Cynbx

Loves Criminal Minds (especially MGG) and reading books. Just started playing Arcana and I am hooked. I am almost middle age. Damn it, I am old.

[reidingafterdark]

S.R. MDNI +18

From the moment you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, he knew he wouldn't last long. He could have cum with just the visual of you undoing his belt, pulling the zipper down with your teeth. Never in his entire life has be paid closer attention to the details of your hands, fingers gently pulling him out of his boxers, your lips, tongue... your tongue, the tip of which is currently sliding just under the head of his cock, skillfully stimulating all the nerve endings on the underside of his length, spots that pulse pleasure through him that he didn't know was even possible. The quiet moans spilling from his lips, muffled by his own fist, are music to your ears. You'd want him to be louder, if only the others wouldn't hear on the other sides of the walls. Your nails dig into his hips where they're slipped into his waistband, and the feeling makes his back arch. He sacrifices some of the stimulation in favor of lacing his fingers through yours, his impending orgasm causing him to need the grounding. His eyes roll back as he approaches the edge, and the feeling of his cock twitching inside your mouth as you take in every drop of cum that pulses out of him is astronomical. It rolls through his body, licking through him, vibrating hot. You continue your ministrations until he's to the precipice of overstimulation, hips twitching with each pass of your lips, your tongue, cleaning him up. "L-let me help," he offers, wanting to be useful despite how limbless he feels. You chuckle, mouth closed, slowly crawling your way up until youre hovering above him. You smile, something devious and all beautiful. You tap his chin, and he raises it, expecting, maybe, a kiss. He parts his lips and you grip his chin before spitting his cum back into his own mouth, an action that has his eyes widening, cheeks burning red, and cock twitching again unexpectedly. You smile, laugh, and press your lips to his. The makeout is hotter, sticker than hes ever experienced and he doesnt have time to think about hygiene when all he wants is to be inside, inside, inside you.

[cynbx]

Fantastic story.

[milla984]

King Knight screencaps MGG as Thorn Adams

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @reidsbookclub @cynbx

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

»— Masterlists links in bio —«

[cynbx]

Looks like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. 🤣🤣🤣

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 34)

Something Nice

summary: Spencer takes you on a real date. Candles, dinner, and a satin black dress that your uncle definitely disapproves of...

Word count: 7.5k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), smut, but like sweet smut? idk lol ummm protected sex (yay good), perv!spencer a bit, yeah. awkward spencer hehe, um whimpering? idk what else maybe fingering and loss of virginity (spencer)

_____

Summer comes to a close without you really noticing. It slips through your fingers so easily through syllabi, a few too many trips to the campus bookstore, and the slow realization that you’ve stopped counting the days since the hospital.

The bruises disappeared weeks ago, the surgical incisions have turned from scabs to scars, and your ribs have stopped aching when you laugh.

Life hasn't returned to exactly what it was before. You're not sure it ever could. There are still moments when a stranger walking too close makes your shoulders tense before your brain catches up. You still wake from the occasional nightmare, convinced for half a second that you're back in the dark before remembering you're safe in your own bed.

But those moments are becoming fewer. They're no longer every day.

Your second year of college begins with more confidence than your first ever did. You switched to a hybrid of in person and online courses. You know where your classes are now. You recognize professors in the hallways. You don't have to pull up a campus map every twenty minutes pretending you definitely meant to walk in the opposite direction. 

By Friday afternoon, though, your brain feels like it's been wrung out like a sponge.

Three lectures, two discussion sections and a journalism ethics assignment already due Sunday.

You drop your backpack onto your bedroom floor with enough force that one of your notebooks slides halfway across the room. You collapse onto your bed immediately afterward, staring up at the ceiling.

So much for easing into the semester.

Your phone buzzes beside you. It’s Spencer. You smile before you've even opened the message.

It's ridiculous, really. You haven't gone a single day without talking to Spencer Reid in months. Sometimes it's only a five-minute phone call before bed because he's on a case in another state. Sometimes it's three hours spent sitting on opposite ends of Rossi's couch while you do homework and Spencer reads journal articles aloud every few minutes because he found something fascinating.

You look down at the message.

SPENCER: So, how did your first week go?

YOU: i think my brain has liquified.

SPENCER: Good thing that’s not possible. I like your brain. 

You smile. Your phone rings before you have time to answer. 

“Hi,” you smile into the phone.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is quieter over the phone than it is in person. You can hear papers shuffling somewhere in the background.

"Still at work?" you ask.

"For approximately another..." he pauses, presumably checking the time. "...eleven minutes."

“So why are you calling me if you’re still at work?”

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner tonight,” he says carefully. “Like…a date?”

“A real one?” you ask, smiling as if he could see it.

“I wasn’t aware there were fake ones,” he says.

“You’re funny,” you tell him.

“So, is that a yes?” he asks.

“Yes, it is a yes.”

“Cool,” he says. You can practically hear his smile. “I’ll um…I’ll pick you up at 6:00?” He says it like it’s a question.

“What kind of ‘date’ is this?” you ask, meaning…attire? You assumed that was obvious.

“A real one?” he says, echoing your earlier statement.

“I meant what do I wear,” you say, giggling at how dense the smartest man you know can be.

“O-oh,” he realizes. “Um, just something nice,” he says. 

“Okay,” you smile again. He can’t see it, you just can’t hold it back. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“See you in an hour,” he repeats before hanging up the phone.

You sit your phone to the side and stare at your ceiling for a moment, thinking of what ‘nice’ means. A dress? That could be too formal. A skirt? That really depends on the top. Pants? Too risky for informality. You get up and look in your closet, hoping something jumps out at you. Somehow, you feel like you’ve never owned fewer clothes in your life.

The first dress you pull out is dark green and floor length, rhinestones outline the corset area. It feels far too formal, so you put it back. The next is shorter, light pink, with white and pale yellow flowers scattered everywhere. Too summer-y. You look at a few skirts. They all feel…professional. 

You stare blankly into your closet like the right outfit might appear if you just look at it for long enough. 

What does ‘something nice’ even mean?

You push through the entirety of your closet, the sound of hangers scraping along the metal bar starting to hurt your ears. At the very back, there’s a solid black satin dress with lace trim that you haven’t worn in…ever?

You take it off the hanger and stare at it, convincing yourself to just put the damn thing on before you drive yourself crazy by looking through your clothes for the third time.

It’s short, probably a little shorter than you would normally go for, but it wasn’t awful. It had thin spaghetti straps and sat low enough on your chest that made you feel a little…exposed, but it wasn’t completely whoreish; nothing a cardigan couldn’t make feel better. It hugs your waist in a way that feels elegant, highlighting the curvature of your body. You smooth your hands over the fabric, deciding that it was either going to be this, or you were cancelling. 

Your eyes wander across your room until they stop on the back of your desk chair. Folded neatly over it is a grey cardigan that Spencer had left a while ago and just never took back.

You slip it on over the dress, leaving the buttons undone. The oversized sleeves fall just past your wrists, and the familiar scent of cedar, coffee, and whatever laundry detergent Spencer used had faded over time but never disappeared completely. It was comforting in a way you couldn't quite explain.

You glance back at the mirror. The black dress still looked like something you'd wear on a date. The sweater made it feel like a date with Spencer. Satisfied, you move into the bathroom to figure out something to do with your hair and makeup.

By the time you’re finished, the grandfather clock in the hallway reads 5:53.

Seven minutes.

You make your way downstairs, smoothing your hands over the front of your dress for what has to be the tenth time. It suddenly feels shorter than it did upstairs. Much shorter.

Your uncle is sitting in his usual armchair with a manuscript spread across his lap, his reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up when he hears your footsteps. You can feel his eyes assessing you.

“What?” you ask, acting like you don’t know exactly what he’s thinking.

“I didn’t know you owned clothes that didn’t belong to Spencer,” he says, taking his glasses off and folding them on the coffee table.

“I mean, the sweater is his,” you say, fondling one of the buttons.

“Thank god,” he mumbles. You don’t know if he means ‘thank god the dress isn’t also Spencer’s’ or ‘thank god you’re wearing something to cover it up.’ Either way seems like a legitimate concern he’d have.

“So what’s the issue?” you ask.

“There isn’t one,” he says flatly, narrowing his eyes. “But there will be one if Spencer even looks an inch below your face.”

You can feel heat rush to your cheeks. If there was an award for worlds most embarrassing uncle, you’re fairly positive David Rossi would have it in the bag.

“It’s not even that bad,” you say. You don’t know if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

Before he can answer, the doorbell rings. Your uncle stands to get the door on his own. He pats your shoulder as he walks past you.

“The sweater was a good idea,” he says, turning to the door.

You hear Spencer’s voice first. A little higher than normal, and a little hoarse. You can tell jus tby the way he sounds that his ears are red. 

“Good evening, Dave,” he says.

“Evening,” your uncle answers, stepping aside to let Spencer in.

He'd traded his usual work attire for something just a little softer. Dark slacks instead of brown, a black and white flannel button down with a plain black jacket over it. His curls were still a little unruly despite what looked like an honest attempt to tame them, his glasses sat straight on his nose, you’d almost bet he made sure of it in the mirror of his car before coming inside, and his messenger bag was nowhere in sight for what felt like the first time since you'd met him.

Instead, he was holding a small bouquet of pale pink roses.

"...Hi," he says, somehow sounding surprised.

"Hi,” you smile.

His eyes meet yours. Then involuntarily drop. Not far, just from your eyes to the neckline of your dress, Almost immediately, like he'd burned himself, he jerks his gaze back up.

You can actually watch the color climb into his ears. He clears his throat.

"You..." His eyes betray him again, flicking downward for the briefest second before snapping back to your face. "...You look..." he pauses again, searching for words. "...beautiful." 

He rubs the back of his neck, still refusing to let his eyes stay anywhere except your face for more than half a second.

"The dress is..." his voice catches in his throat. "...It's very flattering."

His eyes betray him again, looking a little lower, at your waist now. He forces them back up. He looks genuinely annoyed with himself.

Behind him, Rossi watches the entire exchange with folded arms. He notices every stolen glance, every panicked correction, every increasingly red shade of Spencer's ears. You’re grateful for his silence, because you know if he were to say anything, there was a better chance of Spencer bursting into tears than not.

Finally, Spencer remembers the flowers in his hand.

"Oh," he chirps, looking down at them as though he'd forgotten they existed. "These are for you." He holds them out a little awkwardly. "I know roses are the most common flower to bring on a first date, but pink roses traditionally symbolize admiration and gratitude rather than romantic passion, which I thought was more appropriate because we’ve been together for 146 days."

"They're beautiful,” you smile, taking the bouquet before he can say anything else.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You simply look at him. He looks back, actually at your eyes this time, though it’s obvious it’s taking effort.

Rossi finally clears his throat. Loudly.

