, right,” he muttered, though his arm tightened around you.

“Probably,” you admitted, tilting your head to look up at him. “But doesn’t it feel worth it?”

His gaze lingered on yours, conflicted but warm. “It does,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. “And that’s what scares me.”

The line between you and Spencer was razor-thin, a fragile, trembling thread neither of you dared to define. It felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, the dizzying height both thrilling and terrifying. You both knew the fall was inevitable, yet neither of you could step away. Instead, you lingered there, savouring the tension in those fleeting moments before gravity claimed you.

One late afternoon, as the sun dipped low and painted the campus in gold and shadow, you found yourself outside his office door. The brass plaque bearing his name gleamed faintly, a stark reminder of the boundaries you were about to cross. Your pulse quickened as you raised a hand and knocked softly, the sound barely louder than your breath.

“Come in,” he called, his voice muffled, distracted.

You slipped inside, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. Spencer sat hunched over his desk, papers sprawled across its surface like a chaotic map of his thoughts. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his hair fell untamed over his forehead, catching the fading light.

When he looked up and saw you, the tired lines of his face softened. His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, one that chased away some of the tension in his shoulders. “You’re here,” he said, his voice warmer now, but still tinged with a nervous edge. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” you admitted, stepping closer. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

He stood slowly, his movements hesitant as though torn between his delight at seeing you and the weight of the risks that lingered between you. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” he confessed, his hand moving to the back of his neck. “But this... it’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” you replied, your voice steady but gentle.

He shook his head with a quiet laugh, though it lacked humor. “You make it sound so simple.” His gaze dropped to the floor before returning to you, his expression earnest. “I’m glad you’re here—I always am—but... we have to be careful.”

“I know,” you said, your tone softer now. “But I needed to see you.”

He exhaled, taking a step toward you, the space between you narrowing. “This is dangerous,” he said, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed the firmness of his words. “For both of us. You understand that, right?”

“Yes,” you replied, your gaze locking with his. “I understand. But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

The honesty of your words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. Spencer’s breath hitched, and he hesitated for a moment before closing the remaining distance between you.

His hands came to rest gently on your waist, his touch light but steady, as if testing the limits of how close he could let himself be. “You make it impossible to think straight,” he murmured, a faint, self-deprecating smile on his lips.

“Then don’t think,” you whispered, your hand rising to cup his face. Your thumb brushed against the stubble along his jaw, the touch grounding. “Just let yourself feel, Spencer.”

His resolve faltered, and after a brief, wavering pause, he gave in. His lips met yours in a kiss that was both tender and urgent, as though trying to convey everything he couldn’t say aloud.

When you pulled back, your breaths mingled in the space between you, your foreheads resting together. His hands tightened slightly on your waist, reluctant to let you go.

“This is reckless,” he murmured, though his tone lacked any real conviction.

“Then tell me to leave,” you said softly, challenging him with your eyes. “If you really believe this is a mistake, say it, and I will.”

Spencer’s silence stretched, his gaze searching yours for an answer he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Then, instead of pushing you away, he leaned in, capturing your lips in another kiss—slower this time, more deliberate.

In that moment, the rest of the world faded away. It didn’t matter that this was risky or complicated. All that mattered was the way his arms felt around you, and the way he whispered your name like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

But even as you clung to him, the weight of reality loomed just beyond the door. You both knew the balance wouldn’t hold forever. Every stolen moment brought you closer to the edge, but neither of you was ready to let go. Not yet.

The weeks that followed were nothing short of surreal, a delicate haze of stolen moments and whispered confessions that felt like they existed outside of time. For a brief, golden sliver of your lives, the rest of the world melted away. The tension and danger that had once defined your relationship softened, and in its place grew something that felt achingly close to normal—a fleeting illusion of safety in a house of cards.

During the day, Spencer was every bit the professor. His lectures were sharp, his insights unmatched, and his demeanour coolly professional. He kept his distance, his gaze skimming over you with the same neutrality he granted every student. But in the evenings, when the classroom emptied and the cloak of twilight fell over the city, those carefully maintained facades slipped away.

You found solace in the quiet intimacy of those stolen hours, the shared secret between you and Spencer feeling like a delicate, shimmering bubble that shielded you from the outside world—if only for a little while. His apartment, modest and unassuming, became your sanctuary. Under the cover of darkness, you would arrive, greeted by the soft, golden glow of a desk lamp that bathed the room in warmth. The light cast long, flickering shadows across the walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality.

He’d sit at his desk, his slender fingers skimming over pages of handwritten notes or flipping through the well-worn pages of a book. Papers were scattered in controlled chaos before him, but his focus would inevitably drift to you. Meanwhile, you lounged on his worn, olive-green couch, the fabric soft from years of use, a book resting in your hands. The faint scent of old paper mingled with the subtle aroma of his cologne, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

One evening, the air felt particularly still, broken only by the soft scratch of his pen against paper and the occasional rustle of pages as you turned them. The tension between you wasn’t heavy—it was something quieter, more tender, like the gentle pull of a tide.

“I’m starting to think you’re only here to distract me,” he teased, his voice breaking the silence. His eyes flicked up from his notes, catching yours across the room. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his expression a perfect blend of amusement and affection.

You looked up from your book, tilting your head with a playful grin. “Maybe I am,” you replied, your tone light but laced with an unmistakable warmth. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, the smirk softening into something more vulnerable, more honest. “I don’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, carrying a sincerity that made your chest tighten. His gaze lingered on you, filled with a kind of unspoken gratitude, as though you were the one thing anchoring him amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

The moment stretched between you, delicate and unbroken, like the fragile stillness before a storm. In that space, with only the golden lamplight and the quiet hum of shared presence, the world outside faded away.

Some nights, you’d find yourselves in his small, modest kitchen, an intimate space that seemed to wrap around you like a cocoon. The countertops were cluttered with mismatched utensils and a few carefully chosen cookbooks, their spines cracked from frequent use. The narrow layout forced you close, your movements effortlessly weaving around each other, as though this was a dance you’d been perfecting for years.

You’d stand at the counter, chopping vegetables with a focus that was occasionally interrupted by his amused glances. Meanwhile, he’d hover over the stove, stirring something fragrant and humming softly under his breath. The warm, savoury scent of simmering herbs and spices filled the air, mingling with the faint crackle of oil in the pan.

“Reid, you’re a genius, not a chef,” you teased, pausing to nudge him gently with your elbow. The touch was casual, yet the closeness sent a subtle thrill through you.

Without missing a beat, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “I think genius qualifies me for multitasking,” he retorted, his tone light and laced with dry humor.

The way he spoke, so earnest yet teasing, made you laugh—an easy, carefree sound that filled the small space. His smile widened at the sound, the fondness in his expression unmistakable. He turned back to the stove, stirring the pot with careful precision, as though the act of cooking together was as much about the process as the meal itself.

Occasionally, his arm would brush against yours, the fleeting contact as natural as it was electric. He’d reach over you to grab a spice jar, murmuring an absent “Excuse me,” though his hand would linger just a moment too long against yours.

He told you stories about the BAU, his voice animated as he recounted Morgan’s relentless pranks or Garcia’s exuberance. You’d laugh until tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, your sides aching from the joy of it.

“This feels too good to be true,” you murmured one night, leaning against the counter as you watched him stir a pot of pasta.

“It does,” he replied, glancing at you with a small, almost shy smile that made your chest tighten. “But I don’t want to think about that right now. I just want to enjoy this.”

And you did. You savoured the moments as though they might slip through your fingers at any moment. But beneath the surface, there was always a quiet awareness—a faint, unspoken dread. You both knew this fragile peace couldn’t last forever. The bubble you lived in was too perfect, too delicate, and the outside world was never far away.

The nights were the best, the moments you cherished most. Wrapped in his arms, the world outside ceased to exist. Time itself seemed to slow down, fading into the background as everything else fell away. The warmth of his skin against yours was enough to make the chaos of the day disappear. He’d trace lazy patterns across your back or along your arms, the soft rhythm of his touch sending a sense of peace through you, grounding you in the present moment. His voice would hum softly, a low murmur that carried the oddest mix of comfort and distraction. He’d recite obscure facts with the same earnestness he applied to everything else, his words a strange lullaby that somehow felt both educational and intimate.

“Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?” he said one evening, his body pressed close to yours, limbs tangled together like the quietest dance. His voice was warm, the amusement in it making your pulse quicken slightly.

You laughed softly, feeling the slight vibration of his chest against your cheek. You buried your face against his skin, closing your eyes for a moment to soak in the sense of peace that only seemed to exist here, with him. “And here I thought you didn’t have one at all,” you teased, a playful smirk pulling at your lips.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, a soft, almost reverent touch that stilled your teasing. His expression shifted, becoming something quieter, something that caught you off guard. The warmth of his breath against your skin softened, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade.

“I do,” he whispered, the words a soft confession, barely audible but filled with weight. “And it’s yours.”

The words hung in the air, more potent than anything he had said before. The way he said them, so sure, so vulnerable, made your heart skip a beat. You wanted to respond, but the truth was—there was nothing to say. The vulnerability in his voice, the sincerity in his touch, said everything you needed to know.

The bubble burst on an otherwise ordinary evening. You’d fallen into an easy rhythm with Spencer, your shared secret giving you a sense of intimacy that felt almost unbreakable. But the thing about bubbles is that they’re fragile, no matter how much you want them to last.

It started with a message.

Spencer had been quiet all day, his usual goodnight text conspicuously absent the night before. When you finally worked up the courage to check your phone, there it was.

@ thefourthdoctor; We need to talk. Can you come over?

Your heart sank as you read the words. “We need to talk” was never a good sign.

The walk to his apartment felt longer than usual, your mind racing with all the possibilities of what he might say. By the time you arrived, your hands were trembling as you knocked on the door.

He opened it quickly, stepping aside to let you in without a word. His expression was tense, his usually warm eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice barely steady.

He closed the door, running a hand through his hair. “Something happened,” he said, his tone clipped.

The weight of his words settled heavily in your chest. “What do you mean? Did someone—”

“Someone knows,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “Or at least, someone suspects.”

You blinked, your stomach twisting. “How? Who?”

“I don’t know who,” he said, pacing the small living room. “But today, a coworker asked me why I’ve been acting distracted. He didn’t say anything outright, but I could tell he’s suspicious. And if he’s suspicious, it’s only a matter of time before someone else starts asking questions.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “What did you say to him?”

“I brushed it off,” he said, his voice strained. “But this isn’t just about the team. If the school finds out…” He trailed off, his hands clenched into fists.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

“So, what are you saying?” you finally asked, your voice trembling.

He stopped pacing, his eyes locking onto yours. “I’m saying we need to stop this. Whatever this is, it’s not worth the risk.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “Not worth the risk?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Is that all this is to you? A risk?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, but the damage was done.

“Then what did you mean, Spencer?” you demanded, your voice cracking. “Because it sounds a lot like you’re saying I’m not worth it.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his silence louder than any words he could have said.

“Unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head. “I thought—” Your voice broke, and you had to swallow hard before continuing. “I thought this meant something to you.”

“It does,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You mean something to me. But this—us—it’s reckless. It’s dangerous. And if we keep going, we’re both going to get hurt.”

“So, what? You’re just giving up?” you asked, tears stinging your eyes. “You’re walking away because it’s easier than fighting for me?”

“I’m trying to protect you!” he snapped, his voice louder than you’d ever heard it.

“Protect me from what?” you shot back. “From caring about you? From wanting to be with you?”

“From yourself!” he yelled, his words cutting through the air like a knife. “You don’t think things through! You’re impulsive and immature, and you don’t understand the consequences of your actions!”

The room went still, his words hanging heavy between you.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your chest heaving as the weight of his words crushed you. “Is that what you really think of me?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

His face softened for a split second, regret flashing in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough.

“Maybe we should’ve never started this,” he said quietly, the words like a final blow.

You felt something inside you shatter. Without another word, you turned and walked to the door, your movements mechanical as you grabbed your coat.

"I'll write you a check, Spencer," you spat, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. "You can have every cent back, every single dollar you ever gave me. I don’t want it anymore—I don’t want any of it. Not the money, not the memories, not you.”

“Wait,” he called, his voice desperate now. But you didn’t stop.

As the door closed behind you, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the hallway as you walked away.

This time, you didn’t look back.

Spencer stood frozen in the middle of his living room, staring at the door you had just slammed shut. The silence in the apartment was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

He felt hollow, like the argument had carved out a piece of him and taken it with you when you left. His chest ached, and his hands hung uselessly at his sides, still trembling from the heat of the fight.

Anger flickered in him—not at you, but at himself. The words he’d thrown at you echoed in his mind, sharp and bitter. Impulsive. Immature. Reckless. He had said them to push you away, to make you understand the gravity of the situation. But now they tasted like poison, regret seeping into every corner of his mind.

What have I done?

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. His mind replayed the look on your face when he had yelled at you—the way your eyes had glistened with unshed tears, the tremble in your voice when you asked if that was what he really thought of you.

He didn’t mean it. Not any of it.

The truth was, you weren’t reckless. You weren’t immature. You were brave in a way he couldn’t comprehend, willing to take risks for what you wanted, for what you believed in. And Spencer admired you for it, even if he couldn’t admit it aloud.

But admiration wasn’t enough to protect you.

That was what haunted him the most. He had been terrified—not of you, but of what your relationship meant, of the potential fallout, the consequences that could ruin both your lives. He thought pushing you away was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. But now, sitting alone in the empty apartment, all he felt was loss.

Spencer’s throat tightened as he leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to call you, to apologize, to take it all back. But the rational part of him held him back. You were right to leave, he thought bitterly. I’m no good for you.

Still, the thought of never seeing you again, never hearing your laugh or feeling the warmth of your touch, was unbearable.

The apartment felt colder, emptier, without you in it. Spencer closed his eyes, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he had said and everything he hadn’t.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt utterly, devastatingly alone.

You got me red, white, and blue

Pledging my allegiance to you

Tell me you believe in me too

[mirainwonderland]

Leon Kennedy One Shot

Content: fluff, established relationship, allusion to mature themes (bondage?)but fades to black so no real NSFW wanted to keep it pg

Pairing: Leon X reader

Synopsis: You get bored and tie a ribbon around his bicep

A/N: I wrote the first bit of this when I was half asleep lol idk I thought it turned out bad but I reread, edited, and finished it and now I’m happy with it so enjoyyy ^_^ I think the concept is cute and I wanted to write it outside of a smutty context (even though technically it ends up there but whatever) have fun x

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

“There!” You announce, sitting cross-legged on the couch while Leon works on his computer beside you. He’d been at it for hours, and you were admittedly a little bored. He kept saying “Almost done babe”, but that felt like hours ago now. So with nothing better to do, you decide to amuse yourself by getting some of your pink ribbon and tying the most perfect bow you could around his bicep while he typed away on some boring report. Leon had asked you what the hell you were doing, but you shrugged, and he just let you, most of his focus on work he needs to finish.

It had taken you way too many tries to get it this perfect, and you grin at your accomplishment as the tips of your fingers tickle the bunny ears of the satin bow. It’s something you’ve secretly always wanted to try. You loved his arms and seeing the delicate fabric of the ribbon tied around his muscles like some spiffy package that was all yours was tantalizing. It was satisfying to see his calloused muscles adorned with a signature of something that was so distinctly you, that you can’t help but feel a little spark of warmth and pride as a smile lights up your face.

He spares a glance over his shoulder at your little piece of art, a ghost of a smile not quite manifesting on his face in its entirety.

“Pretty.” He humors you, clicking his mousepad a couple of times in half-baked attention. You crinkle your nose, huffing a puff of air through it. Even if he’s mostly focused on work, he can’t help himself when it comes to giving you a little bit of a (lovingly) hard time. And he’d be lying if he told himself didn’t think your little pink ribbon was cute.

“Hey!” You protest as his bicep suddenly flexes, the ribbon popping at its tension point and fluttering onto the cushion of the couch.

“Stoppp…!” You draw out the word in a light-heartedly annoyed whine, picking the tatters of your little art piece off the couch.

You grab a new strand of ribbon, tying it around his bicep once again in three or four tries, biting your lip in concentration. Leon dulls an affectionate smirk as he watches you out of the corner of his eye, his attention shifting over more to your little antics. You lean back, blowing a strand of hair from your face.

He has to do it again.

“No don’t— no!” You scold, grabbing onto his arm when he begins to flex his bicep again. Your hands don’t fit all the way around of course, put you still push your palms towards each other into the muscle on either side, trying to force him to relax and not mess up your little masterpiece.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest and sending warm tingles down your back at the domesticity of it as he relaxes the muscle. It’s not often you see him this relaxed, and it feels really nice whenever you catch a glimpse of this side of him.

His computer is discarded, and in a flash he grabs your hands, pinning your wrists together as he reaches for your vulnerable sides. You erupt into an uncontrollable fit of laughter as he tickles you, his bicep flexing and relaxing under the ribbon still tied to his arm.

“Let’s see how you like it. C’mere.” He grabs a strand of ribbon himself, winding it around your wrists and tying them off so you’re stuck. You squeal as he throws your arms a loop around his neck, and nuzzles your nose and face, making you writhe and giggle beneath him ticklishly as his hands ruthlessly attack your sides.

Your elbows dig into his shoulders as you laugh, writhing wildly under him. Curse your ticklish spots and sensitive nerve endings, and screw him for knowing where they are.

“Stop! Sto-“ You’re cut off as his fingers flatten against your ribs and his lips abruptly press against yours in a breathless flare of a kiss.