Spencer straightens so fast you'd think he'd been caught committing a federal crime.

"You ready?" you ask him, knowing he was just going to stand there until you made him move. He nods.

You slip your purse over your shoulder and walk toward the door. Spencer automatically reaches out, taking it from you before you can protest. As you step onto the porch together, Rossi follows close behind.

"You kids have fun,” he calls out.

"We will," you answer. Spencer nods politely.

Rossi points directly at him. One finger. Very serious.

"Reid."

"Yes, sir?" he answers.

"Be safe."

“I will be,” Spencer smiles. 

They’re definitely thinking two totally different things.

Spencer opens the passenger door of his car for you, waiting until you buckle your seatbelt before shutting it and making his way to the driver's side. The car is silent as he pulls out of the driveway and starts down the road, not an awkward silence, just…a silence that is filled with a search for a conversation.

Spencer keeps glancing over at you. Between you and the dark road. Over and over again. After the sixth time, he finally speaks.

“Y/N,” he says sheepishly.

“Yeah?” you turn toward him.

“You look…” he glances at you. “so…” he pauses, seeming dissatisfied with every adjective his brain supplied. “...hot.”

“I know,” you smile. 

“...You know?” he blinks.

“You’ve looked at my body far more than my eyes,” you say smugly.

“I-I’m sorry,” he apologizes, immediately feeling guilty. "I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," you assure him.

"No?"

"No."

He risked another glance. "You really do look beautiful."

This time there wasn't any fumbling. No nervous explanation. No attempt to correct himself. Just simple honesty.

"Thank you."

He smiled to himself before looking back at the road. A comfortable silence settled over the car again. It lasted almost three whole minutes before Spencer spoke again.

"...Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"You know what I mean," he sighs.

"I do."

"...Do you think Dave believes I'm a bad driver?" He frowned thoughtfully.

"...What?" you look over, confused on what could’ve made him think that thought.

"When we were leaving he told me to be safe," he explains. You hold back a laugh, because you know if you let it out, he’ll stop talking. And you are very curious where he is going with this.

"I've never been in a motor vehicle accident while operating one,” he continues. "I've also only received one speeding ticket."

"You got a speeding ticket?" you’re surprised.

"It was in Nevada."

"Of course it was."

"I was 20," he defends.

You smile. He glanced over briefly, smiling at your smile before his face falls again and he turns back to the road. "...Do you think he doesn't trust my driving?"

You stared at him for a second. "...Spence."

"Yeah?"

"You genuinely don't know what he meant?"

"...No?" He looked completely confused.

You tried very hard not to laugh.

"You have no idea?"

"No! What am I missing?”

You pressed your lips together. He was so earnest. So completely, painfully sincere.

"...Dave wasn't talking about your driving,” you start.

"Then what was he talking about?" Spencer interrupts.

"He meant..." You bit the inside of your cheek. "...Use a condom."

Silence. Absolute silence. Spencer's entire body went rigid. You watched the realization travel across his face in real time. Confusion. Recognition. Understanding. Humiliation. Mortification. So many emotions explode across his face all at once.

"Oh." His ears turned bright red. "...Oh."

He stared so intensely at the windshield you were fairly certain he forgot you were sitting beside him. You feel a little guilty for laughing, but you can’t help yourself.

“I thought he was expressing concern for road safety,” Spencer says, still looking horrified.

“He was expressing concern,” you crack.

“...Not about the road,” he says, running a hand through his hair nervously. “I am never speaking to David Rossi again.

“I don’t think that’s an option,” you laugh.

The car stills as you reach a red light. Spencer drops his forehead softly against the steering wheel.

“This is the worst day of my life,” he mumbles.

“No it’s not,” you giggle, reaching over and resting your hand on his forearm.

“...Top ten?” he asks, peeking over at you.

“Maybe top fifty,” you smile.

“I’ll take top fifty.”

The light turns green. Spencer lifts his head with all the dignity he could manage, which at the moment, is very little.

“I’d like to let you know,” he mutters after another minute of silence. “I had no intention of doing anything that would’ve required that to have been said.”

“I think that’s why he likes you so much,” you say.

“Really?” he asks, glancing over at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road.

“Yeah.”

A small smile finally finds its way back to his face.

“So…” you say, vaguely suggestively.

“No,” he groans, knowing you’re about to make fun of him for something.

“You’re saying you weren’t checking me out?” you ask.

“...Y/N,” he says, knowing he’s caught.

“I’m just asking,” you say innocently.

“I was,” he admits, letting out a long sigh. “you look…so good. I mean, you always look good, you just look…exceptionally beautiful tonight. And it’s distracting.”

“Is it?” you ask, feeling a blush warm your face.

“Very,” he nods, looking at you momentarily.

“I’m sorry,” you say, smiling anyways.

“No,” he protests. “Don’t apologize.”

“I thought apologizing was my thing,” you say.

“It is, I’m sorry–”

“So now we’re both apologizing?”

“Neither of us should be apologizing.”

“You’re rambling,” you grin. 

“I know,” he exhales. “My point is…I find you very attractive.” He glances at you. “And that’s…normal. I mean, finding someone attractive doesn’t obligate them to have sex with you, I don’t expect that, a-and I don’t need that.” He winces at his last few words.

“Need what?” you ask.

“...Sex,” he clarifies.

“Oh.”

“...That came out wrong,” he says, sensing the disappointment in your tone. “Wanting something and needing something are psychologically distinct concepts. Human attachment isn’t dependent upon sexual intimacy, despite popular media implying–”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t want to fuck me tonight?” you interrupt.

His eyes go impossibly wide at your bluntness.

“NO!” He shouts loud enough to echo through the car. His voice quiets immediately. “I-I mean– That;s not–” he groans, trying to gather thousands of thoughts all at once. You would think he’d be better at that by now.

You’d think.

He takes a steadying breath, and lowers his voice impossibly low. If the sound waves weren’t trapped in the car you probably wouldn’t be able to hear him.

“...I do want to…fuck…you,” he whispers, not daring to look at you.

The curse comes out so softly it almost completely dissolves beneath the sound of the tires on the road.

“Well,” you smile. He braces himself, not daring to look at you. “...Good.”

“...G-good?” he echoes, peeking over at you with just one eye.

“Good,” you repeat. “Beecause I want to fuck you tonight too.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he tries to regain his composure. 

“...T-that s-sounds…” he stammers. His entire face is completely red now and it threatens to spread down his neck. “...amazing.”

You smile at him, feeling a buzz deep in your stomach.

“B-but,” he continues. “I…” you can hear him swallow. “I don’t have…” he trails off, then his eyes widen all over again. “...Dave asked us to be safe.”

You laugh quietly.

“I mean, he–” he spits.

“Spencer,” you say, trying to calm his spiraling brain.

“...Yes?” he looks at you.

“We can buy condoms after dinner.”

“...Oh.” He nods to himself. “...right. That’s how stores work.”

“It is,” you giggle. For someone so smart, he can sometimes have the funniest realizations when he’s flustered. 

“I’ve never…” he shakes his head with a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “...I’ve never gotten that far.”

“I’ve noticed,” you smile. 

“I’ve never…this has never…” he stammers again. “I’ve never had to think about…potential logistical considerations after dinner.”

You reach across the center console and lace your fingers through his free hand that isn’t on the wheel. He squeezes gently, finally in control of his breathing. He smiles as he turns into the restaurant parking lot, parking in a spot away from any other car in the parking lot.

“We’re gonna need to sit here for a few minutes,” he says, his face going red again. 

He grips the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles go white, redirecting blood flow. You watched him manually breath, in for three, out for three. Again. 

“Okay,” he exhales, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He looks over to you. “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been waiting on you,” you smile at him.

“So have I,” he says seriously, but it’s funny. He can be very funny when he doesn’t mean to be. 

He climbs out of the car, automatically circling to your side. He pulls your door open and holds out a hand to help you out. His hand stays intertwined with yours the whole way inside.

The restaurant is undeniably nice. The lighting has an ambery tint that spills out of the windows, soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, doing far more for the ambiance than it would seem. The tables are round with white table cloths and centerpieces of a single rose in a vase, a lit candle, and fancy ceramic salt and paper shakers. 

This was a date restaurant. 

Spencer gives his last name to the hostess, then follows as she leads the two of you toward the back of the restaurant. Your table sat beside a large window overlooking the city. The evening sun had long disappeared, leaving everything washed in deep blues beneath the orange candlelight.

Spencer pulled your chair out before sitting across from you. Neither of you immediately reach for the menus, you just looked at each other. His ears and cheeks were still faintly pink from the drive.

"So," he says. "We're on a real date."

"We are,” you smile. "I think you're handling it pretty well."

"I don't," he chokes. He looked down at the folded napkin in front of him before meeting your eyes again. "I've wanted to take you on one like this for a while."

"You have?"

He nodded. "I just...kept waiting for the right time."

"What made you decide now was the right time?"

"Do you want me to tell you?"

“I do,” you smile.

“I was worried that you were going to…get bored…of me,” he admits quietly. It almost sounds funny coming from his mouth. He nervously straightens the silverware that was already perfectly aligned. You reach across and put your hand on top of his, causing him to look up at you.

“I love you,” you tell him sincerely. “You don’t have to worry about me getting bored.”

“I love you too,” he smiles awkwardly. You can still feel his hand fidgeting below your hand.

A waiter arrives with water glasses and introduces himself before asking if either of you want anything to drink besides water.

“C-can I get a Root Beer?” Spencer asks. 

The waiter looks a little confused. Normally people order…wine? But he goes to get Spencer his Root Beer nonetheless.

Once the waiter leaves, Spencer reaches for the menu.

“I already know what you’re going to order,” he says, opening the first fold.

“You do?” you tilt your head.

"You've ordered some variation of pasta at the last six restaurants we've gone to," he points out.

"You keep track of that?" You raise an eyebrow.

"I keep track of everything,” he says, like it’s somehow new information to you.

The waiter returns with Spencer’s glass of Root Beer and takes your orders. Spencer was right. You did get some variation of pasta.

As you wait for your food, you tell Spencer about one of your professors assigning a five page paper on the second day of class.

“He also quoted Spider Man,” you say.

“The professor?” Spencer frowns.

You nod.

“With great power comes great responsibility?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say, taking a sip of your water.

“Did you know that while that quote is commonly attributed to Spider Man, it was actually Voltaire that technically said it centuries ago? ‘T-they must consider that a great responsibility is the inseparable result of a great power.’ although there are even earlier parallels in French philosophy and religious texts. Spider Man just popularized it for post-modern audiences.” 

You stare at him for a moment. 

“Well, considering he had a ton of Marvel posters around the classroom, I’m going to assume he is part of the ‘post modern audiences’ that Spider Man got to…”

“You’re probably correct,” he says.