Traces of breathless laughter spill from your mouth when he releases them, as your chest heaves up and down against his for air.

“I’m stuck!” Your wrists writhe against the bindings of silk, eliciting no reaction of sympathy from Leon like you intended. “Leon-“

“Nah, I like you like this.” Refusing to help you, he peck your lips again, pressing doting little kisses all over your cheeks and nose. You erupts into soft giggled again, making warmth flood through his chest and invigorate his tired muscles.

He pulls back again to look down at your rosy face.

“Untie me.”

His gaze flickers to the ceiling as if in thought momentarily before returning to you. His voice rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating into yours. “Mm… No.”

“Leon!” You whine, making him chuckle again and drop his lips to yours once more. He snatches you up in his arms so suddenly you squeal, fingers digging into the back of his shirt as he bounces you once in his arms for a better grip.

“I’ve got a pretty little package,” He says walking with you to your bedroom, nuzzling your face affectionately, making you show him that adorable smile he loves. “And I’m gonna open it.”

And open it he does.

All night long.

[missarchive]

in love and war - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? district 3 spencer reid x cold district 7 fem!reader

category: slow burn, star-crossed lovers, ANGST!!!

content warnings: typical hunger games violence and gore. reader is basically johanna mason. suicide. major character death!!!

word count: around 7k

a/n: second post! please please please leave a comment, or send me some asks. i love feedback!!

The Capitol’s anthem blared over the dusty square of District 7, its piercing, triumphant notes slicing through the oppressive silence that had settled over the crowd. The sound was sharp and artificial, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s control over every aspect of their lives. The crowd, a sea of tired faces etched with lines of hard labor, stood motionless. Not even the wind dared to stir the suffocating stillness.

You stood in the center of it all, your chin high, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Your hands were curled into fists at your sides, the nails biting into your palms, but you welcomed the sting—it was a tether, a reminder to hold your ground. Fear churned in your chest like a storm, but you refused to let it show. Not here, where the Capitol’s eyes bore into every detail. Not now, when weakness could feel like surrender.

The escort—a garish figure swathed in layers of shimmering emerald fabric that glimmered like scales—stepped forward. Her unnaturally bright smile stretched wide, her too-pale face powdered to an unsettling perfection. She carried an air of frivolous delight that clashed violently with the grim reality of the moment.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl filled with slips of paper, each one carrying a name, a fate. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as she unfolded the slip, the paper crackling like thunder in the silence.

“Y/N L/N.” She called, her voice almost sing-song, as though your name were a punchline in some grotesque joke.

Your stomach dropped. It was as if the ground beneath you had vanished, and for one dizzying second, you felt weightless. Around you, the crowd shifted, parting like a tide. The faces you’d known all your life turned down, their gazes fixed on the ground. No one met your eyes—not out of malice, but out of helplessness. They couldn’t bear to see the fear that mirrored their own.

Your body moved on its own, each step measured and deliberate, a march toward your fate. You straightened your spine, forcing a calm you didn’t feel, willing yourself not to stumble. Not here, not in front of them. The Capitol would take your life, but you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

The stage loomed closer, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh afternoon sun. The escort’s sugary smile widened as you ascended the steps, her eyes glittering with a disturbing mix of glee and detachment. The weight of her gaze, coupled with the cameras trained on you, made your skin crawl. The icy dread clawing up your spine felt almost unbearable, but you pushed it down, burying it beneath a mask of resolve.

You took your place beside the male tribute. A boy your age, his face pale and drawn, with eyes that darted nervously over the crowd before finally settling on the ground. You’d seen him before—briefly, in passing. Maybe at the lumberyard or the market. You tried to recall his name, but your mind, heavy with the gravity of your fate, couldn’t hold onto the thought.

The Capitol had chosen its players, and now the game would begin.

The train to the Capitol hurtled forward through a blur of dense forests and barren plains, but inside, it was eerily silent. The only sound was the relentless chatter of the escort, her voice a cloying melody of superficial pleasantries and Capitol propaganda. She spoke of fashion, of glory, of the grand spectacle awaiting you, her words as empty as the smiles she had worn during the reaping. You ignored her, your gaze fixed on the window.

Outside, the world rushed by in muted greens and browns, a stark contrast to the gleaming metallic interior of the train. The plush seats and gilded fixtures exuded a nauseating opulence that mocked everything you had ever known. The Capitol’s promise of luxury was a cruel jest, a reminder of their excess against the backdrop of your district’s suffering.

Yet, when the meals came, you ate. The richly spiced meats, the delicate pastries that melted on your tongue, the sparkling drinks that fizzed against your lips—it all tasted of betrayal, but you swallowed it anyway. Every bite, every sip, felt like succumbing to the Capitol’s siren call. It was a grotesque imitation of comfort, designed to dull the edge of fear, to make you forget, even for a moment, what awaited you.

But the arena loomed in your mind, a shadowy specter that refused to be ignored. The thought of it gnawed at you, relentless and unyielding, like a ravenous beast caged just beneath your consciousness. Blood. Death. Survival. The knowledge of what you would have to do, of the lives you would have to take, coiled around your thoughts like barbed wire.

You forced yourself to push it all down—the guilt, the sorrow, the horror. You had no choice. Survival demanded that you bury your humanity, and the Capitol was counting on it.

At the front of the carriage, a small holographic display flickered to life, its cool blue glow casting faint shadows on the polished walls. The screen showed the reaping ceremonies from the other districts, each one a carefully orchestrated tableau of misery.

Districts 1 and 2 were first. Volunteers stepped forward with practiced bravado, their faces alight with the twisted pride of those who saw the Games as an honor. Their confidence, their hunger for glory, was a stark contrast to the quiet dread that settled over you like a shroud.

Then the broadcast shifted to District 3. The boy’s name was announced, and the camera panned to him.

“Spencer Reid.”

He was tall and lanky, his frame awkwardly angular as he stepped forward. The camera lingered on him, capturing every flicker of unease. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand, his movements hesitant, as if he could somehow shrink himself into nothingness. His face was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights, his lips pressed into a tight, uncertain line.

He climbed the stage slowly, his shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for the weight of the Capitol’s gaze. Among the other reaped tributes—many of them brimming with bravado or resignation—he looked out of place, a fragile figure thrust into a world of brutality.

But when the camera zoomed in on his face, you saw something unexpected. Beneath the surface of his fear, hidden in the depths of his wide, intelligent eyes, was a spark of defiance. It wasn’t loud or overt—it wasn’t a rebel’s roar or a warrior’s fury. It was quiet, subtle, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself to exist.

You stared at the hologram, transfixed. Spencer Reid didn’t look like a fighter. He didn’t look like a killer. But there was something about him—a quiet resolve that made your chest tighten.

The hologram flickered to the next district, but his image lingered in your mind, a puzzle piece that didn’t yet fit. In the Capitol’s cruel game, you knew better than to hope. But for the first time since your name had been called, you felt the faintest stirrings of something you couldn’t quite name.

The training center was a swirling chaos of noise and motion, a cacophony of clashing weapons, shouted instructions, and the low hum of tributes murmuring strategies. Each station buzzed with activity as tributes from every district worked with single-minded determination, their eyes sharp, scanning the room for threats and opportunities alike. The air was charged with tension, a palpable reminder that everyone here was both a potential ally and a likely enemy.

You gravitated toward the weapons station, your steps purposeful despite the oppressive atmosphere. Your fingers closed around the handle of an axe, the smooth wood familiar against your calloused palms. The weight of it settled in your grip, solid and unyielding. It was a grim comfort, a connection to the forests of District 7, where axes were tools before they were weapons. Here, though, it was a tool for survival, one you knew you would have to wield with deadly precision.

Across the room, Spencer stood at the survival skills station, a stark contrast to the hardened tributes around him. He lingered near a trainer demonstrating knot-tying techniques, his posture slightly hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. His slight frame and nervous energy drew attention, a handful of tributes sparing amused or derisive glances in his direction.

Yet, he absorbed everything with a quiet intensity. His eyes flickered over the trainer’s hands, cataloging each movement, every knot and technique. His sharp mind seemed to analyze and store every detail, not missing a beat. But he wasn’t just watching the trainer—he was studying the other tributes, too. The arrogance in their stances, the overconfidence in their eyes, the way they dismissed him without a second thought. Spencer noted it all, filing it away, hoping that these observations would one day give him the edge he so desperately needed.

You first noticed him during a combat demonstration. The trainer had called for volunteers, and to your surprise, Spencer stepped forward, his thin fingers hesitantly wrapping around a wooden staff. The moment was over almost as soon as it began. A career tribute from District 2—a towering boy with broad shoulders and a predator’s grin—disarmed him with ease, knocking Spencer to the ground with a swift, calculated strike.

Spencer scrambled to his feet, his glasses askew, his hands fumbling to adjust them. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the careers’ laughter. Their mocking echoes rang through the training hall, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s engineered hierarchy.

Yet, he didn’t slink away. Instead, he stepped back, watching the careers’ movements closely. He reached for the notebook tucked under his arm, flipping it open and furiously scribbling notes, his brow furrowed in thought. Each failure seemed to fuel his focus, his mind dissecting every detail, breaking down what went wrong and how he could do better next time.

Something about him caught your attention. Maybe it was his stubborn determination to keep trying despite the odds stacked against him. Maybe it was the way his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote, but his gaze stayed steady, as if he could out-think the inevitability of the Games. Or maybe it was because he reminded you of someone—a faint, long-buried memory of someone who had needed protecting once, and how it had torn at you when you couldn’t.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” you said bluntly, stepping into his path as he left the station.

Spencer startled, nearly dropping his notebook. His knuckles turned white as he clutched it tighter, holding it like a lifeline. “I… I know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet but remarkably steady. His hazel eyes met yours, nervous but resolute. “But there’s not much I can do about that… Unless you have a suggestion?”

You raised an eyebrow, studying him for a beat. He wasn’t cocky like the careers or resigned like so many others. He was clever, you could see that, and he had a spark of something most tributes didn’t: hope, no matter how faint.

“Stick with me in the arena,” you said, your tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “You focus on keeping us alive. I’ll handle the killing.”

He hesitated, his sharp mind clearly running calculations, weighing the risk and reward of your offer. “Why?” he asked finally, his gaze searching yours.

“Because you’re going to be dead weight otherwise,” you said bluntly, crossing your arms. “And I don’t want to fight your ghost on top of everyone else’s.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. “Fair point,” he said softly, nodding.

You turned away, heading back toward the weapons station. Over your shoulder, you added, “Don’t make me regret it, Reid.”

He didn’t reply, but when you glanced back, you saw him adjust his glasses, straighten his posture, and follow.

The arena was a sprawling expanse of forest, its towering trees stretching endlessly toward the sky, their gnarled branches intertwining to form a suffocating canopy. The dense undergrowth was a labyrinth of roots and thorns, each step a gamble against the hidden dangers lurking beneath. The air was heavy, saturated with the earthy scent of pine, damp moss, and the faint metallic tang of decay. Overhead, the sky was a hazy gray, muted and ominous, as though even the sun refused to bear witness to the bloodshed below.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant boom of a cannon—a haunting reminder that lives were being snuffed out one by one. The eerie stillness of the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if the very land recoiled from the Capitol’s violence.

You and Spencer had been separated during the chaos of the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Amid the screams and the clash of weapons, you had fought your way to an axe, its familiar weight a small comfort in the madness. Spencer, ever the strategist, had snatched a small pack and disappeared into the tree line, avoiding direct confrontation. It wasn’t until hours later, when the initial slaughter had subsided and the forest had swallowed the remaining tributes, that you found him.

He was crouched low among the undergrowth, his shoulders hunched as he worked with trembling hands to set a rudimentary snare. The cord slipped in his grip, and he muttered a quiet curse under his breath, his frustration evident. Despite the tension in his frame, there was an odd focus in his movements, a determination to make himself useful even here, where everything was designed to kill.

“You’re terrible at hiding,” you said, stepping into view. Your voice broke the stillness like a crack of lightning, and he flinched violently, his hand jerking the snare out of place. His wide eyes darted to you, and for a split second, you saw fear flash across his face. But then recognition settled in, and his body relaxed just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he exhaled shakily.

Even so, you could see the doubt lingering in his expression, the silent question of whether you would keep your word. Whether you would protect him—or if the promise was as fragile as the alliances so many others had already shattered.

“I’m better at traps,” he said defensively, gesturing to the mangled snare. His voice wavered, but there was a thread of defiance woven through his words. “Not much use if I’m dead, though.”

You sighed, letting your gaze sweep over the dense forest. Every shadow felt like a threat, every rustle of leaves a prelude to attack. The arena’s oppressive atmosphere bore down on you, the Capitol’s eyes undoubtedly watching, waiting for a misstep.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost resigned. “Let’s find somewhere safer.”

He hesitated, glancing at the ruined snare before looking back at you. For a moment, you thought he might protest, insist on finishing what he’d started. But then he nodded, pushing himself to his feet and clutching the pack tightly.

As the two of you moved deeper into the forest, the unspoken understanding between you solidified. The arena was no place for trust, but in that moment, you both understood what was necessary. Spencer’s sharp mind and your strength would keep you alive—for now. Together, you were a tenuous partnership, forged in the fire of desperation, bound by the fragile hope of survival.

Days passed in a blur of relentless survival, the forest around you becoming both your sanctuary and your prison. Spencer’s quick thinking kept you ahead of the others, his mind proving sharper than any blade. He devised traps with a precision that belied the trembling of his hands. One night, a tripwire he rigged sent a sharpened branch hurtling toward a career tribute, the impact punctuated by the sharp, deafening boom of a cannon. You froze, listening as the sound echoed through the trees, a grim acknowledgment of another life taken.

But for all his brilliance, Spencer’s lack of combat skills was glaringly obvious. The fragility of your alliance was brutally highlighted when a career tribute ambushed your camp at dawn. You had been sharpening your axe when the attack came—a blur of movement and the glint of a blade in the weak morning light. Spencer had scrambled back, his hands flying up in instinctive defense, but it was you who stood between him and death.

The fight was savage and merciless. Your axe cleaved through the air with deadly precision, each swing driven by adrenaline and the primal need to survive. Blood sprayed across your face, warm and sticky, as you buried the blade deep into the career’s chest. The sickening crunch of bone gave way to silence, broken only by your ragged breathing.

You stood over the lifeless body, the axe slipping from your trembling hands, its handle slick with blood that dripped in slow, viscous trails down your arms. The metallic scent was overpowering, mingling with the damp earth beneath your feet. Spencer emerged from behind a tree, his face ashen and his glasses askew. He stared at the carnage with wide eyes, his expression a mixture of shock and guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice trembling, pitched higher than usual.

You wiped a streak of blood from your eyes with the back of your hand, spitting a glob of your own onto the ground. “Fine,” you said shortly, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. “Let’s keep moving.”

The nights were the worst. The Capitol’s mutts prowled the forest, their distorted howls piercing the stillness and sending chills racing down your spine. The Gamemakers seemed to delight in tormenting the tributes, their traps and horrors pushing all of you to the brink. Spencer stayed close during those long, restless hours, his sharp mind constantly working to outthink the Capitol’s cruelty. But the strain of it all was evident. The sleepless nights, the gnawing hunger, the constant threat of death—it wore on both of you.

Sleep came in fleeting moments, and when it did, it brought no peace. Nightmares plagued you, images of blood-soaked battlefields and the cold, lifeless faces of those you had killed. You would wake with a start, your hand instinctively reaching for the axe by your side. Spencer, ever vigilant, would glance up from his notebook, offering a weak, wordless reassurance.

One night, as the oppressive silence stretched between you, he broke it. “You don’t have to stay,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant rustle of leaves. He was hunched over his notebook again, the pen in his hand tapping rhythmically against its edge. “I know I’m just a liability. If you leave… you’d have a better chance.”

His words hit you harder than they should have, stirring an ache in your chest that you didn’t want to acknowledge. You scoffed, forcing a veneer of indifference. “Don’t be stupid,” you said, glancing down at the axe lying between your legs. The wood was stained a deep crimson, a grim testament to your survival. “You’d be dead in a minute.”

“Probably,” he admitted, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he seemed impossibly fragile. “But that doesn’t mean it’s fair to you—to have to carry my weight.”

You leaned forward, your eyes locking with his. His vulnerability was laid bare, and for a fleeting moment, you saw past the fear to the resolve underneath. “Fair doesn’t matter here,” you said, your voice firm. “Survival does. And you’re not dying on my watch, Reid.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, unspoken promises threading through the tension. Spencer didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered on you, a quiet gratitude shining in his eyes. In the brutal reality of the arena, fairness was a luxury no one could afford. But in that moment, you knew you’d fight to keep him alive, even if it meant sacrificing a part of yourself.

The Gamemakers were growing impatient, their orchestrations more desperate and cruel. Walls of fire erupted in the forest, their heat searing and relentless, driving you and Spencer forward. Rivers swelled and burst their banks, churning torrents swallowing the land and leaving no room for retreat. The Capitol’s games were designed for spectacle, and now, they demanded a climactic confrontation.

It came in a clearing, a barren stretch of earth encircled by the towering trees that had once been your refuge. You and Spencer stood in the center, backs pressed together, the forest closing in around you. The air was electric with tension, heavy with the anticipation of violence. Your axe was clenched tightly in your hands, its familiar weight a lifeline in the chaos. Across the clearing, the last remaining tributes emerged from the shadows, their faces hard and eyes gleaming with a deadly determination.