The waiter returns carrying two plates balanced effortlessly on his arm. He remembers whose plate is whose without having to ask. He checks your glasses to make sure they are still at an acceptable level before telling you to enjoy and walking to another table to check on them.

The food is delicious, by far one of the best pastas you’ve had from a restaurant, because obviously it couldn’t beat your uncles.

Every few minutes one of you would steal a bite while the other talked. Spencer absentmindedly gestured with his fork whenever he got excited about something, occasionally catching himself halfway through a sentence and setting it back down with an embarrassed smile. You caught yourself watching his hands almost as much as you watched his face. 

“They’ve been married a long time,” Spencer says, gesturing toward an older couple in the opposite corner.

“How do you know?” you ask, covering your mouth because there’s a small amount of pasta still inside.

“Couples who’ve been together for years tend to mirror each other’s posture and timing without realizing it. They reach for their drinks at almost the same time and they’re doing the same gestures. Studies show that couples begin to match each ‘speech rhythm and in some studies they even synchronize blinking!”

You watch the couple for a moment, and sure enough, every time one of them smiles or took a drink or a bite, the other does the same.

“That’s really sweet,” you smile.

“Long term relationships change behavioral patterns in measurable ways–” he starts rambling again. You don’t process what he’s saying, your mind is far elsewhere.

“Do you think we’ll do that someday?” you interrupt. Your face gets a little warm after realizing what you said. 

That was meant to be an inside thought.

“I’d like to,” he says without hesitation, taking a bite of his food like he didn’t casually steal all the air from your lungs with two words and a contraction. 

You don’t say anything, just take a bite of your food as well while watching him. The warm light above the table catches the deep brown of his eyes every time he looks up. His hair is messy, but in a way that looks…hot. And not disheveled. He gestured with his fork while explaining something, only to stop halfway through each time because he forgot he was holding it. 

He apologizes to the waiter every time he has to refill a water cup, even though the waiter assures him that it is his job. He thanks him every single time too. The waiter brings the check, and you can’t help but smile as Spencer pays.

You don’t argue, not this time. Because you know he wants this to feel like a real date. Not that the endless coffee shops and bookstores weren’t ‘dates.’ Those were just…casual. And this one is…formal.

Outside, the air is cooler than when you’d arrived. The atmosphere is something that is only captured in cities at night. Traffic is heard, there’s a train in the distance, somewhere down the road live music from a bar or a nightclub spills out. Streetlights cast warm toned circles across the sidewalk. There’s a light dribble of rain that falls from the sky.

Spencer slips his jacket over your shoulders before you can protest.

"You've already given me one sweater," you tell him, despite the fact that the jacket is already caped around you.

"This one's temporary," he says, resting his hand on your lower back through the layers.

"...Okay," you say a little suspiciously. You don't give it back. 

His jacket still smells like him.

He opens the passenger door and helps you in again before walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, and just…sits. For several minutes. And doesn’t speak. 

You don’t either, because despite your earlier confidence, and maybe cockiness, now there’s something sitting between the two of you. A conversation, or rather, a purchase.

“...So,” you say carefully, deciding to break the silence he had no signs of stopping.

“So,” he echoes, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel again.

“We should probably…” you start.

“Go,” he finishes. “Yes, go.”

He turns the engine on, a slight shake of the car making a loose curl fall in front of his eyes. He brushes it away.  Spencer shifts the car into reverse, one hand settling over the top of the steering wheel while the other reaches behind your headrest. He twists in his seat to look through the rear window, checking carefully for approaching cars before easing backward.

Your breath catches. It should be such an ordinary thing. People back out of parking spaces every day. But somehow Spencer manages to make even that look unfairly attractive.

The sleeve of his flannel pulls back just enough to reveal the veins of his forearm, tendons shifting beneath his skin as he turns the wheel. His jaw is slightly set in concentration, lips parted just enough that his perfectly imperfect teeth peek through them while his eyes flick between the mirrors and the rear window. 

He's completely focused on the parking lot and completely unaware of how fucking HOT he looks.

You'd spent months memorizing the way he looked when he laughed, when he read, when he got excited enough to ramble about constellations or obscure historical trivia. You hadn't realized "carefully backing out of a parking space" deserved a place on that list.

He looks so ridiculously handsome that it's almost offensive.

Oh, I'm in trouble.

Not because of the date. Not because of the dinner. Not even because of the conversation you'd had on the drive over.

Just because this absurdly brilliant man has absolutely no idea what he looks like when he's concentrating.

He straightens the wheel and glances over.

"What?"

"...Nothing,” you blink.

He narrows his eyes for only a second before returning his attention to the road.

“You have a staring problem and a lying problem," he says, dropping one hand off the wheel and onto your thigh.

Oh I am so fucking this man until he can’t form a single coherent thought.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about,” you smile innocently at him.

"I don't believe you," he says, glancing over at you.

"That's okay."

He lets out a quiet, suspicious little hum.

You turn toward the window before the smile spreading across your face gives you away completely.

The pharmacy parking lot is almost completely empty. Spencer still parks toward the back. Neither of you moves, or speaks, or breathes.

“...Spencer?” you say quietly, getting his attention. He looks at you. “You carry a gun and chase serial killers for a living.”

“I do,” he says, looking at your mouth.

“But you draw the line at buying condoms?”

“...When you phrase it like that it sounds stupid,” he says.

“So come on,” you say, cracking your door open and stepping onto the pavement. Surprisingly, he follows. Like a dog.

The store is busier inside than it looks outside. It’s not busy per se, but there's more people inside than the three cars outside makes it look. The greenish fluorescent lights seem impossibly bright compared to the dim orange light of the restaurant.

Once you reach the aisle, Spencer just…stares. There are far more options than he could’ve ever imagined. You let him look for a while. He picks up a box and reads the entirety of both sides. Then another.

“This one has ribs,” he says. “For…increased stimulation.”

“Mhm,” you hum, playing around with a holographic bottle of lubricant. 

“...Do you want…” he immediately stops talking. “That’s probably not a conversation we should have in aisle 7.”

A woman pushing a cart passes by. Spencer pretends to be deeply fascinated by the pregnancy tests, which somehow he deems less embarrassing than condoms.”

“Just get normal ones,” you say, leaning into him. You grab a box of three and hand it to him.

“Thank you for being significantly better at this than I am,” he says, fidgeting with the punched out hole on the flap that was used to hang it on the hook.

Spencer doesn’t look the cashier in the face once, just sits the box on the counter and pays, then mutters a small ‘thank you,’ on the way out. 

By the time you're back in the car, the awkwardness has dissolved into quiet laughter. Spencer keeps one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with yours as he starts the drive toward his apartment, the small paper pharmacy bag sitting innocently in the back seat like it hadn't just caused the two of you ten straight minutes of mutual panic. The hardest part, somehow, was over.

As Spencer drives out of downtown D.C., and storefronts become neighborhoods, four lanes become two, he cracks his window just enough to let cool air drift inside, the rain having subsided.

His hand transitions from holding yours to gripping protectively on your thigh, yours sitting atop his. You watch him as streetlights sweep across his face, painting him gold. When he passes under a bridge or a larger car, the lights get blocked and his features soften to a shadow. 

You’d never met someone who wore their mind so visibly. Every tiny expression crossed his face before he realized it had. Every thought seemed to live just the smallest layer beneath the surface. You’d spent months memorizing Spencer Reid when he wasn’t looking.

The way he’d absentmindedly chew on the inside of his cheek while reading. The way his eyebrows pinch together whenever he is concentrating. The way he’d smile to himself after remembering some obscure fact, and then immediately share it without restraint.

“What?” he asks suddenly, not looking at you, snapping you out of whatever clouded state you were in.

“I love you,” you say, unsure of what else to do.

“I love you too,” he smiles, accepting your answer immediately as though it made perfect sense.

An old jazz standard drifted quietly through the speakers. Spencer hadn't turned the radio on. It must've come on automatically when he'd started the car. He listened for a few seconds.

"Do you know why music triggers autobiographical memories more effectively than almost any other sensory stimulus?" He asks, like he sort of expects you to know the answer.

"Why?" you smile.

"The auditory cortex has unusually strong connections with the hippocampus, which is heavily involved in long-term memory formation." His voice slipped naturally into the cadence you loved so much. "Because songs are processed rhythmically and emotionally at the same time, hearing one years later can reactivate entire neural pathways. People often remember where they were, who they were with, sometimes even what they were wearing."

He glanced over for half a second before returning his attention to the road.

"It's one of the reasons patients with Alzheimer's can sometimes remember lyrics long after they've forgotten conversations."

You nodded. Not because you were particularly invested in neuroscience. You weren't. You were listening because it was Spencer.

Because when Spencer talked about something he loved, the rest of the world always seemed to disappear. You could listen to him explain absolutely anything forever. The neurological effects of music. The migratory habits of geese. Tax law. The history of paperclips.

You honestly didn't care. You would still sit there smiling at him exactly like you were right now.

He kept talking, hands moving a little as he explained despite one remaining on the wheel. Outside, the city continued slipping past unnoticed. Inside, you quietly wondered how someone could make talking about the hippocampus feel romantic.

You still didn't have an answer. Maybe it was just him.

_____

You follow Spencer into his apartment, latching the door shut as he turns on the lamp. He turns back to you, sitting his keys down in the process.

“So, I was thinking–” he starts. 

You don’t let him finish.

You tiptoe to press your lips against him with a hunger. He makes a surprised noise that melts into a low groan as he reciprocates the kiss. His hands over awkwardly at your waist before sipping under the cardigan and gripping the satin of your dress. You shrug the cardigan off, letting it fall to the floor as you push him toward his bedroom, helping him to shed his jacket and unbutton his flannel along the way.

He bumps you into the doorframe, a gentle bump, one that only results in a muttered ‘sorry’ into your mouth. You fall back down on the bed, pulling him down on top of you. He obediently settles with his legs between your thighs. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, pulling back from the kiss to study your face. “Because I’ve never actually…I mean– we’ve done other stuff, but…this is different and I don’t want to ruin it or hurt you or–”

“Spencer,” you whisper seductively, pulling him close to you. “Fuck me.”

He exhales shakily, pressing his lips to yours again desperately. His hands slide over your dress, tracing every curve of your body like he’s studying a map.

“G-god this dress,” he murmurs against your neck, voice cracking. “You need to warn me next time you’re gonna look this good. I never want to hide another erection from your uncle again. That was mortifying.”

“I thought you had more self control,” you smile into his mouth, pushing his shirt the rest of the way off. You run your hand down his chest, to his abs, then down to the front of his pants, wrapping your fingers loosely around the outline of his cock. He lets out a small whimper into your mouth.

“I’ve been trying to act like a gentleman all night,” he says breathlessly as you lazily stoke him. “I-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but you’re making it really hard.”

You laugh softly, squeezing him a little tighter in your hand. His face flushes darker.

“You know exactly what that dress is doing to me, don’t you?” he asks, more inquisitive than seductive.