The careers were relentless. Their movements were precise, their strikes calculated, honed by years of brutal training. They were predators, and you were their prey—but you refused to be cornered.

The first blow came from the left, a flash of steel aimed at your head. You ducked, swinging your axe upward in a wide arc that sent the attacker sprawling. Before you could strike again, another career was upon you, their weapon slashing toward your side. Spencer’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

“Y/N, duck!”

You dropped to the ground just as a handful of crushed leaves sailed over your head. The air ignited in a blinding flash, the chemical reaction disorienting your attackers. Spencer had discovered the trick earlier, his sharp mind identifying the properties of the plants scattered through the arena. It bought you precious seconds, enough to regain your footing and strike.

Your axe moved with ruthless efficiency, the weight of it an extension of your will to survive. It cleaved through the air, connecting with flesh and bone in a sickening symphony of destruction. Blood sprayed across the clearing, warm and sticky, coating your hands and arms as you fought with everything you had.

Spencer, though less skilled in combat, was no less vital. His quick thinking and unorthodox tactics kept you alive, each small advantage tipping the scales in your favor. He ducked and dodged, his movements frantic but purposeful, throwing dirt in an attacker’s eyes or tripping them with a hastily arranged snare.

The clearing became a battlefield, the ground slick with blood and churned by desperate footsteps. The coppery scent hung thick in the air, mingling with the earth’s damp tang and the acrid smoke from the Gamemakers’ fires. The cacophony of screams, grunts, and clashing steel reverberated through the forest, a grotesque chorus that seemed to echo endlessly.

Finally, the chaos began to subside. One by one, the careers fell, their arrogance and brutality no match for your combined determination. The last tribute standing faced you with defiance in their eyes, but their movements were sluggish, their strength waning. Your axe swung in a final, decisive arc, and the cannon’s resounding boom signaled the end.

As the clearing fell silent, you turned to Spencer. He stood hunched, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, his glasses smeared with dirt. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, his eyes met yours with a flicker of relief. For a fleeting moment, the two of you simply stood there, surrounded by the carnage, the enormity of what you’d just survived sinking in.

But you knew this wasn’t the end.

The forest loomed like a living nightmare, shadows twisting and stretching as if they sought to devour what little light dared to filter through the canopy. Every sound, every faint rustle of leaves, clawed at Spencer’s already frayed nerves. His breaths came shallow and ragged, his legs protesting with searing pain as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Branches lashed at his arms and face, leaving thin, stinging cuts, but none of it registered.

All he could think about was you.

“Y/N!” he screamed again, his voice a raw echo of his mounting panic. The name reverberated through the forest only to be swallowed by the oppressive silence. His heart pounded erratically, a frantic rhythm that matched the wild thrum of his thoughts.

You were out there. Alone.

And then, like a cruel omen, he saw it—a trail of blood.

Spencer’s breath hitched, his body locking in place as he stared at the crimson streaks spattered across the dirt. His mind involuntarily cataloged the details: arterial spray, not a steady drip—suggesting deep, possibly fatal wounds. The sight rooted him with dread, but the desperate need to find you propelled him forward.

“Please,” he whispered under his breath, a fragile prayer to an indifferent world. “Please, not you.”

The blood led him deeper into the forest, the undergrowth thickening as the trail veered toward a small clearing. Sunlight filtered hesitantly through the branches above, dappling the ground in patches of gold that felt out of place against the grim tableau ahead. At first, the clearing seemed empty, just another cruel trick of the arena.

Then he saw you.

Spencer stumbled forward, the sight of your crumpled body hitting him like a physical blow. You were slumped against a tree, your form unnaturally still, streaked with dirt and blood. The once vibrant color of your skin was replaced by a deathly pallor, your chest rising and falling so faintly that he nearly missed it.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked, and he fell to his knees beside you, his trembling hands hovering over your battered frame as if afraid his touch might make things worse.

Your injuries were horrifying. Deep, angry gashes carved into your side, your clothes soaked with drying blood. Bruises bloomed across your face, dark and angry, nearly obscuring your features. Your lips were cracked and dry, the faintest tremble the only sign of life.

“Please, no,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he pressed his fingers against your neck, searching for a pulse. The moment he felt the faint, fragile beat beneath his fingertips, a sob broke free from his chest.

“You’re alive,” he murmured, tears spilling freely down his face. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

But the relief was fleeting. The blood around you was too much, the wounds too deep. A surge of helplessness clawed at him, and his hands hovered, unsure where to start. His mind, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish, drowned in panic and fear.

“Y/N, wake up,” he pleaded, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His thumb brushed against the streaks of blood and dirt marring your skin. “Please, I need you to wake up.”

A faint groan escaped your lips, the soft sound pulling him from the edge of despair. Your eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of exhaustion and pain. Finally, your eyes opened, glassy and unfocused, but alive.

“Spencer?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and weak, but it was enough.

“I’m here,” he choked out, his tears falling unchecked. “I’m here, Y/N. I thought I’d lost you.”

Your gaze slowly sharpened, focusing on him through the haze of pain. “What… happened?”

“You were attacked,” he said, his voice breaking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I failed you.”

You weakly lifted a hand, your fingers brushing against his. He caught it immediately, holding it tightly as though letting go would mean losing you again. “You couldn’t have known,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

“Don’t say that,” he snapped, his fear spilling out as frustration. “Don’t act like it’s okay. It’s not—I can’t—” His voice faltered, cracking under the weight of his emotions. He looked away, his shoulders trembling.

“Spencer.” Your voice, though faint, cut through the storm inside him.

He turned back to you, his tear-filled eyes meeting yours. Even in your battered state, there was a flicker of strength in your gaze, a reminder of why he couldn’t fall apart.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’re the only thing that’s kept me going, Y/N. You’re the only thing that matters.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, mingling with the blood and grime. Despite the pain, you managed a faint smile. “You’re not going to lose me,” you said softly.

Spencer leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, careful of your injuries. “Promise me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I promise,” you whispered back, though your voice wavered with exhaustion.

For a moment, the horrors of the arena receded, leaving only the two of you in the fragile stillness of the clearing. Spencer clung to that moment, to the fragile hope that it could last. But deep down, he knew the arena’s cruelty wouldn’t allow it.

Spencer cradled you against him, his arms encircling your fragile, battered body like a shield against the arena’s relentless cruelty. Each of your shallow breaths, brushing faintly against his neck, felt like a fragile thread tethering him to hope. The world around you seemed to pause, the usual cacophony of the arena muted to nothing but the gentle rustle of leaves and the haunting, distant growls of the Capitol’s muttations.

His heart pounded as he finally pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. The dim light filtering through the trees illuminated the anguish and resolve in his expression. His eyes, filled with a fierce determination, searched yours as though he could absorb your pain and bear it for you.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and trembling with conviction. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever again.”

One of his hands cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the grime and blood streaked across your skin. Despite the searing pain coursing through your injuries, you leaned into his touch, craving the connection and comfort he offered. The way he looked at you, with a mix of tenderness and desperation, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just survival that drove him—it was you.

“Spencer,” you murmured, your voice raw but steady enough to convey the depth of your feelings. “You saved me.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was tinged with sadness. “You saved me first,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you.

For a moment, time itself seemed to stop. The horrors of the arena melted away, leaving only the two of you in a fragile bubble of shared understanding. Without hesitation, Spencer leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, a promise, and a plea all at once. Every unspoken word of fear, gratitude, and love found its voice in that fleeting moment.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, the quiet mingling of your breaths grounding you both. Spencer’s voice was raw when he spoke again, the vulnerability in his words laying his heart bare. “I love you,” he whispered, the confession slipping free like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

Your hand found his, your fingers intertwining with his as though they were meant to fit together. “I love you too,” you replied, the sincerity in your voice making the moment feel almost sacred.

Though the kiss and the confession hung between you like a protective shield, reality pressed back in. Spencer glanced around, his sharp mind already assessing the next steps. He helped you to your feet with painstaking care, his touch gentle but firm as he ensured you wouldn’t collapse. “We need to find shelter,” he said, his tone decisive. “You need rest, and I need to make sure you’re safe.”

Together, you stumbled through the dense underbrush, Spencer’s arm steadying you every step of the way. He moved with deliberate caution, his every thought focused on your survival. After what felt like an eternity, you came upon a hollow nestled beneath the sprawling roots of a massive tree. It wasn’t much—a dark, cramped space hidden from sight—but in the arena, it was a sanctuary.

Spencer guided you inside, his every movement a careful balance between urgency and gentleness. Once he was sure you were settled, he set to work, his trembling hands tending to your wounds with an almost reverent care. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, his focus never wavered.

The night descended upon the arena with a heavy, oppressive silence, the darkness pressing in like a living thing. Inside the hollow, you both finally allowed yourselves to rest. Spencer pulled you close, his arms wrapping protectively around you as though sheer will alone could keep the horrors at bay.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “I’ll keep watch.”

Your hand clutched at the fabric of his shirt, a weak but determined gesture. “No,” you whispered, your voice resolute despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “We’ll keep watch together.”

But the adrenaline that had fuelled you both through the day ebbed away, replaced by an unbearable fatigue. Sleep claimed you both, drawing you into its embrace. In the warmth of Spencer’s arms, the terror of the arena faded, leaving behind the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the fragile hope that, for at least a few precious hours, you were safe.

The cannon echoed in the distance, signaling the death of the second-to-last tribute. Spencer’s heart sank as the reality settled over him. It was just the two of you now.

You turned to him, bloodied and exhausted, your eyes wide with the same realization. “Spencer…”

“There can only be one,” he murmured, his voice hollow.

The Capitol’s anthem blared overhead, and the cold voice of the announcer filled the air. “Congratulations to our final two tributes! Only one may claim victory—who will it be?”

The unspoken command hung heavy between you, suffocating in its finality.

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t do it, Spencer. I won’t.”

“And I won’t hurt you,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “But there’s no other way. They won’t let us both walk out of here.”

“Then we find a way to beat them!” you cried, desperation lacing your voice. “We’ll refuse. We’ll—”

Spencer grabbed your shoulders gently but firmly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Y/N, listen to me. We’ve been lucky to make it this far, but there’s no beating them. Not like this.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t falter. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, we can survive this together. We’ll figure it out. We—”

“Y/N.” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “You have to live. I need you to live.”

Your breath hitched, panic rising as you saw something in his expression—a quiet determination, a resolve that shattered your heart. “Spencer, no. Don’t you dare.”

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. “You are everything good in this world,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You deserve to live. You deserve to go home.”

“I can’t go home without you!” you cried, your hands clutching his shirt as if holding him could anchor him here, with you.

Spencer leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss filled with all the love and sorrow he couldn’t put into words. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Before you could react, he stepped back, his hands slipping from your grasp. Your heart dropped as he picked up the knife you’d discarded moments earlier.

“Spencer, don’t!” you screamed, scrambling toward him, but he shook his head.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I love you.”

And then, before you could stop him, he turned the blade on himself.

“NO!”

You caught him as he collapsed, cradling him in your arms. Blood soaked through your hands, and your sobs tore through the quiet of the arena. His breathing was shallow, his lips trembling as he tried to speak.

“I… couldn’t let it be you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You have to win. Promise me… promise me you’ll live.”

“Spencer, please,” you begged, clutching him tightly. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

But his eyes fluttered closed, and with one last ragged breath, the cannon boomed.

The hovercraft descended moments later, and you didn’t resist as they pried Spencer from your arms. His blood was on your hands, your clothes, and your soul, and yet you couldn’t muster the strength to fight them. The Capitol’s voice returned, dispassionate and final, declaring you the victor. The words echoed through the cold, metallic space around you, hollow and meaningless.

You were the last one standing. The survivor.

But at what cost?

The world blurred as the medical team swarmed you, their hands prodding and pulling, their antiseptic words promising you safety and care. None of it mattered. Your eyes stayed fixed on Spencer’s limp form as they wheeled him away, disappearing behind a sterile door. The emptiness he left behind was suffocating.

He had sacrificed himself so you could live.

The words repeated in your mind, a haunting mantra that clawed at your sanity. The memory of his final smile, soft and full of love even as his life slipped away, seared itself into your soul. You wanted to scream, to rage at the injustice of it all, but you felt hollow. Numb.

The hovercraft docked, and the transition from the arena’s horrors to the Capitol’s opulence was jarring. Lavish rooms, bright lights, and hollow congratulations assaulted your senses. The Capitol citizens cheered your name, their voices clashing in an orchestra of sickening delight. You barely heard them.

Snow himself greeted you, his snake-like smile as unnerving as ever. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice laced with a false warmth. “You’re a symbol of strength, of survival. The Capitol admires your resilience.”

Your response was a vacant stare.

Days blurred into nights as you went through the motions. The Victory Tour loomed, a macabre parade meant to celebrate your survival while parading the Capitol’s power. But all you could think about was Spencer—the way he had looked at you, the way his voice had trembled when he said goodbye.

In the privacy of your room, you allowed yourself to grieve. The tears came in silent waves, unstoppable and all-consuming. You clutched the token he’d worn—a simple bracelet made of knotted twine—now yours to carry. It was the only piece of him you had left.

They called you a hero, but you felt like a thief. You had stolen his chance to live, even if he’d willingly handed it over.

On the day of your first public appearance, you stood before a crowd of Capitol citizens, their faces painted with mock sympathy and admiration. The weight of your loss bore down on you, threatening to crush you beneath its enormity.

“I survived the arena,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “But survival isn’t victory. Not when it costs everything.”

The crowd applauded, oblivious to the truth in your words. But somewhere, deep within you, a spark ignited—a quiet, simmering rage.

Spencer had believed in you, even in his final moments. He had given you a chance to live, to fight for something more than just survival. And while the Capitol celebrated its spectacle, you made a promise to yourself.

You would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

You would remember him.

And one day, you would ensure that no one else would have to pay the price he had.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[missarchive]

in love and war - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? district 3 spencer reid x cold district 7 fem!reader

category: slow burn, star-crossed lovers, ANGST!!!

content warnings: typical hunger games violence and gore. reader is basically johanna mason. suicide. major character death!!!

word count: around 7k

a/n: second post! please please please leave a comment, or send me some asks. i love feedback!!

The Capitol’s anthem blared over the dusty square of District 7, its piercing, triumphant notes slicing through the oppressive silence that had settled over the crowd. The sound was sharp and artificial, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s control over every aspect of their lives. The crowd, a sea of tired faces etched with lines of hard labor, stood motionless. Not even the wind dared to stir the suffocating stillness.

You stood in the center of it all, your chin high, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Your hands were curled into fists at your sides, the nails biting into your palms, but you welcomed the sting—it was a tether, a reminder to hold your ground. Fear churned in your chest like a storm, but you refused to let it show. Not here, where the Capitol’s eyes bore into every detail. Not now, when weakness could feel like surrender.

The escort—a garish figure swathed in layers of shimmering emerald fabric that glimmered like scales—stepped forward. Her unnaturally bright smile stretched wide, her too-pale face powdered to an unsettling perfection. She carried an air of frivolous delight that clashed violently with the grim reality of the moment.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl filled with slips of paper, each one carrying a name, a fate. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as she unfolded the slip, the paper crackling like thunder in the silence.

“Y/N L/N.” She called, her voice almost sing-song, as though your name were a punchline in some grotesque joke.

Your stomach dropped. It was as if the ground beneath you had vanished, and for one dizzying second, you felt weightless. Around you, the crowd shifted, parting like a tide. The faces you’d known all your life turned down, their gazes fixed on the ground. No one met your eyes—not out of malice, but out of helplessness. They couldn’t bear to see the fear that mirrored their own.

Your body moved on its own, each step measured and deliberate, a march toward your fate. You straightened your spine, forcing a calm you didn’t feel, willing yourself not to stumble. Not here, not in front of them. The Capitol would take your life, but you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

The stage loomed closer, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh afternoon sun. The escort’s sugary smile widened as you ascended the steps, her eyes glittering with a disturbing mix of glee and detachment. The weight of her gaze, coupled with the cameras trained on you, made your skin crawl. The icy dread clawing up your spine felt almost unbearable, but you pushed it down, burying it beneath a mask of resolve.

You took your place beside the male tribute. A boy your age, his face pale and drawn, with eyes that darted nervously over the crowd before finally settling on the ground. You’d seen him before—briefly, in passing. Maybe at the lumberyard or the market. You tried to recall his name, but your mind, heavy with the gravity of your fate, couldn’t hold onto the thought.

The Capitol had chosen its players, and now the game would begin.

The train to the Capitol hurtled forward through a blur of dense forests and barren plains, but inside, it was eerily silent. The only sound was the relentless chatter of the escort, her voice a cloying melody of superficial pleasantries and Capitol propaganda. She spoke of fashion, of glory, of the grand spectacle awaiting you, her words as empty as the smiles she had worn during the reaping. You ignored her, your gaze fixed on the window.

Outside, the world rushed by in muted greens and browns, a stark contrast to the gleaming metallic interior of the train. The plush seats and gilded fixtures exuded a nauseating opulence that mocked everything you had ever known. The Capitol’s promise of luxury was a cruel jest, a reminder of their excess against the backdrop of your district’s suffering.

Yet, when the meals came, you ate. The richly spiced meats, the delicate pastries that melted on your tongue, the sparkling drinks that fizzed against your lips—it all tasted of betrayal, but you swallowed it anyway. Every bite, every sip, felt like succumbing to the Capitol’s siren call. It was a grotesque imitation of comfort, designed to dull the edge of fear, to make you forget, even for a moment, what awaited you.

But the arena loomed in your mind, a shadowy specter that refused to be ignored. The thought of it gnawed at you, relentless and unyielding, like a ravenous beast caged just beneath your consciousness. Blood. Death. Survival. The knowledge of what you would have to do, of the lives you would have to take, coiled around your thoughts like barbed wire.

You forced yourself to push it all down—the guilt, the sorrow, the horror. You had no choice. Survival demanded that you bury your humanity, and the Capitol was counting on it.

At the front of the carriage, a small holographic display flickered to life, its cool blue glow casting faint shadows on the polished walls. The screen showed the reaping ceremonies from the other districts, each one a carefully orchestrated tableau of misery.

Districts 1 and 2 were first. Volunteers stepped forward with practiced bravado, their faces alight with the twisted pride of those who saw the Games as an honor. Their confidence, their hunger for glory, was a stark contrast to the quiet dread that settled over you like a shroud.

Then the broadcast shifted to District 3. The boy’s name was announced, and the camera panned to him.

“Spencer Reid.”

He was tall and lanky, his frame awkwardly angular as he stepped forward. The camera lingered on him, capturing every flicker of unease. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand, his movements hesitant, as if he could somehow shrink himself into nothingness. His face was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights, his lips pressed into a tight, uncertain line.

He climbed the stage slowly, his shoulders hunched as though he were bracing for the weight of the Capitol’s gaze. Among the other reaped tributes—many of them brimming with bravado or resignation—he looked out of place, a fragile figure thrust into a world of brutality.

But when the camera zoomed in on his face, you saw something unexpected. Beneath the surface of his fear, hidden in the depths of his wide, intelligent eyes, was a spark of defiance. It wasn’t loud or overt—it wasn’t a rebel’s roar or a warrior’s fury. It was quiet, subtle, the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself to exist.

You stared at the hologram, transfixed. Spencer Reid didn’t look like a fighter. He didn’t look like a killer. But there was something about him—a quiet resolve that made your chest tighten.

The hologram flickered to the next district, but his image lingered in your mind, a puzzle piece that didn’t yet fit. In the Capitol’s cruel game, you knew better than to hope. But for the first time since your name had been called, you felt the faintest stirrings of something you couldn’t quite name.

The training center was a swirling chaos of noise and motion, a cacophony of clashing weapons, shouted instructions, and the low hum of tributes murmuring strategies. Each station buzzed with activity as tributes from every district worked with single-minded determination, their eyes sharp, scanning the room for threats and opportunities alike. The air was charged with tension, a palpable reminder that everyone here was both a potential ally and a likely enemy.

You gravitated toward the weapons station, your steps purposeful despite the oppressive atmosphere. Your fingers closed around the handle of an axe, the smooth wood familiar against your calloused palms. The weight of it settled in your grip, solid and unyielding. It was a grim comfort, a connection to the forests of District 7, where axes were tools before they were weapons. Here, though, it was a tool for survival, one you knew you would have to wield with deadly precision.

Across the room, Spencer stood at the survival skills station, a stark contrast to the hardened tributes around him. He lingered near a trainer demonstrating knot-tying techniques, his posture slightly hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. His slight frame and nervous energy drew attention, a handful of tributes sparing amused or derisive glances in his direction.

Yet, he absorbed everything with a quiet intensity. His eyes flickered over the trainer’s hands, cataloging each movement, every knot and technique. His sharp mind seemed to analyze and store every detail, not missing a beat. But he wasn’t just watching the trainer—he was studying the other tributes, too. The arrogance in their stances, the overconfidence in their eyes, the way they dismissed him without a second thought. Spencer noted it all, filing it away, hoping that these observations would one day give him the edge he so desperately needed.

You first noticed him during a combat demonstration. The trainer had called for volunteers, and to your surprise, Spencer stepped forward, his thin fingers hesitantly wrapping around a wooden staff. The moment was over almost as soon as it began. A career tribute from District 2—a towering boy with broad shoulders and a predator’s grin—disarmed him with ease, knocking Spencer to the ground with a swift, calculated strike.

Spencer scrambled to his feet, his glasses askew, his hands fumbling to adjust them. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the careers’ laughter. Their mocking echoes rang through the training hall, a cruel reminder of the Capitol’s engineered hierarchy.

Yet, he didn’t slink away. Instead, he stepped back, watching the careers’ movements closely. He reached for the notebook tucked under his arm, flipping it open and furiously scribbling notes, his brow furrowed in thought. Each failure seemed to fuel his focus, his mind dissecting every detail, breaking down what went wrong and how he could do better next time.

Something about him caught your attention. Maybe it was his stubborn determination to keep trying despite the odds stacked against him. Maybe it was the way his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote, but his gaze stayed steady, as if he could out-think the inevitability of the Games. Or maybe it was because he reminded you of someone—a faint, long-buried memory of someone who had needed protecting once, and how it had torn at you when you couldn’t.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” you said bluntly, stepping into his path as he left the station.

Spencer startled, nearly dropping his notebook. His knuckles turned white as he clutched it tighter, holding it like a lifeline. “I… I know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet but remarkably steady. His hazel eyes met yours, nervous but resolute. “But there’s not much I can do about that… Unless you have a suggestion?”

You raised an eyebrow, studying him for a beat. He wasn’t cocky like the careers or resigned like so many others. He was clever, you could see that, and he had a spark of something most tributes didn’t: hope, no matter how faint.

“Stick with me in the arena,” you said, your tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “You focus on keeping us alive. I’ll handle the killing.”

He hesitated, his sharp mind clearly running calculations, weighing the risk and reward of your offer. “Why?” he asked finally, his gaze searching yours.

“Because you’re going to be dead weight otherwise,” you said bluntly, crossing your arms. “And I don’t want to fight your ghost on top of everyone else’s.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. “Fair point,” he said softly, nodding.

You turned away, heading back toward the weapons station. Over your shoulder, you added, “Don’t make me regret it, Reid.”

He didn’t reply, but when you glanced back, you saw him adjust his glasses, straighten his posture, and follow.

The arena was a sprawling expanse of forest, its towering trees stretching endlessly toward the sky, their gnarled branches intertwining to form a suffocating canopy. The dense undergrowth was a labyrinth of roots and thorns, each step a gamble against the hidden dangers lurking beneath. The air was heavy, saturated with the earthy scent of pine, damp moss, and the faint metallic tang of decay. Overhead, the sky was a hazy gray, muted and ominous, as though even the sun refused to bear witness to the bloodshed below.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant boom of a cannon—a haunting reminder that lives were being snuffed out one by one. The eerie stillness of the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if the very land recoiled from the Capitol’s violence.

You and Spencer had been separated during the chaos of the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Amid the screams and the clash of weapons, you had fought your way to an axe, its familiar weight a small comfort in the madness. Spencer, ever the strategist, had snatched a small pack and disappeared into the tree line, avoiding direct confrontation. It wasn’t until hours later, when the initial slaughter had subsided and the forest had swallowed the remaining tributes, that you found him.

He was crouched low among the undergrowth, his shoulders hunched as he worked with trembling hands to set a rudimentary snare. The cord slipped in his grip, and he muttered a quiet curse under his breath, his frustration evident. Despite the tension in his frame, there was an odd focus in his movements, a determination to make himself useful even here, where everything was designed to kill.

“You’re terrible at hiding,” you said, stepping into view. Your voice broke the stillness like a crack of lightning, and he flinched violently, his hand jerking the snare out of place. His wide eyes darted to you, and for a split second, you saw fear flash across his face. But then recognition settled in, and his body relaxed just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he exhaled shakily.

Even so, you could see the doubt lingering in his expression, the silent question of whether you would keep your word. Whether you would protect him—or if the promise was as fragile as the alliances so many others had already shattered.

“I’m better at traps,” he said defensively, gesturing to the mangled snare. His voice wavered, but there was a thread of defiance woven through his words. “Not much use if I’m dead, though.”

You sighed, letting your gaze sweep over the dense forest. Every shadow felt like a threat, every rustle of leaves a prelude to attack. The arena’s oppressive atmosphere bore down on you, the Capitol’s eyes undoubtedly watching, waiting for a misstep.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost resigned. “Let’s find somewhere safer.”

He hesitated, glancing at the ruined snare before looking back at you. For a moment, you thought he might protest, insist on finishing what he’d started. But then he nodded, pushing himself to his feet and clutching the pack tightly.

As the two of you moved deeper into the forest, the unspoken understanding between you solidified. The arena was no place for trust, but in that moment, you both understood what was necessary. Spencer’s sharp mind and your strength would keep you alive—for now. Together, you were a tenuous partnership, forged in the fire of desperation, bound by the fragile hope of survival.

Days passed in a blur of relentless survival, the forest around you becoming both your sanctuary and your prison. Spencer’s quick thinking kept you ahead of the others, his mind proving sharper than any blade. He devised traps with a precision that belied the trembling of his hands. One night, a tripwire he rigged sent a sharpened branch hurtling toward a career tribute, the impact punctuated by the sharp, deafening boom of a cannon. You froze, listening as the sound echoed through the trees, a grim acknowledgment of another life taken.

But for all his brilliance, Spencer’s lack of combat skills was glaringly obvious. The fragility of your alliance was brutally highlighted when a career tribute ambushed your camp at dawn. You had been sharpening your axe when the attack came—a blur of movement and the glint of a blade in the weak morning light. Spencer had scrambled back, his hands flying up in instinctive defense, but it was you who stood between him and death.

The fight was savage and merciless. Your axe cleaved through the air with deadly precision, each swing driven by adrenaline and the primal need to survive. Blood sprayed across your face, warm and sticky, as you buried the blade deep into the career’s chest. The sickening crunch of bone gave way to silence, broken only by your ragged breathing.

You stood over the lifeless body, the axe slipping from your trembling hands, its handle slick with blood that dripped in slow, viscous trails down your arms. The metallic scent was overpowering, mingling with the damp earth beneath your feet. Spencer emerged from behind a tree, his face ashen and his glasses askew. He stared at the carnage with wide eyes, his expression a mixture of shock and guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice trembling, pitched higher than usual.

You wiped a streak of blood from your eyes with the back of your hand, spitting a glob of your own onto the ground. “Fine,” you said shortly, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. “Let’s keep moving.”

The nights were the worst. The Capitol’s mutts prowled the forest, their distorted howls piercing the stillness and sending chills racing down your spine. The Gamemakers seemed to delight in tormenting the tributes, their traps and horrors pushing all of you to the brink. Spencer stayed close during those long, restless hours, his sharp mind constantly working to outthink the Capitol’s cruelty. But the strain of it all was evident. The sleepless nights, the gnawing hunger, the constant threat of death—it wore on both of you.

Sleep came in fleeting moments, and when it did, it brought no peace. Nightmares plagued you, images of blood-soaked battlefields and the cold, lifeless faces of those you had killed. You would wake with a start, your hand instinctively reaching for the axe by your side. Spencer, ever vigilant, would glance up from his notebook, offering a weak, wordless reassurance.

One night, as the oppressive silence stretched between you, he broke it. “You don’t have to stay,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant rustle of leaves. He was hunched over his notebook again, the pen in his hand tapping rhythmically against its edge. “I know I’m just a liability. If you leave… you’d have a better chance.”

His words hit you harder than they should have, stirring an ache in your chest that you didn’t want to acknowledge. You scoffed, forcing a veneer of indifference. “Don’t be stupid,” you said, glancing down at the axe lying between your legs. The wood was stained a deep crimson, a grim testament to your survival. “You’d be dead in a minute.”

“Probably,” he admitted, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he seemed impossibly fragile. “But that doesn’t mean it’s fair to you—to have to carry my weight.”

You leaned forward, your eyes locking with his. His vulnerability was laid bare, and for a fleeting moment, you saw past the fear to the resolve underneath. “Fair doesn’t matter here,” you said, your voice firm. “Survival does. And you’re not dying on my watch, Reid.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, unspoken promises threading through the tension. Spencer didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered on you, a quiet gratitude shining in his eyes. In the brutal reality of the arena, fairness was a luxury no one could afford. But in that moment, you knew you’d fight to keep him alive, even if it meant sacrificing a part of yourself.

The Gamemakers were growing impatient, their orchestrations more desperate and cruel. Walls of fire erupted in the forest, their heat searing and relentless, driving you and Spencer forward. Rivers swelled and burst their banks, churning torrents swallowing the land and leaving no room for retreat. The Capitol’s games were designed for spectacle, and now, they demanded a climactic confrontation.

It came in a clearing, a barren stretch of earth encircled by the towering trees that had once been your refuge. You and Spencer stood in the center, backs pressed together, the forest closing in around you. The air was electric with tension, heavy with the anticipation of violence. Your axe was clenched tightly in your hands, its familiar weight a lifeline in the chaos. Across the clearing, the last remaining tributes emerged from the shadows, their faces hard and eyes gleaming with a deadly determination.

The careers were relentless. Their movements were precise, their strikes calculated, honed by years of brutal training. They were predators, and you were their prey—but you refused to be cornered.

The first blow came from the left, a flash of steel aimed at your head. You ducked, swinging your axe upward in a wide arc that sent the attacker sprawling. Before you could strike again, another career was upon you, their weapon slashing toward your side. Spencer’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

“Y/N, duck!”

You dropped to the ground just as a handful of crushed leaves sailed over your head. The air ignited in a blinding flash, the chemical reaction disorienting your attackers. Spencer had discovered the trick earlier, his sharp mind identifying the properties of the plants scattered through the arena. It bought you precious seconds, enough to regain your footing and strike.

Your axe moved with ruthless efficiency, the weight of it an extension of your will to survive. It cleaved through the air, connecting with flesh and bone in a sickening symphony of destruction. Blood sprayed across the clearing, warm and sticky, coating your hands and arms as you fought with everything you had.

Spencer, though less skilled in combat, was no less vital. His quick thinking and unorthodox tactics kept you alive, each small advantage tipping the scales in your favor. He ducked and dodged, his movements frantic but purposeful, throwing dirt in an attacker’s eyes or tripping them with a hastily arranged snare.

The clearing became a battlefield, the ground slick with blood and churned by desperate footsteps. The coppery scent hung thick in the air, mingling with the earth’s damp tang and the acrid smoke from the Gamemakers’ fires. The cacophony of screams, grunts, and clashing steel reverberated through the forest, a grotesque chorus that seemed to echo endlessly.

Finally, the chaos began to subside. One by one, the careers fell, their arrogance and brutality no match for your combined determination. The last tribute standing faced you with defiance in their eyes, but their movements were sluggish, their strength waning. Your axe swung in a final, decisive arc, and the cannon’s resounding boom signaled the end.

As the clearing fell silent, you turned to Spencer. He stood hunched, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, his glasses smeared with dirt. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, his eyes met yours with a flicker of relief. For a fleeting moment, the two of you simply stood there, surrounded by the carnage, the enormity of what you’d just survived sinking in.

But you knew this wasn’t the end.

The forest loomed like a living nightmare, shadows twisting and stretching as if they sought to devour what little light dared to filter through the canopy. Every sound, every faint rustle of leaves, clawed at Spencer’s already frayed nerves. His breaths came shallow and ragged, his legs protesting with searing pain as he pushed through the dense undergrowth. Branches lashed at his arms and face, leaving thin, stinging cuts, but none of it registered.

All he could think about was you.

“Y/N!” he screamed again, his voice a raw echo of his mounting panic. The name reverberated through the forest only to be swallowed by the oppressive silence. His heart pounded erratically, a frantic rhythm that matched the wild thrum of his thoughts.

You were out there. Alone.

And then, like a cruel omen, he saw it—a trail of blood.

Spencer’s breath hitched, his body locking in place as he stared at the crimson streaks spattered across the dirt. His mind involuntarily cataloged the details: arterial spray, not a steady drip—suggesting deep, possibly fatal wounds. The sight rooted him with dread, but the desperate need to find you propelled him forward.

“Please,” he whispered under his breath, a fragile prayer to an indifferent world. “Please, not you.”

The blood led him deeper into the forest, the undergrowth thickening as the trail veered toward a small clearing. Sunlight filtered hesitantly through the branches above, dappling the ground in patches of gold that felt out of place against the grim tableau ahead. At first, the clearing seemed empty, just another cruel trick of the arena.

Then he saw you.

Spencer stumbled forward, the sight of your crumpled body hitting him like a physical blow. You were slumped against a tree, your form unnaturally still, streaked with dirt and blood. The once vibrant color of your skin was replaced by a deathly pallor, your chest rising and falling so faintly that he nearly missed it.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked, and he fell to his knees beside you, his trembling hands hovering over your battered frame as if afraid his touch might make things worse.

Your injuries were horrifying. Deep, angry gashes carved into your side, your clothes soaked with drying blood. Bruises bloomed across your face, dark and angry, nearly obscuring your features. Your lips were cracked and dry, the faintest tremble the only sign of life.

“Please, no,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he pressed his fingers against your neck, searching for a pulse. The moment he felt the faint, fragile beat beneath his fingertips, a sob broke free from his chest.

“You’re alive,” he murmured, tears spilling freely down his face. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

But the relief was fleeting. The blood around you was too much, the wounds too deep. A surge of helplessness clawed at him, and his hands hovered, unsure where to start. His mind, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish, drowned in panic and fear.

“Y/N, wake up,” he pleaded, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His thumb brushed against the streaks of blood and dirt marring your skin. “Please, I need you to wake up.”