You nod, squeezing your thighs together under him. His eyes darken slightly.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he asks, almost accusatory, but his voice is so shy and high pitched because he’s so turned on that he just sounds adorable.

He pushes one of the straps of your dress down, taking one out overtop the lace. He lowers his head just above it, almost as if he’s daring himself to take it in his mouth.

“C-can I?” he asks, looking up at you with doe eyes.

“You can do whatever you want to me, Spencer,” you say, ruffling your free hand in his hair.

His mouth is immediately on you. He sucks the nipple into his mouth as he brings his other hand up to palm the other through the dress. You can feel his hips starting to stutter into your hand, so you bring both hands around his neck. He pouts momentarily at the loss of friction, but seemingly remembers the plans that were made.

“Can you get on…top of me?” he asks quietly, already climbing off you. You roll over on top of him, straddling his waist in a way that makes your dress ride up past your hips. He stares up at you with his lips swollen and parted, looking in awe of you.

His hands come up, one resting on your waist, the other inching up your thigh. You grab his wrist, moving his hand between your legs. He picks up on your hint, two fingers pushing inside you. You moan a little provocatively, not having anything to stifle it as he curls his fingers just right, just the way you taught him, and his thumb finds its way to your clit.

“Y-you’re soaked,” he says quietly, sounding both awed and embarrassed. 

“All for you, Spence,” you moan, rocking slowly against his hand. You brace yourself by holding his shins behind you, giving him the ability to push his fingers impossibly further into you. 

“I’ve been trying so hard not to make you feel like I only think about sex,” he admits apologetically. Which is a little comical as he’s looking at his fingers dipping in and out of you rather than your face, or even your waist. Literally anywhere else. “Because I don’t.”

You know he doesn’t. He always made you feel loved. Always. Anything sexual was a product of you being emotionally fulfilled with him. But your emotional needs are some of the last things you're thinking about as you start to feel a familiar heat pooling inside of you. 

“But tonight,” he continues, letting out a shaky breath. “I want you so bad, Y/N,” he whines. 

His begging was enough to break the knot in your stomach. You clench around his fingers with a high pitch moan that has him shushing you. Your thighs tremble as the orgasm washes through you, but you don’t give either of you any time to recover.

“Fuck me now, Spencer,” you pant, rolling over and tugging him on top of you. “I need you. Please.”

His eyes go wide, pupils blown dark. 

“O-okay. Yeah. Okay,” he stammers, sounding utterly overwhelmed. He fumbles in his pocket for the condom he’d shoved in there earlier, tearing the wrapper open with shaky fingers and nearly dropping it twice.

You sit up enough to unbutton his pants, tugging the zipper down. Spencer helps, pushing his slacks and boxers down his hips in one clumsy motion. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. He makes a tiny, embarrassed noise when it slaps against his stomach.

He tries to roll the condom on himself, but his hands are trembling too badly. After a couple failed attempts, he looks up at you with burning red cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, voice cracking. “This is probably so weird. I just… I’ve never done this and my hands won’t stop shaking and–”

“No, Spencer, it’s okay,” you murmur, taking the condom from him gently. “You’re okay. Let me.”

You roll it down his length with steady hands. He watches the whole time with parted lips and ragged breathing. The second it’s on, you guide him between your legs, helping line the head of his cock up with your entrance. He braces himself on his elbows above you, the bunched satin of your dress rubbing between your bodies.

He nudges forward sliding against you a few times before finally pushing inside on the third try. The stretch is intense and perfect. You moan at the thick feeling of him sinking deeper and deeper until his hips are pressed flush against yours.

The sound Spencer makes is filthy. A raw, guttural groan that sounds almost too dirty coming from him. His whole body shudders hard as he bottoms out, like the sensation is overwhelming every nerve he has.

“Oh my god,” he whimpers, voice high and broken. “This is better than I’ve ever imagined it being. Your… your pussy feels so much better than my hand.”

The second the words leave his mouth he freezes, eyes flying open in mortified panic.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be saying that,” he rushes out, face burning crimson. “I’m sorry, that was disgusting, I just–”

You pull him down into a messy kiss before he can spiral further, and he melts into it with a needy whine. Slowly, he starts to move. His thrusts are shallow and awkward at first, like he’s still figuring out how to do this. He’s an absolute whimpering, moany mess above you, soft desperate sounds spilling from his lips with every roll of his hips. 

“Fuck… you’re so tight and… warm and wet,” he pants against your neck, voice trembling. “I’ve touched myself thinking about this so many times and it never felt this good. I’m sorry…I shouldn’t keep saying stuff like that but I can’t shut up–”

His hips stutter, losing rhythm for a second before he finds it again, thrusting a little deeper. The bed creaks quietly beneath you. One of his hands grips your waist through the dress, the other braced beside your head as he tries so hard to be gentle even while falling apart.

“I’ve wanted you like this for months,” he rambles breathlessly, words punctuated by shaky moans. “I never…oh god…imagined you in a dress…but…fuck…it’s almost better…I’m already so close. I wanted to last longer for you but you feel too good and I-I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay Spencer,” you moan, bringing a hand up to cup his jaw. “Cum for me.”

His thrusts grow a little faster, a little more desperate, but still uncoordinated and shy. He keeps pressing soft, apologetic kisses to your neck and shoulder between the filthy little confessions, like he can’t decide whether to worship you or be embarrassed by how badly he wants you.

A few more deep thrusts and Spencer buries himself inside you with a broken, overwhelmed moan. His whole body shakes as he cums hard, hips jerking against you in uneven pulses. The raw, desperate sounds he makes are almost pornographic.  

Afterward, he collapses half on top of you, still buried inside, breathing hard against your neck. For a long moment he just clings to you, arms wrapped tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. 

“I’m really sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, voice small and embarrassed. “That was… really short. And I said too much. I didn’t mean to be so… gross. I just… I’ve thought about you like that for a long time and actually being inside you was…a lot.”

You smile and cuddle closer, fingers playing with his messy curls. The black dress is still bunched around your waist, warm and damp with sweat.

“It was perfect, Spence,” you whisper. “I loved it.”

He lets out a shy, relieved huff of laughter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

_____

Check Out Reader's Instagram (there's a new post hehe)

Read Part 35 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: um hi this is an awkward spot to be at um did u guys like the smut or am i washed?

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

JOIN MY SIDE BLOG!

HAVE RECCOMENDATIONS/SOMETHING TO SAY?

_____

taglist: (i need to fix this bad)

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmhh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive @allidoisreid

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter.

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 33)

Lake Day

summary: you finally get cleared to live normally, so obviously, you’re uncle forces you on a lake trip.

word count: 4k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18)

thank you to @ilovesexymenonmytv for this idea, i hope i did it some justice, sorry if it's not the best, read the a/n at the end for an explaination.

_____

August starts to bring back a feeling of normalcy that you’re not sure if you can quite trust yet.

Two months ago, you were lying in a hospital bed with broken ribs, a concussion, and more bruises than you could count. Two months ago, every movement hurt. Every loud noise made you flinch. Every time someone left the room, some small part of your brain wondered if they were coming back.

Now you’re standing in a doctor’s office, listening to the words you’ve been waiting weeks to hear.

“You’re cleared.”

“Cleared?” you repeat.

“Cleared,” The doctor smiles. “You can go back to normal activity. Exercise, swimming, everything. The only restriction is that you listen to your body. If something causes pain, stop.”

Normal.

The word feels almost foreign.

“Okay,” you nod slowly.

The second you walk out of the appointment, your uncle is already making plans.

“We’re going to the lake.”

You stop walking. “What?”

Rossi doesn’t even slow down. “The lake.”

“Did you even hear what the doctor said?” you stare at him.

“Yes.”

“Then why are you already planning something?”

“Don’t argue with me. I’ve already decided.”

“You know that’s not actually how vacations work, right?”

“It is when I pay for the cabin.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

_____

Logan flies in Friday night.

The second he walks through the front door, Rossi gets one arm around him in a hug that Logan immediately pretends to hate.

It’s weird how much things have changed.

A few months ago, the thought of laughing felt impossible.

Now you’re standing in the kitchen with Spencer beside you, your brother is in the living room arguing with Rossi, and for the first time in a long time you feel like yourself.

Spencer spends the night at Rossi’s house so everyone can leave early Saturday morning. Which means, naturally, Rossi finds every possible excuse to make sure everyone is awake before sunrise.

It’s not even daylight outside when he barges into your room, turning the light on, disturbing both you and Spencer from your slumber.

Spencer gets up without any fuss. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s still scared of your uncle, or because he’s used to wakes like these due to his job. Or perhaps a mixture of both. He leaves you alone in your bed, trudging to the bathroom. You let your eyes close again, trying to return to the state you were in before your uncle so rudely ruined it.

You don’t move. You don’t care that there’s a lake waiting for you. You don’t care that your bag is still sitting half-packed on the floor. You are warm. You are comfortable. And you are absolutely not getting out of bed.

A few minutes pass. You hear movement somewhere in the room. Not Rossi, Rossi doesn’t move quietly. You peek out of one eye  to find Spencer standing beside your bed. And for a second, your brain takes a moment to catch up.

Because Spencer Reid is awake. Which is normal.

Spencer Reid being awake at six in the morning is unfortunately very normal.

But Spencer Reid standing beside your bed while he gets ready for a lake trip is something you’re not used to.

He’s already dressed from the waist down, wearing brown pants and his worn-in Converse. His hair is slightly messy, like he hasn’t bothered fixing it yet. A T-shirt is thrown over one shoulder, hanging loosely from his hand.

He’s still shirtless.

Not that he seems to notice. Of course he doesn’t. Spencer has never been particularly aware of the effect he has on people, or more specifically you.

“You know,” he says softly, “you still need to finish packing.”

“You’re wearing pants,” you say.

He looks down. “Yes.”

You let out a quiet laugh before immediately closing your eyes again.

“No,” you groan.

“No?”

“No.”

“You’re going back to sleep?”

“Yes.”

Spencer steps a little closer, placing a hand on your back. 

“Y/N,” he whispers.

“You’re still shirtless,” you say.

He looks down at himself, a faint blush rushing to his ears.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his belt through the loops of his pants. You let yourself look at him, starting at the careful movements of his fingers as he buckles his belt, then moving up to his unclothed area.

It’s strange how different he looks without the layers he’s always hiding behind.

He’s still unmistakably Spencer. A little awkward, still standing there like he doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him differently, but there’s something about seeing him like this.

His hair is messy from sleep, his glasses slightly crooked from where he pushed them up too many times, and his brown pants and Converse somehow make the fact that he’s still shirtless seem even more like him. Like he got distracted halfway through getting ready because he remembered he was supposed to wake you up.