A faint groan escaped your lips, the soft sound pulling him from the edge of despair. Your eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of exhaustion and pain. Finally, your eyes opened, glassy and unfocused, but alive.

“Spencer?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and weak, but it was enough.

“I’m here,” he choked out, his tears falling unchecked. “I’m here, Y/N. I thought I’d lost you.”

Your gaze slowly sharpened, focusing on him through the haze of pain. “What… happened?”

“You were attacked,” he said, his voice breaking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I failed you.”

You weakly lifted a hand, your fingers brushing against his. He caught it immediately, holding it tightly as though letting go would mean losing you again. “You couldn’t have known,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

“Don’t say that,” he snapped, his fear spilling out as frustration. “Don’t act like it’s okay. It’s not—I can’t—” His voice faltered, cracking under the weight of his emotions. He looked away, his shoulders trembling.

“Spencer.” Your voice, though faint, cut through the storm inside him.

He turned back to you, his tear-filled eyes meeting yours. Even in your battered state, there was a flicker of strength in your gaze, a reminder of why he couldn’t fall apart.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’re the only thing that’s kept me going, Y/N. You’re the only thing that matters.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, mingling with the blood and grime. Despite the pain, you managed a faint smile. “You’re not going to lose me,” you said softly.

Spencer leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently against yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, careful of your injuries. “Promise me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I promise,” you whispered back, though your voice wavered with exhaustion.

For a moment, the horrors of the arena receded, leaving only the two of you in the fragile stillness of the clearing. Spencer clung to that moment, to the fragile hope that it could last. But deep down, he knew the arena’s cruelty wouldn’t allow it.

Spencer cradled you against him, his arms encircling your fragile, battered body like a shield against the arena’s relentless cruelty. Each of your shallow breaths, brushing faintly against his neck, felt like a fragile thread tethering him to hope. The world around you seemed to pause, the usual cacophony of the arena muted to nothing but the gentle rustle of leaves and the haunting, distant growls of the Capitol’s muttations.

His heart pounded as he finally pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. The dim light filtering through the trees illuminated the anguish and resolve in his expression. His eyes, filled with a fierce determination, searched yours as though he could absorb your pain and bear it for you.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and trembling with conviction. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever again.”

One of his hands cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the grime and blood streaked across your skin. Despite the searing pain coursing through your injuries, you leaned into his touch, craving the connection and comfort he offered. The way he looked at you, with a mix of tenderness and desperation, made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just survival that drove him—it was you.

“Spencer,” you murmured, your voice raw but steady enough to convey the depth of your feelings. “You saved me.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was tinged with sadness. “You saved me first,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you.

For a moment, time itself seemed to stop. The horrors of the arena melted away, leaving only the two of you in a fragile bubble of shared understanding. Without hesitation, Spencer leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was tender. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a confession, a promise, and a plea all at once. Every unspoken word of fear, gratitude, and love found its voice in that fleeting moment.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, the quiet mingling of your breaths grounding you both. Spencer’s voice was raw when he spoke again, the vulnerability in his words laying his heart bare. “I love you,” he whispered, the confession slipping free like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

Your hand found his, your fingers intertwining with his as though they were meant to fit together. “I love you too,” you replied, the sincerity in your voice making the moment feel almost sacred.

Though the kiss and the confession hung between you like a protective shield, reality pressed back in. Spencer glanced around, his sharp mind already assessing the next steps. He helped you to your feet with painstaking care, his touch gentle but firm as he ensured you wouldn’t collapse. “We need to find shelter,” he said, his tone decisive. “You need rest, and I need to make sure you’re safe.”

Together, you stumbled through the dense underbrush, Spencer’s arm steadying you every step of the way. He moved with deliberate caution, his every thought focused on your survival. After what felt like an eternity, you came upon a hollow nestled beneath the sprawling roots of a massive tree. It wasn’t much—a dark, cramped space hidden from sight—but in the arena, it was a sanctuary.

Spencer guided you inside, his every movement a careful balance between urgency and gentleness. Once he was sure you were settled, he set to work, his trembling hands tending to your wounds with an almost reverent care. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, his focus never wavered.

The night descended upon the arena with a heavy, oppressive silence, the darkness pressing in like a living thing. Inside the hollow, you both finally allowed yourselves to rest. Spencer pulled you close, his arms wrapping protectively around you as though sheer will alone could keep the horrors at bay.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “I’ll keep watch.”

Your hand clutched at the fabric of his shirt, a weak but determined gesture. “No,” you whispered, your voice resolute despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “We’ll keep watch together.”

But the adrenaline that had fuelled you both through the day ebbed away, replaced by an unbearable fatigue. Sleep claimed you both, drawing you into its embrace. In the warmth of Spencer’s arms, the terror of the arena faded, leaving behind the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the fragile hope that, for at least a few precious hours, you were safe.

The cannon echoed in the distance, signaling the death of the second-to-last tribute. Spencer’s heart sank as the reality settled over him. It was just the two of you now.

You turned to him, bloodied and exhausted, your eyes wide with the same realization. “Spencer…”

“There can only be one,” he murmured, his voice hollow.

The Capitol’s anthem blared overhead, and the cold voice of the announcer filled the air. “Congratulations to our final two tributes! Only one may claim victory—who will it be?”

The unspoken command hung heavy between you, suffocating in its finality.

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t do it, Spencer. I won’t.”

“And I won’t hurt you,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “But there’s no other way. They won’t let us both walk out of here.”

“Then we find a way to beat them!” you cried, desperation lacing your voice. “We’ll refuse. We’ll—”

Spencer grabbed your shoulders gently but firmly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Y/N, listen to me. We’ve been lucky to make it this far, but there’s no beating them. Not like this.”

You tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t falter. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, we can survive this together. We’ll figure it out. We—”

“Y/N.” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “You have to live. I need you to live.”

Your breath hitched, panic rising as you saw something in his expression—a quiet determination, a resolve that shattered your heart. “Spencer, no. Don’t you dare.”

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. “You are everything good in this world,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You deserve to live. You deserve to go home.”

“I can’t go home without you!” you cried, your hands clutching his shirt as if holding him could anchor him here, with you.

Spencer leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss filled with all the love and sorrow he couldn’t put into words. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Before you could react, he stepped back, his hands slipping from your grasp. Your heart dropped as he picked up the knife you’d discarded moments earlier.

“Spencer, don’t!” you screamed, scrambling toward him, but he shook his head.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I love you.”

And then, before you could stop him, he turned the blade on himself.

“NO!”

You caught him as he collapsed, cradling him in your arms. Blood soaked through your hands, and your sobs tore through the quiet of the arena. His breathing was shallow, his lips trembling as he tried to speak.

“I… couldn’t let it be you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You have to win. Promise me… promise me you’ll live.”

“Spencer, please,” you begged, clutching him tightly. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

But his eyes fluttered closed, and with one last ragged breath, the cannon boomed.

The hovercraft descended moments later, and you didn’t resist as they pried Spencer from your arms. His blood was on your hands, your clothes, and your soul, and yet you couldn’t muster the strength to fight them. The Capitol’s voice returned, dispassionate and final, declaring you the victor. The words echoed through the cold, metallic space around you, hollow and meaningless.

You were the last one standing. The survivor.

But at what cost?

The world blurred as the medical team swarmed you, their hands prodding and pulling, their antiseptic words promising you safety and care. None of it mattered. Your eyes stayed fixed on Spencer’s limp form as they wheeled him away, disappearing behind a sterile door. The emptiness he left behind was suffocating.

He had sacrificed himself so you could live.

The words repeated in your mind, a haunting mantra that clawed at your sanity. The memory of his final smile, soft and full of love even as his life slipped away, seared itself into your soul. You wanted to scream, to rage at the injustice of it all, but you felt hollow. Numb.

The hovercraft docked, and the transition from the arena’s horrors to the Capitol’s opulence was jarring. Lavish rooms, bright lights, and hollow congratulations assaulted your senses. The Capitol citizens cheered your name, their voices clashing in an orchestra of sickening delight. You barely heard them.

Snow himself greeted you, his snake-like smile as unnerving as ever. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice laced with a false warmth. “You’re a symbol of strength, of survival. The Capitol admires your resilience.”

Your response was a vacant stare.

Days blurred into nights as you went through the motions. The Victory Tour loomed, a macabre parade meant to celebrate your survival while parading the Capitol’s power. But all you could think about was Spencer—the way he had looked at you, the way his voice had trembled when he said goodbye.

In the privacy of your room, you allowed yourself to grieve. The tears came in silent waves, unstoppable and all-consuming. You clutched the token he’d worn—a simple bracelet made of knotted twine—now yours to carry. It was the only piece of him you had left.

They called you a hero, but you felt like a thief. You had stolen his chance to live, even if he’d willingly handed it over.

On the day of your first public appearance, you stood before a crowd of Capitol citizens, their faces painted with mock sympathy and admiration. The weight of your loss bore down on you, threatening to crush you beneath its enormity.

“I survived the arena,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “But survival isn’t victory. Not when it costs everything.”

The crowd applauded, oblivious to the truth in your words. But somewhere, deep within you, a spark ignited—a quiet, simmering rage.

Spencer had believed in you, even in his final moments. He had given you a chance to live, to fight for something more than just survival. And while the Capitol celebrated its spectacle, you made a promise to yourself.

You would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

You would remember him.

And one day, you would ensure that no one else would have to pay the price he had.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[n1ckys]

[pathologicalreid]

christmas (baby please come home) | s.r.

in which Spencer isn't home to put his kids to bed on Christmas Eve, but they wake up to a surprise on Christmas morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: spencer's first post prison christmas, frankensteined the plot of "surface tension", the same family as "here with me", crying, christmas word count: 3.19k a/n: merry christmas!! this is kinda like my gift to you, mostly since it's been sitting in my brain for forever!!!!!!! i love u all! also happy first day of hanukkah if you celebrate <33

“But Daddy’s not home,” your daughter whimpered as she shuffled under her covers, she looked up at you with wide, curious eyes.

You carefully smoothed out the top of her floral comforter, “I know, baby,” you whispered, reaching up to pinch her cheek affectionately. You’d let them stay up late to watch the Santa tracker, but eventually, Finn fell asleep on you, and Livvy’s yawns were enough to convince you that it was bedtime. “You still have to go to sleep. Santa will come whether Daddy’s home or not, and we’ll just do the gifts from Mommy and Daddy when he gets back.”

At three years old, Olivia was beginning to understand Spencer being gone the same way Eleanor did; she knew his absence was entirely out of her control, and that didn’t sit well with your middle child. You knew you had gotten incredibly lucky when Spencer had been home for Finn’s birthday and Livvy’s had fallen during his sabbatical, but you also knew that you were due for a missed holiday, you just wished it could’ve been Thanksgiving or New Year’s.

You kissed her forehead before leaving, making sure to leave the door open a crack so the monsters wouldn’t get her before you went to Nell’s room. “Hey, honey,” you whispered, closing your eldest’s door behind you before going to sit on the edge of her bed. She had her own Christmas tree set up in the corner of the room, the artificial purple tree providing the glow that her nightlight normally would. “Are you ready for bed?”

Nell was lying on top of her covers, staring at her still ceiling fan as she ignored your question. While Livvy was just starting to understand what it meant when Spencer was gone, Nell understood it best, and she had for years now. She’d understood when Spencer was in prison, and she understood that he was missing Christmas now.

Slowly, you laid down next to your daughter, propping your head up on the bed and smoothing her hair back. “It’s still Christmas,” you tried to reassure her, but part of you knew that it was a thankless effort, there was nothing you could tell her that would fix her father’s absence. “We can call Dad in the morning while we open presents,” you offered, hoping she’d appreciate you coming halfway. “If he’s not busy, maybe we can video chat, and you can show him everything Santa brought you.”

“It’s not the same,” she told you, furrowing her brows and turning away from you on the bed.

Sighing, you pressed a kiss to the back of her head, “I know, Nellie. I know it’s not fair that he doesn’t get to be here for Christmas, but Daddy will come back.” There was a sense of urgency in your voice; you were afraid that if your five-year-old lost the joy in Christmas, you’d somehow failed her as a mother. “He’ll be home for your birthday, I promise,” you whispered.

“You can’t promise,” she reminded you, knowing that you and Spencer were generally very specific about your promises, leaning toward the ‘I promise I’ll try’ variety.

You hummed in response, “I’d pinky promise you that. Dad will be home for your birthday.” You held up your pinky finger, waiting for her to roll over and reciprocate.

Eleanor rolled over, holding up her pinky finger while brown eyes watched you apprehensively, “Okay,” she breathed, hooking your fingers together and kissing them.

As soon as Spencer told you about the bureau’s contingency to him returning to the BAU, you’d done the math. Eleanor’s sixth birthday would fall near the beginning of his next sabbatical, so you didn’t hesitate to make this promise. “It’s time for bed, my girl,” you whispered, smiling at her softly as she pulled the sleeves of her Christmas pajamas over her hands. “Santa can’t come if you’re not asleep,” you reminded her, sitting up on the bed and getting up, tucking her purple comforter under her chin before you made your final stop of the night.

You’d brought Finn to his room before getting the girls settled, but now that you knew they were alright, you came back to his room. The white noise machine was going, and he was fast asleep in his crib. His pacifier, which you were trying to wean him off of, had fallen from his mouth and onto the sheets, so you set it to the side. To you, the second Christmas was always more exciting than the first, now that he was fourteen months old, he had the dexterity to help open presents.

Ruffling his hair, you kissed him goodnight, just like you’d done with the girls, and you left his room, closing the door so that no one would disturb the light-sleeping baby.

There was a late night ahead of you, but first, you settled yourself onto the couch in the living room and pulled out your phone. Upon opening your messages with Spencer, you couldn’t help but be disappointed to find that there was nothing unread. You thought about sending him a text telling him that you all miss him but eventually decided against it. You didn’t want to make him feel guilty. At least, no more guilty than he likely already did.

You turned on the TV, quietly playing a Christmas movie as you began the festivities. All of the gifts had been expertly hidden in the master bedroom, split between being shoved under your bed and in your closet, but a new playhouse for the girls had been dropped off earlier. It was too big for your room, so your parents had stored it in their basement in the interim.

That would be a struggle to bring in from the garage, so you decided to start small, pulling all of the kids’ stockings from their hooks and laying them out on the floor before going upstairs to get the stuffers.

With the movie playing, you filled the stockings with treats and little toys. A few times you imagined your phone buzzing, but each time there was nothing on the screen. The loneliness started to set in as you rehung the stockings, making sure the kids’ names faced forward above the fireplace.

This wasn’t your first Christmas alone, Spencer had been in Idaho for Olivia’s first Christmas, but neither of the girls remembered it.

They’d remember this one, you thought to yourself, walking back up the stairs to grab a load of boxes. Thankfully, they were already wrapped, but you did have to avoid getting ribbon in your mouth as you carried the armful of gifts down the stairs.

Masterfully, you adjusted them beneath the tree, trying to visualize where they’d all end up in the end as you heard something distantly, but you brushed it off as someone leaving your neighbor’s holiday party. You stood up, wiping your hands on your pajamas as you evaluated your handiwork, shrugging before you turned around for the next load, “Oh,” you breathed, watching the handle on the door from the garage turn.

The door opened slowly, revealing your husband on the other side, his black peacoat draped over his arm and purple scarf looped around his neck. He hooked his car keys on the key hook before he noticed you, brown eyes finding your pajama-clad figure. His lopsided smile was all-knowing as always, he knew he had surprised you. In fact, it had been his goal.

You remained exactly where you were, watching him from the den as he put his shoes away and hung up his outerwear. It was almost as if you’d convinced yourself he was a mirage, and any sudden movements would cause his visage to dissipate. “Hey,” Spencer said, cocking his head at you as if he were confused why you hadn’t come any closer to him. He peeked around you to look at the tree, “Did the kids get to bed okay?”

Instead of answering him, your body naturally responded to what seemed like the miraculous appearance of your husband by producing tears. At first, they just welled along your lash line, but as they started to fall, you buried your face in your hands.

Spencer was there, not only in the house but also taking the initiative to approach you, he wrapped his arms around your torso, taking your tearful form under his care, “Is everything alright?” He asked, slowly dragging his hand up and down your spine, humming as you reciprocated his embrace and pressed your face into his shirt, drying your eyes and taking in the moment.

“Everything is wonderful,” you responded, your voice muffled by his shirt. He smelled like stale dark roast and the jet, but you were too relieved by his arrival to truly mind.

Tightening his grip briefly, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, “Right, well. You’re crying, so I had to make sure,” he murmured, swaying gently to the music coming from the film.

You loosed a breath of relief, “I can’t believe you’re here. The kids were miserable at bedtime, Nell wouldn’t even talk to me until I told her you’ll be home for her birthday,” you informed him, keeping your arms wrapped firmly around him while you tipped your head back to see him.

Spencer nodded in understanding, reaching up a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “We made the arrest at eight and wrapped up around nine. Somehow, Emily convinced the pilot to leave in the middle of the night, and we were on the jet by ten. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve spent holidays in worse places, but I’d rather be here with you than in Milwaukee.”

“I will kiss Emily Prentiss on the mouth,” you told him candidly.

He raised his brows curiously, “Mhm, and what about me?”

Grinning, you pushed up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his, an amalgamation of a welcome home and a Merry Christmas kiss, but you pulled away before you could get carried away. “Merry Christmas, Spencer Reid, we have work to do,” you told him, taking on a mock seriousness as you nodded your head toward the Christmas tree, which only had a fraction of your kids’ gifts beneath it.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Spencer reciprocated, pressing one more kiss to your lips, “Let’s get started.”

Spinning out of his grip, you found you had much more pep in your step with his arrival, beaming as the two of you went through the house as quietly as possible, gathering the gifts for the kids without rousing any suspicion. Even grabbing the playhouse from the garage didn’t seem like as much of a task with him around.

You adjusted the stockings as it neared two in the morning, Spencer returned from upstairs with the last few gifts, having changed his clothes into pajamas that neatly matched yours—a family set that was a gift from your Penelope. “They look great,” Spencer assured you, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he stood back, admiring your handiwork.

Walking backward until your back was against your chest, you tilted your head to the side, appraising the mountain of gifts beneath the tree, “Do you think we went overboard this year?” Between the gifts from Santa and the gifts from the two of you, the heap was rather intimidating.

“No,” Spencer answered, “bigger kids, bigger gifts.” He put his arms around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head, “besides, they’re good kids.”

You hummed in response, leaning into him ever so slightly. Part of you felt like Spencer was still experiencing guilt surrounding the three months he spent away from you and the kids while he was in prison. No amount of time at home or therapy would ever absolve him of that guilt, but it never hurt to try, “Hey,” you whispered up to him, “I got you something.”

He frowned down at you, “I thought we said no gifts this year?”

Scoffing, you walked over to the home office, “We say that every year and neither of us ever stick to it, so go get whatever it is you got for me.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but even so, he made his way upstairs to where you knew a gift was hiding in his bedside table. Upon his return, he faltered at the large box you’d placed on the coffee table and held up the small box in his hands; you beamed at him as he eyed the behemoth of a present.

He handed you the smaller box, instinctively, you admired the wrapping before starting to open it, recognizing the jewelry box before you had even discarded your wrapping paper. “Oh, Spence,” you said, looking at the necklace in the box, a dainty chain with five small gemstones on it. His birthstone and yours, followed by Nell’s amethyst, Livvy’s sapphire, and Finn’s tourmaline all strung next to each other, “it’s perfect,” you told him, lightly touching the gems with your fingertips. You’d mentioned wishing you had an everyday necklace a few weeks ago while getting ready, and he must’ve been listening more attentively than you’d thought.

Finally, you had him open his gift, and he was entirely speechless as he opened the cardboard flaps. His mouth gaped as he lifted one of the books in his hand, the title and edition identical to one that had been previously ruined in your house. “Fuck,” he cursed, looking from you to the books and back again.

You shrugged, “It’s not all of them, but a pretty good amount of them. Some of those editions are proving difficult to recover, but I’ve—” You’re cut off, startled by Spencer pressing his lips to yours. “I’m still looking for some,” you said breathlessly once he pulled away.

Spencer seemed unsure of what to do with himself; you’d managed to find replacements for three-fourths of the books that had previously been burned by an accidental fire set earlier this year. The only time your marriage had ever been on the rocks was when Diana lived with you, but even then, you’d been planning this surprise. “You are…” Spencer started, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, “This is incredible,” he told you, shaking his head in disbelief, setting the book down in the box and nearly tackling you in a hug.

Laughing, you buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, “I love you,” you murmured to him, his body now next to yours on the couch.

“I love you too,” he said, looking at you with glassy eyes. “Wow,” he said, sniffling, “I need to get you something else. A necklace isn’t enough,” he told you, likely already thinking of options for addendums.

You shook your head, “Trust me when I tell you that your being here is worth all of the rare books in the world to me,” you reassured him, running your fingers through his hair. Humming, you adjusted your head on the pillow, “Are you gonna fall asleep like this?”

He nodded, “If you keep playing with my hair like that. How long do you think we have until they wake up?” He asked, keeping his eyes closed while you peeked over him to check the time.

Last year, Finn had woken up the whole house on Christmas Day at four in the morning, and seeing as it was nearing three, you wondered if it was worth sleeping at all. You continued combing through Spencer’s hair, “Do you want to go upstairs?”

“This is a really great couch,” he mumbled, already falling asleep on the couch, leading you to grab the blanket that was thrown over the back and haphazardly drape it over the two of you.

Unfortunately, it felt like you’d gotten no sleep at all when you heard the first stirring upstairs, “Mommy,” Olivia called out, which would likely wake up Finn and Nell.

You got up from the couch, waking up Spencer in the process. Your poor husband, who was probably already running on little sleep, got up and folded the blanket you had been using, returning it to its home while you went upstairs to get the kids.

Livvy’s eyes went wide when she saw you come from downstairs, “Did Santa come?” She asked you, nearly bouncing with excitement.

As you expected, the door to Eleanor’s room swung open, revealing your sleep-deprived five-year-old in her rumpled pajamas, “Yes, Santa brought gifts for everyone,” you answered, ruffling her hair before going into Finn’s room, hoping to wake him gently before the voices did a less delicate job. “Hi buddy,” you whispered, looking back to see the girls gathered at the door, completely unaware that their dad was waiting for them downstairs. “Merry Christmas,” you said softly, his scrunched face not processing what you were saying, but happy to see you, nonetheless.

You picked him up from the crib and herded the girls to the stairs, letting them lead the way down while you carried the baby. Right behind them, you watched the realization dawn on their faces as soon as they caught sight of Spencer, “Daddy!” Nell shouted, leading her little sister as they ran to him.

Laughing lightly, you let a squirming Finn down, running to Spencer in the same way the girls just had. From a distance, you watched as all three of your kids entirely bypassed the gifts under the tree and on the mantle and went straight to what was more important—their father was home for Christmas.

Spencer crouched down to get Finn, and at the same time, Livvy jumped in excitement, leaving Spencer falling backward and sitting on the ground while the kids formed a less-than-graceful dog pile on the floor. You took that as your cue to join in on the festivities, kneeling on the floor next to the familial pile, uncontrollable giggles emanated from everyone involved.

You wrangled the two littles in your arms, giving each of them dozens of kisses and receiving more laughter in return as Eleanor settled down. Your eldest took her moment of alone time and laid her head on Spencer’s chest, the grin on her face overtook the rest of her face, “Best Christmas ever,” she whispered before rolling off of him, Spencer instinctively lifting his hand so she doesn’t hit her head on the leg of the coffee table.

Nellie sat up giving you a toothy grin, sticking her tongue through where she was missing a front tooth. Everyone took notice of Olivia pointing at the tree, her mouth shaped like an “o” in awe, “Can we open that one?” She asked, pointing to the largest present in the stack—which, of course, had her name on it.

“Stockings first,” Spencer said, leading to a pout from your middle child, but it was quickly wiped away when he kissed the crown of her head. Your husband got up first, taking Finn from where he was tucked into your side, and set him on his hip, “Okay, who wants their stocking?”

Everyone’s hand went up—including yours.

[cowboy1ikereid]

new spencer fic inspired by taylor swift’s ’new year’s day’ coming this weekend!! sorry for my impromptu hiatus but thank you all SOSOSO much for all of the love towards ‘sweet creature’ - it means the absolute world to me to see so many people enjoying my writing :,) love u all sm!!

[street-smarts00]

Santa Doesn't Know You Like I Do

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Your first Christmas with Spencer and you get his name for secret Santa. 

WC: 1.8k

Tags: Fluff, Secret Santa, friends to lovers, one use of Y/N I think A/N: Sorry I went MIA :( I got busy with school. I hope to push out many ideas while I’m on break tho. Here’s something cheesy and festive for the holiday season I hope you enjoy! (not beta read don't kill me)

Nothing was right. Nothing you found was the right present. 

This was your first secret Santa with the BAU and you picked Spencer's name out of penelope’s mug. At first you thought it would be easy to buy a present for him because you knew him so well. In almost a year of being with the BAU you grew the closest with Spencer. 

What you didn’t expect was your present ideas to not live up to your own expectations. Nothing you came up with could live up to your own standards. Of course your “slight” feelings for him definitely affected this, but you tried to tell yourself that wasn’t true. 

You ran through dozens of ideas. Clothing, a new scarf, tickets for a play, special edition of a book he loved. But nothing felt like the right present. 

You almost gave up in your search for the perfect present for him. The gift exchange was in less than a week and you still had nothing. Sitting at your desk in the bullpen you considered settling with one of your first ideas. 

While getting up to refill your coffee mug you noticed Spencer’s attention was focused on his computer. He sat there deep in thought with his brows furrowed and lips in a fine line. When you walked by his desk you saw he was playing an online chess game. 

“Working hard or hardly working?” you joked. 

He popped out of his focus from your presence. “I finished my files a little early,” he responded bashfully. 

“Are you at least winning?” 

He smirked, “I’ve won four times. But that’s not even the fun part. The fun is doing different plays every time and seeing what the computer comes up with as the best response.” 

That’s when it hit you. An idea for Spencer’s gift. 

Finally something that felt like a good gift for him. At the end of the day you rushed out of work to go to the craft store and get your supplies. You worked on the gift everyday after work. 

Soon the weekend rolled around and you found yourself at Rossi’s. His living room had the biggest Christmas tree you’d ever seen. Everyone’s gifts sat there for the evening. After dinner you all sat down to exchange gifts. 

“I want to go first!” Garcia exclaimed. She jumped up from the couch and hurried to the tree to grab her gift for JJ. 

JJ excitedly opened the gift bag to find a small black and grey purse with a colorful crochet keychain. The idea that Garcia also handmade part of her gift gave you a sense of relief. 

“Oh this is so pretty. Thank you so much,” she beamed, admiring the bag and twirling the keychain. Garcia squealed in happiness before JJ offered a hug to her. 

JJ then handed over her gift to Rossi, a bottle of scotch. He smiled and thanked her for the bottle saying how his collection needed a new addition. 

He stood up and brought his hands together looking at the tree. “My turn.” He grabbed a thin box wrapped in silver sparkly wrapping paper and walked over to you. 

“For you, my dear,” he handed you the box. 

Your eyes widened and lips perked up at the gift. It may be a little silly but, part of you wished that you were Spencer’s secret santa. You reminded yourself that the possibility of you both picking each other's names was unlikely. The possibility of some things being the same between the two of you was … unlikely. 

You ripped back the paper to reveal a large eyeshadow pallet. Upon opening it, you saw an array of beautiful shades you couldn’t wait to try out. 

“Rossi, this is so sweet. I love it,” You thanked with a bright smile. 

Now it was your turn. Everyone’s eyes only made the moment more stressful. You got up and grabbed the box with a nervous hand. What if he didn’t like it? What if he thought it was too cheesy or corny? What if he thought it was useless as he already owned two of them?

You tried to quiet your thoughts as you handed him the box, but they had no intention of leaving.

“Merry Christmas Spence,” you said softly.

When you turned and walked back to your seat you neglected to see the rising blush on his face. 

Spencer glanced down at the white and red striped paper. He carefully peeled it off and opened the lid to reveal a chess set nestled in between red tissue paper. The board spaces were off-white and royal purple with corresponding chess pieces the same colors. When he picked up the wooden pieces and saw small leaves and flowers painted on them. The King and Queen specifically had crowns in a shimmering gold. 

“Wow look at that,” Emily admired.

Upon further inspection he noticed the small human imperfections in the details. The way not one leaf or flower looked exactly the same. Or how the clear coating over the paint was slightly streaky in some spots. 

“Did you paint this?” He asked.

You nodded your head and answered , “Yeah I did.” 

A faint “awe” could be heard across the room from Garcia. 

“Y/N,” Spencer started, his voice full of admiration. “This is … beautiful.” 

The butterflies in your stomach were getting restless. 

“Really?” you asked, not able to hide the smile spreading on your face. 

“Yes! It’s Perfect,” his eyes sparkled at you. “I love it. Nobody’s ever given me something like this.” He beamed at you with a smile that made you love sick. 

The realization that you both were not alone set in and Spencer cleared his throat before closing the box. The gift exchange continued as Spencer handed over a present to Morgan. 

The rest of the night was filled with catching glances and far away looks between you and Spencer. He seemed to feel more relaxed in a way after receiving your gift. Not that he was acting any differently. He just seemed more open. With the group and with you. 

You lived off that feeling the whole evening. The idea that you made him happy. You helped him see he was appreciated and loved. 

Not that he had to know you loved him. 

He didn’t know that. Right? 

As the hands on the clock passed you announced your departure and said your goodbyes. You stepped outside and felt a chill against your skin. 

You held tight onto your keys as you walked to your car. The snow had just started to fall. Occasional little flurries fell down from the sky. 

“Wait!” Someone yelled from behind. 

You turned to find Spencer trying his best to run but not slip on the icy parts of the driveway. When he got closer you noticed his cheeks and the tip of his nose were pink. Probably from the cold weather you thought.

“I wanted to formally say thank you for the chess set,” he explained. 

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a smile. You stuffed your hands in your pockets away from the cold. “I’m glad you like it. I was worried you’d find it cheesy.” 

He looked confused. “Why would I find it cheesy?” 

You shrugged, “because I hand painted it.”

“But that’s what makes it perfect,” he reassured. His voice is sincere and soft. “It’s personal and shows you care.”

His eyes widened. “Oh um-“ 

He suddenly remembered why he rushed outside and scrambled for something in his jacket pocket. It was a small cube shaped box wrapped in paper covered in snowflakes. Quite fitting for the weather.

“I know I technically wasn’t your secret Santa but I still wanted to get you something.”

You took the gift from him with a slack jaw. “Spence-“

“This isn’t because you were my secret Santa. I still wanted to get you a gift regardless,” he reassured. 

“I- Thank you,” you started unwrapping the gift. 

“It’s not homemade like yours but I hope you still like it.”

”It doesn’t have to be homemade for me to-“ the wind was stolen out of your lungs.  

The gift was a small gold and white music box you immediately recognized. You opened the lid to reveal a ballerina in a pink tutu spinning as Sleeping Beauty Waltz played. Your heart ached as you admired the tiny dancer.

”Is this the music box from that antique shop in Seattle?” 

While on a case in Seattle, you and Spencer went to an antique shop to ask the owner about evidence found at the crime scene that was purchased there. You fell in love with a beautiful music box in one of the aisles. 

“It is. I saw how you looked at it in the store and in the car you said it reminded you of when you used to do ballet. So before we left Seattle I went back to the store to get it for you. I thought it would make a great Christmas present.”

“But, that was three months ago.”

He sheepishly smiled and his cheeks only got more red. “Yeah, I had to keep it a secret for a while.”

Your heart rate started to pick up as the butterflies returned. “I can't believe you went back and bought this for me,” you muttered in disbelief. 

“Of course I would. You mean a lot to me and I knew this was something that would make you happy.” 

You admired the music box before carefully placing it in your purse. “Thank you so much. I love it.” 

His smile grew and reached his eyes. His eyes looked beautiful in this lighting. The Christmas lights from the house made them look practically golden. Even in the freezing cold you could melt from his eyes.

He shifted his weight and licked his lips. He seemed wrapped around the words in his head. “I also wanted to ask if maybe you’d want to go see The Nutcracker with me.” 

Your heart damn near stopped. 

“It’s playing at the theater downtown. I was thinking if we don’t get a case then we could go see the show on Friday. Maybe, if you want to, that is,” he rambled in nervousness. 

“I’d love to,” you beamed. 

His face brightened at your eagerness, but his nerves were still present. “But not as friends. As a date?” 

You chuckled, “Yes Spencer, I would love to go on a date with you. I think the nutcracker is a perfect first date.”

“Great,” he said with relief. “And maybe afterwards we might have time for a game of chess with my new board.” 

God he was cute. 

“That sounds great.”

[aperrywilliams]

Ocean (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: Spencer has shut you out for months, and you don’t know how to get to him. A new argument endures, and you think this might be your last chance to make him understand how deep your love for him is.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Angst/hurt/comfort. Spencer doesn't want to see reasons. Reader and Spencer cry. Mention to Spencer’s time in Milburn.

A/N: It’s just another self-indulgent fic to tell our boy how great he is.

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"Are you going to say something?"

Your voice is clipped, and you feel a whole storm bubbling inside of you. Spencer's silence doesn't help to ease your desperation—a last call for some hope in your already damaged relationship.

As he sits on the couch, his eyes are lost in the window of your shared apartment, tranced by the distant bustling of the streets below. It seems everything is better than looking at you right now.

‘How can someone stand so damn close

And feel like they're a world away?

I can see your sad story eyes

So how do you have no words to say?’

“Please, say something. Anything."

Your insistence sharply contrasts with the demanding tone with which you initiated this conversation—or fight, as Spencer accused you earlier.

Still standing in front of him, you only want him to look at you, to see in his eyes what he really wants.

“Do you want me to leave? That's it?”

You don't know what else to do or say. After bickering for a solid forty-five minutes, Spencer decided he didn't want to respond to your questions/accusations anymore. Coincidence? Hell no. He went silent just after you touched a nerve mentioning the tabu, the only thing Spencer decided must remain unspoken: the three months he was locked in Milbum.

You understood his reluctance at first. Of course you did. Putting in words the nightmare of his days there can’t be easy for anyone, and to Spencer, you bet your ass it was tougher. To lose control, to engage in a world he only knew from afar. Exposed. Vulnerable.

You understood why he didn't want you to visit him there. His pride and self were wounded. However, you would never resent him for it. You said it to him but respected his wishes so as not to put more pressure on his shoulders.

It didn't hurt less, but you were willing to take it.