He’s lean, not in the way people expect when they picture someone strong, but in a way that makes sense for him. He’s never been someone who spends hours at a gym. He’s someone who runs through airports, chases criminals, and carries too many books at once.

“You’re staring,” he says.

Your eyes immediately snap back to his face. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m tired.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re staring.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because unfortunately, Spencer Reid is very good at noticing things when he isn’t the thing being noticed.

“Put your shirt on,” you mumble.

“I was going to.”

“When?”

“Soon,” he says, looking down at the shirt hanging in his hand. You roll over in bed, telling yourself that you’ll get up when he puts it on.

_____

The first problem happens while you’re finishing packing on your floor.

“Do you have swim trunks?” you ask him.

“...I think so,” he says slowly.

“You think so?”

“I’m fairly certain.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I haven’t been swimming since I was like fifteen.”

He digs in one of his bags, pulling out a pair of swim trunks that look older than you. You can tell they’re too short for him just from looking, but the waist is stretched out and so frayed that you think they might fall down.

“Absolutely not,” you tell him.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re ancient.”

“They’d still work.”

“Spencer,” you say, taking them from him. “They’re like three sizes too small.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“You are not wearing fifteen-year-old swim trunks.”

_____

The drive starts with Logan controlling the music. For exactly twelve minutes, until Rossi reaches over and changes it.

“Hey!” Logan protests

“No.” Rossi says sternly.

“You didn’t even ask what song it was.”

“I know enough.”

Logan looks offended. “You don’t know enough.”

“I’m your uncle. I know plenty.”

You end up taking over the music. Mostly because everyone agrees your playlist is better.

Except Spencer.

Not because he dislikes it, but because he’s actually analyzing it.

“You have three songs from the same album.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s good.”

“That doesn’t explain why they’re grouped together. You also have four songs in a row that are in the same key.”

“...neat.”

On the way to the lake, you stop at one of the tourist shops.

The kind that sells everything.

Sunscreen, fishing bait, inflatable tubes, terrible souvenirs, overpriced snacks, and most important to you, swimwear.

Spencer immediately walks toward the plainest black pair of trunks imaginable.

“No,” you say, shaking your head at him.

“Why?”

“Because.”

You disappear into another aisle. A few seconds later, you return, holding two matching swimsuits. Not matching in a cheesy way, just the same pattern. They’re light blue and covered in tiny, multicolored fish. 

“Those have fish,” Spencer says, staring at you.

“They do.”

“They’re smiling.”

“They’re smiling because they’re about to be purchased.”

“I don’t know if these accurately represent my personality,” he says.

Logan walks up behind him. He looks between the trunks and Spencer a few times. 

“I think they match you perfectly,” Logan says to him.

“How?” Spencer asks, sounding slightly offended.

“Because she’s not worth arguing with,” Logan whispers, but you still hear it.

He’s right.

The rest of the drive passes quicker. The roads weave through forests and hills, the sunlight flickering through the trees. The car gets almost silent once Logan dozes off, his head pressed awkwardly against the window. Rossi drives with one hand one the wheel, occasionally pointing out things outside the window.

Spencer spent nearly twenty minutes explaining why lakes remain cooler during the surrounding area in late summer, which you’re pretty sure is what put Logan to sleep. You listen, not because you’re particularly interested in thermal properties, but because you’re particularly interested in Spencer.

_____

The cabin is smaller than you expected. Not tiny, but for David Rossi’s style, it was much smaller and more rustic than you imagined. There’s only two bedrooms, and of course, your uncle immediately takes the master. 

You expected two twin beds in the second bedroom. Or bunkbeds. Or a pull out bed. 

Something other than the singular queen bed that stares at the three of you.

“So…” Logan says, looking between you and Spencer. “There’s no couch.”

“I can sleep in the middle,” you offer, sitting your bag on the floor. 

“This is stupid,” Logan says, sitting his bag on the far side of the bed. Spencer puts his on the opposite end. “I swear to god, if I wake up to any weird sounds or moan–”

“LOGAN!” you shout.

“I’m just saying,” he argues.

“Stop talking.” you tell him firmly.

“Fine,” Logan says, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m going to the lake.”

_____

You and Spencer follow a few minutes later. 

Outside, the water shines beneath the sun. Families scatter along the shoreline, kids splash near the docks. Logan is already neck deep out in the lake, while your uncle is sitting on the dock, reading some old man magazine.

You adjusted the strap of your bag before stepping out from the cabin porch. Spencer followed a second later. The matching fish swim trunks had somehow become even funnier now that he was actually wearing them. Tiny brightly colored fish smiled cheerfully from pale blue fabric that reached just above his knees. They looked ridiculous.

Somehow, he didn't. He still managed to look unmistakably like Spencer Reid.

His glasses sat neatly on his face. His hair was already falling into his eyes despite having done absolutely nothing yet. He kept glancing down at the trunks every few steps like he still wasn't convinced they belonged on his body. 

Rossi looked up from unfolding his chair. The second he noticed the two of you together, he slowly lowered his sunglasses. Very slowly.

"I don't know why I thought you two could be normal," he shakes his head.

You laughed. Spencer glanced down at himself again.

"...Nothing is actually wrong with these, right?" he asks.

"Nothing," Rossi answered.

"...That sounded sarcastic."

"It was." Rossi says.

Spencer reached over and effortlessly lifted your beach bag off your shoulder. Then your towel. Then your water bottle. Then, somehow, your sandals.

"You're carrying everything,” he says. 

"I noticed you were carrying several things, so now you aren't."

He follows you and Rossi toward the water carrying nearly everything either of you had brought without questioning it once.

Derek was right.

You really did walk him like a dog.

The shore was busier than it had looked from the cabin. Families occupied nearly every stretch of shoreline, coolers sat buried in the sand, and children ran back and forth with inflatable tubes almost as big as they were. You found a spot a little farther away from the crowds where Rossi had already claimed a pair of chairs. Logan was already out in the lake.

You knelt beside your bag and dug around for sunscreen. The bottle had somehow migrated to the very bottom.

You squeezed some into your hand and started rubbing it across your face. A shadow crossed over you. Spencer.

"Hold still,” you tell him, standing from your couched position to be able to reach his face better.

"...What?"

"You need sunscreen, you’ll burn.” You tell him, reaching toward him. Your finger brushed the bridge of his nose. You rub it down, not realizing you had some on your pinky finger.A thick white streak spreads across one lens of his glasses.

"I'm sorry,” you apologize, holding back a giggle.

"It's okay,” he says, taking his glasses off. “I can clean them when we go back to the cabin.”

“You can put them on top of my bag, I’m going to the water,” you smile.

You expect him to sit his glasses down and follow, but halfway across the dock, you look behind you and realize he hasn’t stepped on it. Instead, he’s standing perfectly stair near the end wearing a bright orange life jacket.

"Why are you wearing the life jacket already?" You shout at him.

"Because we're near water,” he answers.

You start walking back on the dock, going to get him.

"We're thirty feet from the water,” you say once you reach him.

"Exactly."

"Come on," you say, pulling his arm forward. He doesn't budge.

"A single milliliter of lake water can contain anywhere from hundreds of thousands to several million bacterial cells depending on nutrient availability, temperature, and seasonal turnover. That's not including protozoa, algae, fungi, microscopic crustaceans, nematodes, or insect larvae.”

"You will be okay," you tell him.

Out in the lake Logan surfaced again, brushing wet hair out of his face. The second he spotted Spencer he grinned.

"SPENCER!" He calls,

"...Yes?"

"GET IN!"

"I'd rather not."

"The water's three feet deep!"

"I am aware."

"YOU'RE SIX FEET TALL!" Logan shouts, dunking himself under again.

Spencer looked back at you. "I don't particularly enjoy swimming."

"I know,” you say.

"I also don't enjoy not touching the bottom."

"You don’t have to go that deep."

“Promise?”

“I do.”

You laced your fingers through his and started walking backward down the dock.

The old wooden boards creaked beneath your feet. Water lapped softly against the columns holding it up underneath. Spencer followed a step behind you. He kept glancing over the edge of the dock every few seconds, as though the lake might suddenly decide to climb out and attack him.

"I don't dislike water,” he says

"No?" you say, slightly disbelieving.

"I dislike not knowing what's underneath it."

"You can literally see the bottom."

"I can see part of the bottom."

You reached the end of the dock, Logan was already floating nearby, watching the two of you with an amused grin.

"I've seen people convince cats to take baths faster than this,” he says.

Spencer ignored him.

You stepped down first, the cool lake water climbing from your ankles to your knees before settling comfortably around your waist. It felt wonderful after standing in the sun.

You turned back toward Spencer. He was still standing on the dock. You held your hand out for him to take. 

He looked at your hand. Then at the water. Then back at you. For a long moment, he didn't move. Finally, he reached forward and took your hand.

"See? That wasn't so hard,” you smile

"I haven't actually entered the water yet."

"You will."

"I might."

"You definitely will."

Very gently, you gave his hand a tug. The second the water reached his calves, his shoulders tensed.

"It's cold."

The water reached his knees. He paused again.

"You've got this,” you squeeze his hand.

The lake rose to his waist, the bright orange life jacket bobbing slightly as tiny ripples spread around him.

"There," you said proudly. "You're swimming."

"I'm standing,” he says. A tiny fish darted between his ankles, causing him to freeze. "...Something touched me."

You immediately started laughing. “It was just a fish. It touched me too.”

"Okay.”

The whole time you were in the water, Spencer was right beside you. He never ventured farther than where his feet could comfortably touch the sandy bottom. Every so often he'd glance down through the clear water, making sure nothing unexpected brushed against his legs again.

Logan tossed him a football. Spencer caught it on instinct.

"You know, for someone who hates lakes..." you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “you seem to be having fun."

 “I don’t hate lakes,” he argues, looking around. Logan and Rossi are arguing over rules to some game that Rossi does not even care about playing. The sun is setting just above the water, the reflection making the half sun appear whole over the lake. His gaze stops on you, and he smiles. “And I suppose I am having fun.

_____

Once the sun has fully set and you guys have left the lake, eaten dinner, and showered, Rossi insists on going outside to play cards on the patio. And no was not an acceptable answer. Spencer wins game after game, causing Logan and Rossi to get annoyed at him. You get bored of cards easily, instead you sit and watch as your brother gets more drunk, Rossi drinks, but doesn’t get crazy like Logan, and Spencer win another card game. 

You smile to yourself, taking a quick photo of them to remember the moment. And for your Instagram to remember as well…

You can’t help but giggle.

"What are you laughing at?" Spencer asks.

"Nothing."

He narrows his eyes. "...That's suspicious."

"Nothing." You smile innocently. He chooses to believe that.

Once darkness fully settles over the lake, Logan drunkenly insists on ghost stories. Rossi tells one first, his sounding like it could be the plot of a novel. Spencer goes next, his version somehow becomes a detailed explanation of sleep paralysis, infrasound, carbon monoxide poisoning, and why human brains evolved to detect faces in shadows.