Weeks followed, and the only news you had about your boyfriend were the messages and phone calls from his coworker, Penelope, and his boss, Emily.

The day he was released must have been the most chaotic you had in your life. And for Spencer, sure, it was worse: His mom was kidnapped by another psychopath, threatening her life.

As Spencer hugged Diana at the BAU, you stayed back, looking from afar, not wanting to disturb such an important moment.

Penelope hugged him after, and then JJ and Tara. The whole team welcomed him before you had the chance to.

When your time came, your eyes locked for the first time in months, and you knew. That man wasn’t the same Spencer you saw the night before he went to Mexico. And you were far from expecting he was, but something felt different with you compared to the reaction he had with the rest of the people there.

Not saying a word, Spencer enveloped you in a tight embrace. Hiding his face in the crook of your neck, he couldn't articulate anything to say. You were the one who reassured him, mumbling encouraging words.

‘Everything is going to be okay. You’re safe now.’

And you believed every word, even knowing the road would be hard. Knowing there would be bad days and not-so-bad ones. But you were determined to make it work because you loved Spencer, and he didn't deserve less from you.

All I want is to fall in deeper than I've ever been

Why won't you let me?

I can handle your heart, so help me.

But Spencer didn't open up to you the next day, nor the week that followed, or the month after. You were patient. You didn't take personally the prolonged silences, the avoidance, the eagerness he showed to go back to work.

At some point, you start to wonder what you have been doing wrong because there is definitely something wrong.

Waiting for him to confide you was the only thing you decided to do. He would come to you eventually. Instead of pushing him, you offered your solace and a safe space for him to be peaceful.

But after three months, things didn't get better; they were quite the opposite. Spencer frequently showed signs of irritability at home and started to snap at almost anything.

And that's when the arguments started. You were getting exhausted by his behavior and the null display of trust from him.

Today has been no different. After coming back from a case, Spencer barely acknowledged your presence, opting for lounging on the couch, too invested in a book to tell you he almost got hurt in the field, and you find it out from Penelope calling you to know how he was doing.

“Spencer-”

“You can leave if you want,” he mumbles, not making eye contact.

“That's not what I asked. I asked if you want me to leave.”

There is a lump in your throat, but it doesn't stop you from voicing your thoughts.

“And for once, be honest with me. Do you want to be alone? Do you want to sulk yourself for God knows how much time?”

There is a brief silence where you think Spencer is truly contemplating his response.

“Yes.”

He says it without looking at you, but his voice is firm enough for you to wonder if he’s lying or not. It hurts. But it hurts you more because he’s hurting and not for the pain he’s inflicting you with his words - or lack of.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

You get his attention this time. He wasn’t expecting you to ask him that.

“Why do you want to be alone?”

You can’t understand why he’s so determined to shut you out. Or maybe you do, but you’re not ready to accept it. Not when you love him more than anything in this world. Not when you are sure your love must count to something for him. Yeah, maybe you can’t ‘fix him,’ but you’re sure as hell you can help him to heal.

Spencer huffs in frustration. What can he say? The truth? It's too simple and yet too complicated to voice.

“I realized it’s better that way. There is no reason for you to stay.”

Is he turning his motives into altruistic ones? It's like he doesn't know you at all.

“There isn’t? You are not reason enough for me to stay?”

Spencer stands from his spot, running his hands through his hair.

“You don't get it? Do you?! Do you want me to throw the words on your face? Uh? I thought you were smart enough to realize by now I can’t love you anymore!”

It's the first time he has yelled that way to you in months. Years, maybe? All the last arguments you both had recently were more like ‘snappy-sassy Spencer’ and a ‘sassier you.’

He just said, ‘I can’t love you anymore,’ and not ‘I don’t love you anymore.’ You don’t miss the wording, and you’re praying right now not to be reading this wrong.

Maybe this is the crack you were waiting for to get to him. Carefully, you look at Spencer, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn't.

“Okay,” you mumble, sitting again on the couch, your feet planted on the floor and hands on your knees. Spencer raises an eyebrow, confused by your posture and response.

“Okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay. You can’t love me anymore. I accept it. And I’m not happy with that, but okay. I can’t obligate you to feel in a certain way if you don’t.”

“But you should be hating me,” he refutes. “I failed you, and now I’m ending things.”

You take in his words. Spencer assumes he’s the one to hate, and even if you want to, you know you can’t.

With pursed lips and soft eyes, you gesture to the spot beside you on the couch, inviting him to sit. Spencer understands and, after a second of contemplation, slowly moves to sit there, curious about what you are thinking right now.

“Can I tell you something?” you start. “It's humanly impossible for me to hate you. And yeah, maybe I should, but I can’t. Maybe you can’t love me, and thank you for doing it at some point, by the way. But it doesn't mean I’ll stop caring about you. It doesn't mean I don't want to see you happy because, despite all the awful things you think about yourself, oh, flash news, you deserve to be happy.”

“Don’t-” he wants to refute, as always he does, but you have to make a point.

“Spence, please, let me say it.” Spencer stops and concedes at your request, even if he thinks it useless and that you shouldn’t put that effort into him.

“I know you think you disappointed people for what happened. You haven’t told me that much, but I know. And I can understand you are scared and that maybe I’m not the one you want to confide in. I respect it, really. But please, if at least a fraction of what I think matters to you, believe me, I have never doubted whatever you did in there; you did it to survive. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing.”

It's a hard pill to swallow for Spencer. He never wanted to tell you what really happened when he was in jail. Granted, you are not a profiler, but you know him enough to see through him.

Here you are, next to me

So much beauty at my feet

All I wanna do is swim, but the waves keep crashin' in

No, I'm not afraid to drown

Take me out, take me down

I'm so tired of the shore

Let me in, baby

You're an ocean, beautiful and blue

I wanna swim in you

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. And I’ll leave if it's what you think I should do, but not before telling you how I see you. God, Spencer. You have no idea how great a human being you are. You always prefer to sell yourself short instead, but I know you. If the time we have known each other taught me something, it's how compassionate, understanding, and loving you are. Believe me when I tell you that to love you has been the best thing I have done in my life. And I would do anything for you, even if that means walking away from you.”

You don't know when the tears started to fall, but now you can feel them running down your cheeks and landing in your hands resting on your lap.

Spencer’s glassy eyes tell you he has heard everything you said, and you hope he believes you. At least you have tried pouring your heart into words. It isn’t easy for you to do. That’s something you have in common with Spencer. Your love language is acts of service more than words of affirmation, but you know this time, you need the words.

A tear makes his journey from Spencer’s eyes down his jaw. But he can’t say anything. He thinks if he says something, everything in him will crumble.

You wait, not so sure what, but wait. As Spencer keeps his silence, you think you have nothing more to do, so you break eye contact.

“Okay. That's what I needed to say. I guess that’s it.”

A shaky breath anticipates you getting up from the couch. You stroll to the bedroom to grab your go-bag.

Approaching the door and grabbing your keys from the bowl, you bit your lower lip because you don’t want to cry in front of him anymore.

Like a lighthouse, I've been shinin' bright

Through the dark for both of us

And I've done it outta love is not enough

But God, how I wish it was

And I don't wanna find out

How much lonely I can take before you lose me

Baby, look at me and swear you won't lose me

Determined to leave, you open the door, and before you cross the threshold, a heartbreaking sob paralyzes you in place. Then, a wail and Spencer's broken voice.

“Please, don’t leave!”

It is heartbreaking and comes to you like a prayer from the depths of his being. You stop in your tracks but refuse to look back at him.

“I know I don't deserve you, but please, I can’t - I can’t lose you.”

Wiping away his tears, Spencer gets up from the couch and quickly reaches the door. You still have the bag in one hand and the keys in the other, with your back to him.

“I love you more than you can imagine, and I was determined to let you go. I thought I had hurt you enough.”

“Did you were setting me free? From you?” you mumble, still not wanting to turn around, tears blurring your sight. Spencer sniffles.

“I thought it was the right thing to do. Why drag you to my shit once more? Fuck, you always have been there for me, and it is so unfair. How did I repay you?”

“Repay me?” You let the bag fall with a thud. This time, turning to face Spencer. “Do you think this is about repaying? Jesus, Spencer. I never had ask you that.”

“I know. I know,” he rushes to say. “But I feel like I’m not good enough. An ex-junk. An ex-convict. And a lot of baggage to carry.”

Your fingers fidget with the keys as you hear Spencer beating himself.

“Nothing of that has changed the way I see you. I’m not saying you have to be the same, nor do you have to keep still about it. I love you with all the scars you have and the ones that will come. And I want to help. You don't have to do this alone.”

“It's a lot. I don't even know where to start,” Spencer’s voice croaks, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“We can figure it out. Together. It won’t be easy, but I promise it will get better.”

Your soft eyes and hopeful words warm Spencer’s heart. He can’t conceive you are even real. He can’t fathom how you are still here in front of him after all. He can only conclude that your love is big enough to hold you two at this moment when his weakness consumes him.

Still sobbing, Spencer rushes to envelope you in a tight embrace. But unlike the hug you shared in the bullpen when he was released months ago, this time, he's the one telling you reassuring words.

“I love you. I couldn’t be more grateful for having you. I promise I’ll heal. I promise not to shut you out again. My love, my everything.”

As you cry with Spencer enveloped in his arms, your heart feels hopeful that you both will find a way to get through this. Together.

---------------

Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers

[siriusly-jo]

[ 📦 ; day five ] IN LOVE TOO

summary — christmas’ gift giving brings out your insecurities in your relationship with spencer. he knows exactly what to do, as per usual.

content — spencer reid x gn!reader, fluff, insecure reader, mentions of alcohol.

word count — 1.7k

a/n — day five of the advent calendar but no it is not. sigh.

‧₊˚🎄✩ ₊˚🦌⊹♡

It’s the first time in years where you are allowing yourself to be vulnerable again and you can’t say it’s been anything but a good experience. After years of dating terrible guy after terrible guy, you had almost swore you’d never trust anyone with your heart again. You were sure you would become the lady with a bunch of cats roaming around her apartment and it didn’t seem like a bad plan in your eyes. Spencer seemed to have one of his own, though.

When you had opened your café-slash-bookstore, a dream you’d had since you were a kid and devoured books every day at the school cafeteria instead of lunch, he had been one of your first regular customers; he was definitely the first one you cared enough to remember. He didn’t talk much and at first you didn’t mind, you liked the quiet, but with each month that passed curiosity started getting the better of you. “Good morning,” and “thanks” seemed to be the only words in his vocabulary and it was starting to piss you off.

You clearly didn’t know he could probably recite the entire dictionary from memory back then.

You told your friends about the situation and when they side-eyed each other knowingly you were quick to correct them.

“It’s not like that. He just wants to be mysterious so bad it pisses me off.” You hid your face in your cup of coffee because, deep down, you knew it was exactly like that; you were just too scared to admit it yet.

You weren’t ready to admit that you were secretly hoping he’d show up for his thirty minutes of uninterrupted reading time and black coffee every morning.

The following week you had pulled an all-nighter to read the book he was to be able to talk to him about it; you didn’t confess it to him or your friends either until you reached the six month mark of dating a few weeks ago.

As soon as you had seen him walking by through the window, you’d gotten your book from beneath the counter, almost knocking over the cup of coffee you were in the process of making. You were too focused on your plan to be embarrassed about the other clients eyeing you as you tried to pretend you hadn’t seen him walk in.

The only reaction out of him that had gotten was a shy, acknowledging smile. 

“Good book, huh?” You tried again when he had called you over for a refill; that was unusual, he never surpassed the one cup.

“The protagonist is a bit annoying,” he answered.

You took it as an invitation, and sat, slapping the table clumsily and definitely harder than you intended. “Right!?”

He looked a perfect amalgamation of amused and confused, but you were too far in to back out. You went on a ramble about your thoughts on the book, which, you couldn’t lie, was actually ejoyable, and were only stopped by Spencer standing up abruptly after checking his watch.

“Shit, I’m almost an hour late for work.”

He said his goodbyes to you and ran out the door. It was the first time in the months he had been coming to the café where he hadn’t thrown his trash on the can or brought his empty cup back to the counter.

‘Move has been made,’ you had texted your friend group. An assortment of cheerings and silly stickers from them followed. You ignored any follow-up questions and refused to give more details.

The next day he had asked for your number and the rest had been history; history that you had decided to materialize in a sort of scrapbook filled with pictures, tickets from dates you’d been on and the concert of your favorite band he’d taken you to as a surprise, doodles, stickers and whatever else you’d been able to find, now that you were about to reach another big milestone together. It was your first Christmas since you had met him and he had invited you to a little get-together with some of his coworkers.

Dinner with Penelope, Derek, Emily, Jennifer, and Aaron, you now know after having been properly introduced, had gone by pleasantly save for the few moments of embarrassment when retelling the story of how you and Spencer met with your cheeks flushed. After all, it hadn’t been that long since Spencer himself knew the whole story. It was met with each person’s version of ‘aw, that’s so cute’. Penelope, fan of all things romantic you inferred, even got teary-eyed; Derek didn’t let the opportunity pass him by and teased her about it.  

Now that everyone has left and you are all alone with Spencer again, you worry it isn’t an appropriate Christmas gift and ponder if you should just give him the few books you had bought him as a backup plan. Books were always a good gift for a reader, but Spencer was special; he could probably finish them all in an hour. 

Spencer comes back into the living room with two cups of steaming tea in hand.

“You okay?” 

Damn profilers.

You let out a sound you meant as an affirmation and instead ends up as a strangled squeal. You clear your throat.

“Yes,” you try again.

He sits next to you on the sofa and gets his shoes off to match you. You turn your head to look at him, determined to stop obsessively staring at the two gift bags under the Christmas tree.

“You’re acting weird.”

You choose to concede part of it. “I was anxious about meeting everyone.” Your words fit with the way you play with the ends of your sweater sleeves and the little sips you give your tea.

“But that’s over now; it went great.” He reflects. “It’s something else.”

You shrug and he decides not to push you for an answer. 

“Do you wanna see your gift?”

While curiosity is killing you, you don’t want him to open his. You accept his proposal anyway.

He hands you his bag, red with green stripes and some cellophane paper sticking out, and smiles expectantly while you open it. Inside there is a book, some bookmarks, and a little black box you instantly recognize is for jewelry. 

Inside the box lies a necklace you remember pointing at from outside while you had been window shopping with Spencer just the week prior. 

“Spencer, no.” Your mouth hangs open as you admire the piece of jewelry. 

“You don’t like it?” His brows furrow.

“Are you kidding? It’s beautiful but—” you look at him in disbelief, “This is so expensive, I can’t—”

“I actually had something else planned…” He cuts you off, changing the subject, but you can’t stop trying to recall the price tag. “Something much more special but it didn’t arrive on time so I had to improvise a little.”

“I’m going to kill you.” The smile on your face is anything but murderous. “I feel so silly about my gift now.”

“The only thing silly is you feeling silly. Give me my gift,” he jokes, motioning with his hands for you to give him the bag you’re holding on to for dear life.

You hand over the bag to him and immediately go to cover your face. You sneak a peek through a gap in between your fingers as he’s getting the journal out. 

He takes his time flipping through the pages and reading and examining everything carefully. Every once in a while he’ll run his fingers through something to feel the texture. Once he’s finished, he closes the journal and just stays still with an unreadable expression on his face. 

He huffs, a sign he’s about to say something when you interrupt him with a knot in your throat; maybe you had accepted too many refills of your wine glass from Derek.

“You hate it.” The lights of the Christmas tree reflect on your glassy eyes.

“What?” His voice comes out high-pitched. 

You take the bag from him and get the books out to show him. “I bought you these too.” 

“I love them but—” 

“I feel like a kid gifting a card with pasta glued on it for mother’s day.” A tear has started to fall down your cheek.

He grabs your wrists and calls your name, anchoring you back to the present.

“What?” You ask.

“I love it.” He lowers his head to look up at you, since you’re avoiding his eyes. “It’s probably the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given to me.”

“You mean it?”

“I do.” He stares for a moment, deciding something. “Do you wanna know what I wanted to give you originally?”

You nod as you grab a tissue to blow your nose.

He stands up and makes his way to his desk. He opens a drawer and pulls out a book you recognize immediately. 

It’s a romance novel, not exactly Spencer’s genre of choice, but you can see colored sticky tabs peeking out of the first half. 

He flips through the pages without showing too much but you can make out a ‘you’ with a heart next to it beside a paragraph. “It arrived two days ago and I tried to have it ready on time but—“ 

You launch yourself at him to shut him up with a kiss. He grabs your hips to support you and keep you on the couch. 

You pull away out of breath. 

“You remembered.”

“I’ll always remember.”

“That’s not fair. You have an eidetic memory.” You push him playfully.

“I like to think it works better for you.” 

You sit in comfortable silence, foolishly staring into each other’s eyes.

“Do you wanna know something?”

‘I’d put your brain under a microscope if I could’ you think but choose to nod instead. You feel intense enough as is.

“The first three months I started going to the café, I never gathered the courage to ask for more packets of sugar. You always gave me just one but I never said anything because every time you looked at me you left me speechless.” He stops to take a sip from his tea and smiles. “We can now tell that story along with your book one.”

You lean in for another kiss and he tips his head back to whisper.