Logan and Rossi go inside after that. Logan being actually terrified by Spencer’s story.

“Spence,” you say once it’s just the two of you.

He looks over immediately.

“Yeah?”

There’s something about the way he says it that still catches you off guard. Like no matter what he’s doing, no matter what he’s thinking about, you have his full attention the second you say his name.

“Will you sit on the dock with me?”

“Okay.”

You smile back. Of course he says yes.

The dock is quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t get in the city. There’s no traffic in the distance, no neighbors, no sounds of people moving around. Just the gentle movement of the lake beneath you and the occasional rustle of trees along the shore.

You sit beside each other at the end of the dock, your legs dangling over the water. Spencer leans back on his hands and looks upward.

For a while, neither of you says anything. And you realize you like that about him.

With Spencer, silence never feels like something you have to fill. It feels like something you’re allowed to share.

“That’s Orion,” Spencer says out of nowhere.

You follow his gaze. “The one with the three stars in a line?”

He smiles. “Yeah. Technically, those are Orion’s belt. They’re three of the most recognizable stars in the night sky because they’re relatively evenly spaced and nearly aligned from our perspective.”

You laugh quietly.

“That’s actually one of the reasons Orion is interesting. Almost every culture has some kind of mythology associated with it. The Greeks believed it represented a hunter. The Egyptians associated it with Osiris. In some Polynesian traditions, it’s connected to navigation.”

You watch him as he talks. Because this is Spencer. This is the version of him you love the most. The one who gets excited about things most people don’t even notice. The one who remembers obscure facts and somehow makes them feel important. The one who can talk about something as simple as stars and make it feel like you’re learning a secret about the universe.

“And that one?” You point farther across the sky.

His eyes follow your finger. “That’s Cassiopeia.”

“The W shape?”

He shifts slightly closer, looking up. “She was a queen in Greek mythology. Although, historically, the constellation itself is much older than the story attached to it. Ancient astronomers used patterns in the sky to organize observations, but the human brain is actually really good at recognizing patterns even when there isn’t necessarily a connection.”

You smile. He keeps going. One constellation becomes another. Then another. He tells you about distances measured in light-years, about how some of the stars you’re seeing might not even exist anymore because of how long their light takes to reach Earth.

“That’s kind of sad,” you say.

“What?”

“That we’re looking at something that might already be gone.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Not necessarily.”

You look over. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs slightly. “The fact that something changes or ends doesn’t mean it wasn’t real while it existed.”

The words settle somewhere deeper than he probably intended. Because Spencer does that. He says things that sound like simple observations, but somehow they always feel like they mean something more.

The breeze moves through the trees behind you, carrying the cool air from the lake. You, still in your fish bikini top, shiver slightly. It’s subtle, barely noticeable. But Spencer notices. Of course he does.

“You’re cold,” he points out.

“I’m fine.”

His eyebrows raise. Before you can say anything, Spencer is already moving. He pulls off the flannel shirt he’s wearing over his T-shirt and holds it out to you.

“Here.”

You look at it. Then at him.

“You’ll be cold.”

“I won’t.”

“You literally just noticed that I was.”

“Yes, but I’m wearing a T-shirt underneath. You’re wearing–” He stops himself.

You smile. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

He looks away. “I was going to say that you’re stubborn.”

He sighs like he’s annoyed, but there’s no actual frustration behind it. “Please just take the shirt.”

You do. Because you know Spencer well enough now to know that once he decides something, arguing is usually pointless.

You slip it on, pulling the sleeves over your hands. The flannel is still warm from him. It smells like him. And somehow that feels more comforting than the actual warmth.

Spencer watches you for a second. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable. More like he’s memorizing the sight. Then he looks away.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

“Good.”

Spencer starts talking again.  You ask questions because you like hearing him answer them. Because when Spencer talks about something he loves, he doesn’t just give you information.  He gives you pieces of himself. 

Your gaze drifts from the sky, down to him. The way his face changes when he’s excited. The way he talks faster when he gets to a particularly interesting fact. The way his hands move as he explains things, like he’s trying to physically map out the universe in front of you. The little smile that appears without him realizing it. The way he looks happier here than he does anywhere else.

"...Y/N?"

You realize he’s stopped talking. “Yeah?”

He’s looking at you now. A small, amused smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re staring.”

Heat immediately rushes into your face. You look away toward the lake. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s smile grows slightly. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s something you do a lot.”

“What?”

“Apologize when you haven’t done anything wrong.”

You glance back at him. He says it so casually. Like he hasn’t just noticed something about you that most people never do. You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything. And neither does he.

The lake ripples softly beneath the dock. Crickets sing from the tree line. A fish jumps somewhere out in the darkness, sending rings across the glassy surface of the water. Two months ago, silence meant pain. It meant hospital rooms. Empty chairs. Waiting. But tonight, silence was comforting. It felt safe. Warm. Nice.

And that was all thanks to Spencer.

_____

Read Part 34 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: lowkey sorry if this part isn’t the best, i tried, but like ⅓ of the way through my mom called me and told me that my cousin literally went on a psychotic break and is in the psych ward and literally thinks he’s god so now im thinking about that LMFAO

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

JOIN MY SIDE BLOG!

HAVE RECCOMENDATIONS/SOMETHING TO SAY?

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmhh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive @allidoisreid

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. 🥰🤣🥰🤣

[reidgif]

10.21

[cynbx]

He looks so hot.

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 32)

Visiting Hours

summarry: one by one, the team comes to visit you as you recover in the hospital after being kidnapped.

word count: 7k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), hospital setting, recovery, discussions of trauma, pain meds and IV descriptions, brief references of addict!spencer, hospital coffee

_____

You wake up to see sunlight spilling through the window of your room. Your eyes flick to the clock on the wall.

7:07 AM.

Your eyes find Spencer afterwards. He’s awake this time, sitting in the chair beside your bed, legs crossed, with a book balanced on one knee. Though from the way he immediately looks up at you at the first sign of movement you show, he clearly hasn’t been reading very much.

“Good morning,” he says softly. “How do you feel?”

You think for a second. “...Good.”

“Good?” he repeats, eyebrows lifted over his glasses. 

“Hospital good,” you say, taking a sip of your water.

He smiles, looking relieved. “Are you still okay with everyone visiting today?”

“Yeah,” you say, fondling the tube of your IV.

Spencer’s face shifts to concern. “You don’t have to if you’re tired or don’t feel good,” he tells you.

“I know,” you say, “I want to see people.”

“Garcia texted me and asked 8:00 was too early to come.”

“That’s fine,” you say, staring at him. “You should fix your hair though.”

“I know,” he says, typing on his phone, presumably texting Penelope. “You should see yours.”

“I didn’t even think about my hair,” you say, smile disappearing. “Is it tangled?”

He stares at you. Well, at your hair.

“It’s…worse than that,” he says quietly.

“How bad?” you ask.

“It resembles a moderately sized bird's nest,” he says.

You hide your face. “Everyone’s going to see it,” you say into your hands.

“They won’t care.”

“I care.”

He gives you a weak, sympathetic smile. “I can put it up for you, it would at least look…smaller,” he offers, trying to spare your feelings. 

“Do you remember what happened when you tried to braid my hair?” you ask him.

“I can do a ponytail,” he says confidently. “It’s much easier.”

“Fine,” you say, moving your hair from your shoulders. “Go ahead.”

“You sound like you don’t trust me,” he says.

“I trust you, just not with my hair,” you say as you try to scoot forward. Then immediately regret it. “Ow!”

“Hey,” he says nervously, rushing toward the bed. “Let me help you.” 

He holds his hand out for you to take, and braces your back with the other, slowly leaning you forward. It’s not painful with his help, your body just feels tense. He pulls on the knot just a little bit, to see how tight it is.

“You know,” he says, pulling out a few loose pieces from the knot. “Hair is incredibly strong. A single strand can support around 100 grams before it breaks.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better while you’re ripping it out of my head?” you ask.

“No, sorry. I’ll just put it up, I can help you brush it out later.”

“You don’t have to help brush it out,” you tell him. 

“What if I want to?” He says, finally gathering your hair together and smoothing it back. 

“I guess if you’re offering,” you say. He starts to wrap the hair tie around. “Pull a little tighter. It’s gonna fall out.”

“A-are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’ll fall out, Spence.”

He pulls tighter and begins wrapping the hair tie around your hair once. Then twice.

“How many times does this go?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” you say. “It depends on how big it is.”

“That…doesn’t help me.”

“Try one more time.”

He does one more loop then steps around so you can see him again. 

“I think,” he starts, stopping to stare at you.

“You think?” 

“I’ve achieved ponytail.”

You smile at him, reaching around behind your head to feel the finished product. It’s a little crooked, and a few hairs have escaped around your face, but it’s secure.

“It actually feels pretty good,” you say. He smiles a proud smile.

Knock. Knock.

“Come in!”

Penelope

8:00 AM

Garcia enters the room, carrying a large gift bag, three balloons, and a drink carrier, with two coffees and a bakery bag inside of it. She walks through the entry past the bathroom to where she has a good view of you.

“Oh! Look at you,” she says, her face lighting up. “You’re awake! And conscious! And making eye contact!” She sets her bags and balloons and coffees on the table and trots over to you, her heels clicking loud. “I’ve been waiting four whole days to see those beautiful little eyeballs!”

You smile, still unable to laugh. “Hi, Penelope.”

“Oh my god, she said hi,” she looks excitedly at Spencer. “She said hi to me!”

“I told you she was awake,” Spencer says, quietly sitting back down in the chair next to your bed. 

“Can I hug you?” Penelope asks.

“Yes,” you say, holding your arms open.

“Gently,” Spencer calls from the chair.

She gives you a hug lighter than you thought was possible from her. She steps back, looking at you through glistening eyes that she blinks away.

“Oh, honey,” she says, “We were all so scared.”

You smile softly. “I’m okay,” you say.

“I know,” she reaches down and squeezes your hand gently. “And I would like to officially request that you never ever do anything that terrifying ever again.”

“I don’t plan on getting kidnapped again,” you joke.

Spencer clears his throat. “...Do you like her ponytail?” he asks quietly from the chair.

Penelope looks at your hair. It wasn’t anything special. “It…looks like a ponytail…”

You contort your voice to a loud whisper, one that Spencer can still hear, but that conveys the fact that you’re pretending he can’t. 

“He did it,” you say, pointing at Spencer. “And he’s very proud of himself.”

Penelope’s eyebrows shoot up and she nods solemnly. She turns back to Spencer, who is in fact smiling with unmistakable pride.

“Boy Genius,” she exclaims, pulling his attention to her. “You did her hair?”

“I did,” he grins.

“By yourself?” Penelope asks, stepping behind you to study your ponytail with exaggerated seriousness.

“Yes,” he says.