“You’re not the only one in love.”

thank you for reading, reblogs and replies are always appreciated <3

back to advent calendar

[reidrum]

exile

note: happy december i hope ur all doing well <3 a little something to hold u over until next friday when i start 12 days of reidrumas ok love u

summary: in which you and JJ are the ones held hostage in truth or dare

cw: spoilers for 14x15 truth or dare, hurt/comfort, angst, fem!reader, a heated makeout, reader wears a dress and heels, take a shot everytime reader tears up

wc: 3.6k

p.s. i am a glutton for praise if you couldn't tell from any of my fics but i love hearing what y'all think so plsplspls lemme know your thoughts in a comment or drop in my ask box!!!!

You’re not really sure where it went wrong.

When you joined JJ to pursue Casey, it was out of convenience. You both were simply closer to his last location. No one could’ve predicted he’d take you both hostage or make you play a twisted game of truth or dare at gunpoint.

No one could have predicted that Casey would force you and JJ to reveal details that hadn’t seen the light of day. He didn’t even care for those secrets, egging you both on to reveal something that would satisfy his masochistic itch. When he realizes that neither of you would break, he ups the ante by angling the gun to the middle of your head. JJ panics and speaks before she can even process what she said.

Because as you’re staring down the barrel of the gun clocked at your forehead, you realize the bullet isn’t inside the cylinder, it’s in JJ’s next words.

I’ve always loved Spencer.

You look at her mouth agape, blood draining from your face and tears springing to your eyes. She returns your gaze with one full of remorse and pity. To any onlooker, it would seem like a harmless confession. But they didn’t know the times you confided in JJ about your feelings for Spencer, the late nights at the office she’d stay with you giving advice and words of wisdom, when all JJ wanted was for her friend to be happy.

But now, how much of that can you believe to be true?

Casey seems to be satisfied with your reaction as he lowers his gun, with you reacting quickly grabbing your hidden second pistol and gunning him down. The only audible noise left is the heavy breathing of you both, the adrenaline rush starting to fade. JJ says your name remorsefully, but she’s interrupted by the rest of the team and police arriving to the scene.

The next thing you remember is sitting outside on the back of an ambulance rig, blankly staring out at your new reality. JJ loves Spencer.

You couldn’t compete, how could you? She was JJ. and you were, you. You had lost before you even began, you might as well toss the towel now.

It makes hugging Spence for what could be the last time—not to be dramatic—bittersweet. To know that this is an insignificantly normal moment he won’t remember, but one that you’ll play on repeat for the rest of your life.

Spencer holds you close into his chest with his arm smoothing out your back, “Thank god you’re okay, are you hurt?”

You scoff internally. Yes, but not in a way that can be fixed. In a way that you are not privy to yet, but once you are it will rip us to shreds.

“I’m fine, just a few scratches.”

He nods while examining you with his own mental checklist, “Okay, if your head starts hurting or your vision gets blurry you need to tell the EMT.” you nod as he adds on, “I’m gonna go check on JJ, you’ll be okay?”

No, no I won’t. There is no reality that exists where I can be okay anymore.

“I’m good. Go.”

He squeezes your shoulders and with another nod he walks over to where JJ rests on another ambulance rig, her arms instantly opening to welcome Spencer’s warm embrace. His back is facing you and JJ’s face rests over his shoulder, her eyes meeting yours in a look of sadness, grief. You look away before you can read more into it.

Wrapping the foil blanket around you tighter you let your head fall back and stare at the night sky, hoping there was a message out in the stars that would tell you what to do.

Your relationship with Spencer was, on the surface, nothing more than a friendship. He had joined the BAU only a year prior to you and when you came along it was clear from the first second that you two would be inseparable. Small talks in the bullpen quickly turned into mornings spent at the coffee shop, into weekly movie nights debating the superior science fiction franchise, to holding his hand when he needed a friend.

To Spencer, you were his anchor. Through all the trials and tribulations his life had dealt him, he knew he didn’t need to worry so much as long as you were around.

To you, Spencer was all consuming. He was threaded through every neuron and vessel in your body, intricately and impossibly tethered to you that it would take the work of the divine to painfully separate him from you.

Or, one Jennifer Jaraeu.

You don’t even realize tears are falling down your face until the EMT taps your shoulder and asks if anything has started to hurt again. Quickly shaking your head, you unravel yourself from the foil blanket and hand it back to her. You spare one last glance back at Spencer and JJ, eyes immediately zeroing on their joined hands, his thumb gently brushing the top of hers.

Your feet trudge you back to where the team is set up, one look to Emily and she’s already excusing herself from her conversation. She walks over to you phone up to her ear, saying something about you. You’re not really sure, it’s all water noise.

“Anderson will be here in about five minutes to take you home,”

You nod silently, not willing to make eye contact. Emily could sense your turmoil from a mile away, chalk it up to the Pisces moon in her but behind the hard exterior she put up there lay Emily, your empathetic friend who just wanted to hug your shattered pieces back together.

“You’ll be okay?” The second time you’ve been asked, your answer is still unchanged.

No. “Yeah.”

She sighs knowingly. The reason the two of you were such close friends was because of your similar ability to remain emotionally bottled up until it was too late, resulting in an outburst enough to take out armies and yourselves.

Anderson honks the car as he pulls up, alerting you of his arrival. Emily looks from the car back to you,  “I should go check on JJ.”

“Woman of the hour, it seems.” you chuckle under your breath.

Emily gives you that look, the conflicted ‘I’m sorry our friend made you feel this way, I still have to check on her.” look.

You brush her off, your casualness hopefully sending the message that the situation isn’t that deep. For her, you think.

The sound of the car unlocking rings through your ear as you hop in the passenger seat. Anderson tries to make small talk with you to no success, settling for the late night 00s radio station as he pulls up to your house, driving off as you bid him goodnight with a wave.

The breeze of your empty apartment greets you as you open the door, the air chillier than you’d expect for the season. You tug your shoes off harshly, placing your keys on the mail table next to the door. Your heart drops as you catch sight of a floral embossed card lying on top of your mail on the table.

Rossi’s wedding.

The one you were told to absolutely prioritize, the one in which JJ had helped you find a dress for, the one where you hoped you’d feel brave enough to tell Spencer how you truly felt.

You sigh deeply knowing you still had to show up and look presentable tomorrow despite being held hostage only 24 hours prior. But, maybe this is how you make a clean break. All this time you’ve been in love with Spencer and nothing has happened, despite all the signs you think you’re giving him. Maybe this is the opportunity to save Spencer from further tension, albeit unknown to him at this point, and let him finally be happy.

You knew about the Redskins game, how excited he was to go with JJ and yet it turned into something he hadn’t anticipated. You were new to the BAU at the time but your heart still ached for him, unable to understand how anyone would pass up on someone so special like Spencer Reid. It seems she’s finally come to her senses.

You take your dead phone out of your pocket to place it on the charger and you head into the bathroom to take a quick shower. The hot water loosens your tense muscles enough to prick tears in the back of your eyes, and you turn off the water before you can get too worked up. Once you’ve dried off you check on your phone on the bedside table seeing it’s turned back on, a flurry of missed texts and calls showing up.

11:14PM - Emily: Get home safe?

You heart the message and reply with a simple ‘Yes.’, scrolling to the next messages.

10:09PM - JJ:  Did you get home? 10:10PM - Missed Call from JJ 10:15PM - (2) Missed Calls from JJ 10:24PM - JJ:  I’m sorry, please let me explain. 10:25PM - Missed Call from JJ

You consider leaving her on read, not willing to entertain a conversation at this point, but you settle for an ‘It’s fine.’ for the sake of having communicated your safety.

10:13PM - Spence: Hey, where are you? 10:20PM - Spence: The EMT said you took off? Did you leave? 11:34PM - Spence: Emily just told me Anderson drove you back. You could’ve told me, I would have taken you home.

Your chuckle sadly at the text, Spencer hated driving but he would do it for you. It almost makes you think that your relationship could withstand the harsh weathering it’s been subjected to.

12:07AM - You: Sorry, phone died. I’m home now.

A response dings through a minute later.

12:08AM - Spence: I’ll go to the store tomorrow and get you a portable charger to keep in your bag. You should get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow for the wedding right? Well, the wedding that’s today seeing as it’s past midnight. You know what I mean.

A single tear falls down your face at his rambling words. Oh, how you’d miss this once he learns what’s really happened.

12:10AM - You: I’ll be there. See you tomorrow, or today? You know what I mean. Good night.

12:11AM - Spence: Good night :)

—

You smooth out your dress before going up the steps, making eyes with Penelope at the top. You’re wearing a silk chiffon dress in purple, deliberately picked for Spencer’s favorite color, some strappy heels and some dainty jewelry painting you in as the picture of elegance.

“Hey hot stuff, look at you!” Penelope exclaims squeezing you tightly, “You look sooo pretty, doesn’t she look so pretty?” she gestures to the two men behind her you now acknowledge to be Luke and Spencer.

“Like a dream.” Luke agrees.

“Yeah,” Spencer clears his throat, “You look…beautiful.”

Penelope the Oracle of All Time quickly senses the 

atmosphere created and grabs Luke’s forearm, “Come on, you owe me that dance now!” She looks back and slyly gives you a thumbs up before dragging Luke further onto the dance floor.

Spencer slips into the vacated space to be right next to you, “How are you feeling?”

You know he’s asking about how you were held hostage at gunpoint, and not about how he’s about to become the loss of your life.

“ ‘M fine,” you swirl your champagne glass, “You?”

“Better now.”

A ghost of a smile creeps up on you, but you don’t let it travel further than that. He’s just being nice.

“Well, I’m just going to find the bathroom really quick.”

He holds a hand out for your glass, “Here, I’ll hold it.”

Your smile returns with bearings this time as you wander off in search of the bathroom. You’d feel embarrassed by how long it took you to find it but this place was massive, the Rossi money ran deep. Retracing your steps back to the main room you find Spencer and your glass not in the same place he was when you left. You scan the room looking for him and finally find him deep in conversation with—oh.

They’re too far for you to be able to hear them, but you can imagine that it’s the conversation. You watch JJ squeeze his forearm with affection and suddenly you can’t take it anymore. You couldn’t stand there and watch yourself become collateral in real time. Spencer turns at the sound of rustling up the spiral staircase followed by a door closing, catching the last glimpse of purple before it vanishes.

Spencer feels sick. He’s overwhelmed and overstimulated at the new information he’s learned about what really happened in the gas station. Then he comes to the realization of how walking in on him and JJ talking must have made you feel. His feet are carrying him up the stairs before he even realizes he’s made the choice. 

He finds you at the end of the hallway and calls out your name with a firmness you’d never heard from him. But you’ve cut all the strings of sanity by now, and you whip around and snap, “What?”

He doesn’t like that tone. “JJ told me what happened.”

You snort and don’t meet his eyes, “Oh, did she?”

His brows furrow, “Yes, she did.”

“And?”

“And what?”

And what? Is he serious? Did you have to spell it out for him? It borderlines sadist the way he’s putting you through the ringer.

“What happens now, Spencer?” you exasperate, “Is this the part where you tell me we can’t be friends anymore because she finally confessed?”

Confusion colors his face more, “Why wouldn’t we be friends?”

A halfway scream—groan leaves your throat in frustration. “Spencer, come on.”

“Honey, I don’t understand—“

“That! See, you can’t just say things like that knowing what has to happen, and expect me to react like a normal person.” you exclaim with hands flailing.

“I’m really confused—“

“Because I’m in love with you!” you cry, “Now do you see why?”

Time all but stills in the hallway you’ve found yourselves in. You don’t know how long you’ve been up here. It’s a little farther down from the stairways so there’s no threat of evesdroppers, but with how worked up you’re getting the proximity renders itself useless. The faint muffle of animated conversations and lively jazz music fills the silence between you and Spencer, who looks like…well, actually for once you can’t decipher what he’s feeling. 

He looks like he’s about to open his mouth when you both turn your head to the ascending footsteps—JJ looking for you, or Spencer probably, to come cut the cake. Spencer darts his eyes between the walls, a nervous tic you’d caught on to, before you realize he’s looking for a door and pulling you inside one. You yelp at the unexpected force and quickly quiet down again. The light switches on and based on the furniture you conclude that it’s a powder room, because of course Rossi’s venue has a powder room.

It’s a tiny room, big enough for a vanity table and a chaise lounge. Small enough to not have any room to leave without going past him. You stand an arm’s length away from him, the faint muffles of talk and music replaced by your sniffling. You shouldn’t have come, you start to realize. Having to say goodbye to him in person might actually rip you apart. Your chest weighs heavy with that familiar sad irony of mourning someone who hasn’t even told you they’re leaving yet. Preemptive measures that turned into routine practice. 

You sniffle, “Look, it doesn’t matter anymore, not that it ever did. I’m sorry I just sprung it on you like that, that was unfair. JJ…I thought JJ was my friend, I guess she is still but I’m not too sure now. But…she’s JJ and I’m just me and I know both of your pasts with each other so obviously it would be her. I’m making this too big a deal, I think. I just want you to be happy, in whatever capacity that looks like and I know it’s not with me so—“

Spencer stops your rambling by silently reaching out for your arm to pull you right in front of him, his hands reach to cup your face up to his, thumbs naturally swiping away the tears. He says your name like a coo, with a softness and delicacy you don’t feel you deserve right now. It hurts your heart entirely.

“Please don’t make this harder than it is.” you whisper through soft sobs.

You don’t know when it happens. Maybe in between scrunching your eyes or staring at your feet—but it happens. A cold pressure, then warmth, his lips are warm when he kisses you. A little surprising that he still tastes like Penelope’s sugary mocktail from earlier. A welcome pressure on your face as he holds you in place, as if you’d slip away further if he let go.

He stills in place, thinking he’s overstepped, until you finally remember that his lips are on your lips. You return the force back with as much as he gave you and let your arms loop around his neck, his own sliding from your face to take purchase on your hips.

That’s when Spencer starts kissing you. His hands grip your hips and tug you even closer as he deepens the kiss, plunging deeper back into the plush of your thighs to sit you on top of the vanity table. He slots himself between your legs, your hands wandering up to tug at the hairs on the nape of his neck. A soft groan leaves his throat and he detaches from your lips to amble down your neck, leaving a trail of lovebites in its wake.

This is wrong, like so wrong. You’re practically opening a salt box and pouring its entire contents on your wounds. But dammit, if this is the only time you’ll ever get to kiss Spencer, you’re sure as hell going to make the most out of the fleeting moment.

He mumbles something in between kisses to your neck, you instinctively ask him to say it again not expecting a response, and you immediately regret it as you feel his presence get lighter as he pulls away.

One more kiss to the spot behind your ear, he feels you preening below him and makes note of this—amongst everything else—for later, he pulls back to meet your eyes again.

“I love you.”

Your face drops, “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not being funny.”

Yes he is, he has to be. Because the universe in which Spencer Reid allows a piece of—the whole of it according to him, unbeknownst to you—his heart to be fully yours is not this one. You’ve never had luck like that.

“Then you’re lying to me, and that’s worse.” your voice cracks, Spencer feels the same crack imprinted on his heart.

“Sweetheart, I’m not lying. I love you.” He says it again to your surprise, the tenderness of his touch returning as he deliberates how to disarm you. The defensiveness you have isn’t surprising to him, it’s the note of insecurity in your tone he isn’t ready for, like you are unable to even believe it could be you. 

You’re a dandelion, he thinks, the puffballs teetering attachment to their base with one wrong move sending them astray into the wind. He’s wading treacherous weather but he finds that for you he’d do anything and everything eyes closed if he had to.

“…Really?” you ask meekly. He nods slowly, never breaking his gaze on you. “But…JJ.”

His eyes soften and he nods in understanding, “There was a point in my life where, yes that was all I was waiting to hear,” he starts, “But, I am no longer at that point in my life anymore. I’m here now. She knows that.”

You’re unconvinced, Spencer can see it clear as day. Maybe it’s more apprehensive than unconvinced, but no one could blame you. How are you to believe anything when you went through what you did in the last 24 hours? You look defeated if anything, like you’d accepted your fate of always coming second place.

Spencer racks his brain hard trying to think of a way to show you that the podium doesn’t even exist, it’s only ever been you.

He pulls out his wallet and rifles through the many things inside, finding what he’s looking for before handing it to you. You look up at him in confusion when you make it out to be a movie ticket stub from the Korean film festival you’d both attended a little after you started at the BAU, the first time the two of you ever spent time together. The edges are soft and smoothed out as a result of time, like it’s been held and comforted for many days.

“There’s more in my apartment.”

“Movie ticket stubs?” you ask bemused.

“Commemorations of you,” his fingers brush the span of your arm up and down soothingly, “I probably have something for every time we’ve ever hung out. If it reminds me of you, I have it.”

Tears well up in your eyes for the umpteenth time, a few spilling over rapidly.

“Hey no, you’re not supposed to cry at that.” he whispers softly between you, his thumb taking the rightful and familiar place under your eye to catch the tears.

You shake your head, “I don’t think I’ve ever been loved like this.”

His heart tightens, “No? Well, I think you have to get used to it now.”

“No choice?” you pout.

He catches the timbre of humor in your voice and smiles widely. He hugs you tightly, pressing your head into his chest, “I guess you don’t have to. Just because you’re not used to it doesn’t mean I’ll stop. If you’re like this now, wait till you see the box I have of our things.”

You sniffle again, your head reeling as your tears stain his shirt and the scent of him invades your being. It’s overwhelming and all consuming, just how you know Spencer to be. He doesn’t expect you to believe him right away, you’ve been through so much that it would be unfair to ask that of you. You don’t know what tomorrow holds, or even the rest of this night, but one thing you have learned is that to Spencer you are known, and therefore you are loved.