“I have notes,” she says, after circling you once like an art critic examining a sculpture. “I have tips,” she tucks an escaped strand behind your ear. “But for a first attempt, it looks great.”

Spencer smiles impossibly wider. looking so proud of himself. “I even got the tension right!”

You smile at him, then look at Penelope. “He asked me how tight it should be,” you explain. “Then he gave me a lecture about the strength of human hair.”

Penelope giggles, looking between the two of you. “Oh sweetheart,” she says, sitting on the edge of your bed. “You have to keep this one,” she motions toward Spencer. Spencer, who looks adorably confused. 

“Keep me?” he repeats, a mix of confusion and almost offense in his voice.

“Yes, Boy Wonder,” Penelope says.

Spencer looks at you with betrayal in his eyes. “I wasn't aware I was available for exchange.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Penelope beats you to words, so you just shrug.

“Oh, you are not!” Penelope says, waving a dismissive hand. “Final sale, no refunds, no exchanges, Manufacturer warranty has expired.”

“I don’t think that’s how–” Spencer starts.

“Nope,” she cuts him off, then turns her attention toward you. “Do you know how monumental this is?”

“...The ponytail?” you ask.

“Spencer Reid doesn’t just voluntarily touch people’s hair,” she says quickly.

“That’s a misleading generalization!” Spencer says faster.

“It’s not!” Penelope rebuts.

“It is. I’ve–”

Penelope looks at you, cutting him off again.”Do you know how long I’ve known him?”

You shake your head, well, you more shake your eyes and only slightly move your head.

“Almost four years!” She holds up four fingers. “And in that time I’ve seen him touch a total of…” she pretends to calculate. “Oh! zero other people’s hair.”

“That’s–” Spencer tries to argue, but Penelope keeps talking. She’s good at that, you’ve noticed. 

“You’ve hugged me…” Penelope continues.

“Don’t.” Spencer interjects, sounding almost offended.

“...four times in those four years, and you’ve only initiated one!” Penelope says.

“One of them was a side hug,” Spencer says, like somehow that helped his case. “On Halloween last year.”

“You remember?” Penelope’s eyes sparkle as she looks at him. Spencer just widens his eyes in return, giving her a look that says ‘eidetic memory.’ Penelope softens for exactly half a second before she picks up on the look. “Right, he’s a genius.”

“What’s your point?” Spencer says, starting to sound a little bit annoyed at the attention he’s getting from her.

“My point is,” she grabs your ponytail, “hair.” She points at Spencer with her other hand. “You.” She then gently pulls your ponytail toward him, soft enough to not move your head, just to move the hair in his direction. “Personal space!?” 

“She can’t do it herself right now!” Spencer argues.

“I mean…” you finally speak quietly. “He does braid my hair sometimes…”

Penelope’s entire face lights up. She lets go of your hair and grabs your shoulders. She’s gentle, but she’s moving so quickly and erratically that it worries your boyfriend.

“Be careful with her!” he says a little too loud.

“She’s okay, Spence,” you say, not taking your eyes off Penelope, who is looking down at you like you just told her you were getting married.

“He braids your hair!?” She repeats ecstatically. You nod with a smile. “Honey, that’s Spencer Reid’s version of writing your name in the sky!”

You smile at her, then glance over to Spencer, who looks adorably mortified. His eyes are blown wide and the tips of his ears have begun to turn red in the way that you love.

“It is not!” He argues at her immediately. He shifts his attention to you “N-not that I wouldn’t w-write your n-name, Y/N, I love you!” you can visibly see his brain click on. “Skywriting is actually a very inefficient form of communication and the message is usually only visible for less than ten minutes a-and about 72% of people who see skywriting don’t actually remember what it said within an h-hour. I just think there’s more memorable ways of telling y-you that I love you. I mean if you w-want me to get a skywriter I could but it just doesn’t seem practi–”

“Spencer,” you say, stopping him from his seemingly endless spiral. “She was making a joke.”

His face burns redder as he looks down at his shoes to try to hide it.

“I knew that,” he mumbles.

Penelope tells you a few stories about Spencer avoiding physical touch at all costs, and you smile at the thought. Not the thought of him avoiding contact, but the thought that he never was weary to touch you. Even during the beginning of your friendship, he was okay with touching you. The idea that you were taking the hugs and casual hand holds for granted was something that never crossed your mind.

After about an hour, Penelope stands from the foot of your bed.

“As much as I hate to do this,” she says, smoothing out her dress. “I have to mind the visiting schedule.”

You smile at her, not thankful for her to leave, but thankful for the chance to take a nap. “Thank you for coming,” you tell her.

“Oh of course, honey. Anything for you,” she grabs her purse, then pauses as she’s reminded of the drink carrier she brought in. “That’s yours,” she says, looking at Spencer.

“...M-mine” he stutters.

“Yes, yours,” she says, handing the cup to him. She points at the bakery bag. “And there’s a croissant in there too. Make sure you’re eating.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, smiling at her.

You watch as she leaves the room, you swear you could hear her heels clicking all the way out the front door of the hospital. After a moment, you turn to Spencer.

“When is the next person coming?” You ask through sleepy, hooded eyes.

“Morgan is coming at 10:30,” he says.

“What time is it now?” Your eyes are noticeably heavy.

“9:15, are you wanting to sleep?” He looks at you with a slightly concerned face. “I can tell him to come later.”

“N-no,” you say, struggling to keep your eyes open. “J-just wake me up at t-ten.”

He smiles, reaching his hand out to hold yours again. You lazily wrap your fingers around his, not grasping, just holding. His hand squeezes yours, one of the most comforting things to feel as you fall asleep.

Derek

10:30 AM

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep for when you feel something warm brush against your cheek, but it definitely doesn’t feel like it’s been long enough. You keep your eyes closed, pretending to not have woken up. A thumb traces slowly over one of the only parts of your face that isn’t bruised or surrounding a bruise. He whispers your name, you only hum in response.

“Are you awake?” He asks softly. 

“No.” you say. He laughs softly. “...Five more minutes.”

“Morgan will be here in about ten minutes,” he says. Your head starts tipping further into the pillow like you’re dozing off again. “I can ask him to come later if you want to sleep.”

“No…” you say. Your eyes stay closed. “...want to…see him.” 

“Are you sure?” He asks you, not sounding convinced.

You sit your head up, eyeing him with heavy lids. “Yeah…just…tired.”

Your head starts falling sideways again. Spencer catches it before it falls completely. 

“I know,” he says, his hand staying lightly against the side of your head. “Come on, let’s sit you up.”

“But…comfortable,” you groan as he slips a hand behind your back. 

“Do you want to be awake when Morgan gets here?” he asks. You nod. “Then you need to sit up. You’ll be less likely to fall asleep when sitting upright.”

“You’re just…saying that,” you say.

“No, it decreases sleep onset because your postural muscles remain active,” he explains.

“...fine,” you say, grabbing his hand that’s not behind your back as he begins to pull you forward. He lifts slowly, stopping every few inches.

"Too fast?"

"No."

"Hurting?"

"No."

"You'll tell me?"

"I promise."

Once you're sitting comfortably against the raised hospital bed, he adjusts the pillows behind you until you stop squirming. Then he hands you your water.

Knock.

Knock.

The door opens just enough for a familiar head to poke through.

"You decent?"

“Come in,” Spencer calls.

You hand your water back to Spencer. He takes the cup automatically, setting it beside your bed as Derek pushes the door open the rest of the way.

Unlike Penelope, he isn't balancing gift bags or balloons or enough supplies to open a small gift shop. It's just him in jeans and a leather jacket, his hands shoved into his pockets like he'd simply stopped by on his way home.

"What's up, Kid?" he says, crossing the room. He stops beside your bed and holds out a fist. “How ya feeling?”

“Tired,” you say, bumping his fist gently. “But it doesn’t really hurt right now.”

“That’s good,” he says. His eyes drift to the IV hanging beside your bed, then back to you. “They’ve got you pretty pretty high, don’t they.” He chuckles.

“Yeah,” you grin.

Morgan laughs before turning to Spencer. “Has Pretty Boy here been taking good care of you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s been perfect.”

Spencer’s ears immediately turn pink. “I-I haven’t really done much. I get her her water and the TV remote.”

“You’ve been here for four days,” Morgan says, staring at him. “I’m guessing you’ve done a little more than handing her the remote and playing waterboy.”

“I don’t know…” Spencer says.

You know.

Sure, he’s grabbed the remote and your water the most, but he’d also held your hand through every nightmare, and he learned which side of the bed hurt your ribs less, he remembered every medication, every side effect, every nurse, every doctor, everything. He’d slept folded into that uncomfortable chair because he refused to leave the room, even when there were no signs of you waking up soon, he’d stayed.

And to you, that was way more than grabbing the remote or handing you a plastic cup.

“You have,” you say softly.

“I have?” Spencer looks over to you, confused.

You nod, opening your eyes wide at him. He smiles that shy smile you’ve started to recognize before he shrugs like none of had been anything special.

“Why don’t you get some fresh air for that genius brain of yours,” Morgan suggests, patting Spencer on the shoulder.

“No,” Spencer answers immediately, shaking his head. “I don’t want to leave her.”

“You look like hell, Kid,” Morgan says. “Just five minutes, I’ll stay here.”

“What if something happens?” Spencer argues, still not showing any time of moving. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” Morgan assures him.

Spencer glances toward you, like he’s waiting for you to make the decision for him.

“Go,” you smile. He looks almost offended by your answer.

“A-are you sure?” he says. You nod at him. “W-what if you need someth– You can’t reach your water.”

“I can hand her her water,” Morgan says.

“What if her pain gets wor–” Spencer tries to argue.

“I can get a nurse,” Morgan interrupts.

“What if–” Spencer tries again.

“Go,” you interrupt. Spencer falls quiet, staring at you.

“Youll be okay?” He asks softly.

You smile. “I’ll be okay, Spence.”

He studies you for a moment before his face fills with relief. He leans down and brushes a loose strand of hair back behind your ear and presses the gentlest kiss you’ve ever felt onto your forehead. He lingers for just a moment, before exhaling. “...Okay.”

Spencer starts to leave, walking slower than you’ve ever seen him move before. He takes one last look at you as he leaves the room, as if he’s committing everything to memory exactly the way it is.

Morgan waits to hear the door click shut before he walks around the bed and sits in the chair Spencer has all but lived in for the past four days. He looks at you intently.

“He hasn’t left at all, has he?” He sighs.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “He needs to shower.”

“You know you’re going to be the only person able to convince him to, right?” he asks you.

“Yeah, I know,” you give him a half smile.

“I don’t know how you did it,” he says. “But you got my boy bad.”

You smile, unsure of what to say.

“You walk him like a dog, you know that?” he says, shaking his head with a smile.

“Nuh uh,” you protest playfully.

“You’re right,” he smirks. “The leash would mean he’d pull back every once in a while.”

“He’s not that bad,” you say.

“Kid, he’d ask for your permission to breathe if you’d let him,” he jokes. You can’t help but smile.

You notice his eyes flick toward your ponytail. He nods toward it. 

“Reid do that?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching up and squeezing the base.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Garcia wasn’t exaggerating,” he says.

“She told you?” you ask.

“She told everybody,” he chuckles. “Whole group chat knows Pretty Boy put your hair up.”

You start to laugh. Then regret it.

“Ow,” you impulsively say, grabbing your side. You squeeze your eyes through the pain.

“Easy,” Morgan coaches, the teasing tone gone.

“I’m okay,” you say while holding your breath.

“No, you’re hurting,” he points out.

You nod after a moment, the pain mostly subsided. 

“Laughing just hurts,” you say.

“Makes sense,” he nods. “You’re pretty banged up, huh?”

“Little bit,” you say, taking a deep breath to control the pain.

“Medicine wearing off?” he asks.

You nod.

“You know when you can get another dose?”

“I don’t,” you start, then remember. “S-Spencer um…he keeps a little notebook where he writes the times. It’s on that table over there,” you point to the table in the corner.

Morgan walks to the table and picks up the small spiral notebook. He flips it open to find pages after pages filled top to bottom. Medication, dosage, time administered, pain level before, pain level after, when you slept, when you asked for water; everything someone could ever need to possibly know is in here. He looks at it for a minute before carefully closing it. 

“...Huh,” he says.

“What?”

“Just forgot how…Reid he is.”

You smile, “He likes writing things down.”

“Yeah,” he says, sitting the notebook back exactly where he found it. His eyes linger on it for a moment longer before looking back to you. “You can have more meds in like fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, cool,” you nod.

Morgan settles back into the chair quietly, resting one arm over the armrest. It’s quiet for a moment.

“So,” he says, “You ever been bowling?”

“Yeah?” you say, confused.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Cause next time you decide you want attention we’re taking you bowling,” he says. “No more getting kidnapped.”

“Dang,” you say, “There goes my weekend plans.”

He smiles. “You had us all worried sick, Kid.”

“I’m sor–” you start.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “I’ve been briefed by Rossi, no apologies.”

“Sorry,” you say.

“Don’t keep apologizing for something someone else did.”

“...I know,” you say, looking down at your blanket.

He lets the silence sit for a moment before bumping your knee gently with the back of his hand.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“About bowling?” you ask with a small smile.

“About bowling,” he smiles back.

One of your favorite things about most of your friends being profilers was that you didn’t always have to explain everything, they just know. 

You hear the doorknob turn, you turn to see Spencer entering, still looking like he’s been through hell and back. His eyes find yours before the door can even latch shut.

“Are you okay?” He asks, already having reached the side of your bed before you can answer.

“I’m okay, Spence,” you assure him.

“How was your walk?” Morgan asks him.

“Unhelpful,” he shrugs, then immediately turning his attention back to you. “Are you hurting?”

“...A little,” you admit.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes turning only slightly glassy.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell him.

“I know…” he says, starting to lose some of the color in his face. “I just–” he sniffles back a tear.

“Have your chair back, man,” Morgan says, standing up.

“It’s okay–” Spencer starts.

“No, go sit,” Morgan says, nodding toward the chair. “I've already had to clean up your puke four times this week. Don't make it five.”

“Morgan!” He shouts, accusatory.

You look at Spencer. “You threw up four times?”

"What?" Morgan shrugs innocently. "She was gonna find out eventually."

Spencer rubs the back of his neck, refusing to look at you. "...I was scared."

Just three words, quiet and matter-of-fact. Like that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

He walks back around to his chair and sits beside your bed, reaching for your hand before he's even settled all the way down. Your fingers lace together automatically. You squeeze once. He squeezes back. No one says anything for a moment.

Knock.

The door opens just enough for one of your nurses to peek inside.

"How are we doing in here?" She asks

"Good," you answer.

She smiles. "Ready for some more pain medicine?" You nod. "I'll be right back."

The door closes again. Spencer looks over at Morgan.

"Uh..." He clears his throat. "She usually falls asleep about...ten minutes after they give it to her." 

Morgan nods.

"You’re welcome to stay,” he says, “I’m not kicking you out, just… be quiet."

"Nah," Morgan stands, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. "I'll get outta your hair."

He stops halfway to the door, turning back and looking directly at Spencer. He’s not smiling, he’s serious.

“You good?” Morgan asks him, his eyebrows raised.

You feel Spencer squeeze your hand ever so slightly tighter. His eyes shift up to meet Derek’s.

“I’m okay,” he says sincerely.

“You sure?” Morgan asks.

“I am.” Spencer nods.

Morgan studies him for a moment, nodding once he seems satisfied. 

“If that changes…” Morgan starts.

“...I’ll let somebody know,” Spencer finished for him.

“Good,” Morgan says, nodding. He looks over to you. “Oh, and don’t worry about your car,” he says casually.

“My car?” you repeat, furrowing your eyebrows at him. 

“Fixed it,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You didn’t have t–” you start.

“I know,” he interrupts. “I wanted to.”

“Derek…” you say, feeling a little guilty.

“Didn’t want you stuck without a ride once you’re outta here,” he says causally. The nurse returns, pushing a little cart through the door. Morgan steps aside to let her through. “I’ll see you two later.”

He gives Spencer one last sympathetic look as he slips out of the room. The door clicks shut as the nurse begins uncapping your IV.

JJ12:30 PM

JJ enters your room quietly. She’s more calm than Penelope, but more professional than Derek. She radiates comfort. You’re already awake, absentmindedly watching whatever daytime television happens to be on. Spencer isn’t awake. For the first time since you’ve woken up, he’s asleep, curled awkwardly into the hospital chair with one arm folded across his chest and his head tipped against the back cushion. His hair is somehow even messier than it had been this morning. 

JJ notices him immediately, a smile spreading across her face.

“I can’t believe he’s sleeping,” she says, looking toward you.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him asleep while I’m awake,” you tell her.

She glances back at him. “It looks like he needs it.”

You nod. 

She walks over and quietly sits at the foot of your bed, careful not to make noise to wake him, and to not hurt you. She places a gentle hand on your shin that’s hiding under the blanket and looks at you sympathetically.

“I know you’ve heard it a million times, but I’m glad you’re okay,” she says.

“Yeah, thank you,” you say sheepishly.

She’s silent for a moment, just looking at you. “...You scared all of us,” she says. You open your mouth to speak, but she continues before you can. “You’ve made him cry more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Seriously?” you say, a little bit disbelieving. 

She nods, looking over toward him sleeping in the chair. You follow her gaze. He is completely out, his hand that isn’t across his body sits loosely wrapped around your blanket, like even when he’s asleep, he still wanted to make sure he was close enough if you needed him.

“He really loves you,” JJ smiles.

You don’t answer right away, you just keep looking at him. “...I know,” you finally say.

“He looks exhausted,” she says.

“He really needs to go home and shower,” you say. “And sleep somewhere that isn’t…there.

She laughs quietly. “I was going to ask him what he wanted to eat but he seems a little…preoccupied.”

“He’d eat literally anything you got him right now,” you smile.

“Has he eaten today?” she asks.

“Penelope brought him coffee and a croissant this morning,” you think for a moment. “I’m pretty sure he ate it.”

Spencer stirs slightly in the chair. “I can hear you guys, you know,” he grumbles, his voice rough with sleep.

You and JJ look at each other and giggle quietly. 

“So,” she says, turning toward him. “What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t want anything,” he says, cracking one eye open to look at the two of you.

“You need to eat,” she says.

“I had a croissant,” he argues.

“At 8:30,” you remind him.

He opens both eyes, giving you a betrayed look that you have to admit is absolutely adorable.

“You guys are ganging up on me,” he says.

“We want you to take care of yourself,” JJ explains. “What do you want?”

He glances between the two of you. You can visibly see his face of realization when he accepts that neither of you are going to budge.

“...Soup?” he offers cautiously.

“And crackers?” you suggest to him.

“And crackers,” he tells JJ.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” she says with a smile. She grabs her purse and starts walking out of the room. “I’ll be back with soup…and crackers,” she says as she steps out of the room.

Spencer watches her leave before he looks at you. 

“I liked it better when everyone was worried about you,” he says.

Emily4:00 PM

Emily peeks her head in your hospital room about fifteen minutes after you wake up from a nap. She steps inside, holding a cardboard coffee cup she had to have gotten from the waiting room. 

“Hey,” she says as she walks in. “How are you?”

“Hi,” you say, smiling at her.

She takes a sip of the coffee and makes a face. “This tastes like drywall.”

You let out a managed giggle.

“Where’s Reid?” she asks, scanning the room, eyes lingering on the chair beside your bed.

“I finally convinced him to go home and shower while I took a nap,” you smile.

“Good,” Emily says, sitting the coffee down on the table.

“He smelled terrible,” you say, shaking your head. “He was still wearing the same clothes.”

“I believe it,” she says, not sounding shocked at all. “I’m surprised he left you here alone.”

“It took a lot of convincing,” you say. “He really didn’t want to go, I literally had to tell him he smelled bad, then he kept apologizing.”

“I still can’t believe he went four days without showering,” she says. “Even during cases I’ve never seen him go a day without one.”

“He hasn’t shaved either,” you smile slightly. “I honestly didn’t know he could even grow a beard.”

“Me either,” Emily looks horrified at the thought of Spencer Reid with a beard.

“I feel bad,” you say, glancing over at the empty chair.

“For what?” Emily glares at you.

“He shouldn’t have slept in that chair for four nights,” you say. “I wish he would at least go home to sleep.”

“He wants to stay,” she looks at you sympathetically.

"I know, but–" you start.

"And before you apologize..." she interrupts. You immediately close your mouth. "I've noticed something."

"What?" you ask.

"You keep taking responsibility for everyone else's feelings."

You look down. "...Do I?"

"You apologized because Spencer hasn't showered,” she points out. You feel your cheeks grow hot. “Morgan says you apologized to him for being kidnapped.”

“Yeah…” you admit.

"You don't have to spend all your energy making everyone else feel better,” she says. "I've seen people do that after something like this."

She chooses her words carefully, you could tell she was purposely avoiding certain ones. 

Victim.

Kidnapping.

Your fingers twist together in your lap. "...I just don't want everyone worrying."

"I know,” Emily says it so simply that it catches you off guard. "I get it."

You look up at her. “I just don’t want to be…too much.”

"You don't have to protect them from this,” she assures you. “You’re surrounded by the best people for this, we see this everyday.”

“But he can’t even take care of himself because he’s so worried about me,” you say quietly.

Emily looks over at Spencer's empty chair that you don’t realize you’re staring at.

"He loves you,” she says.

"...I know."

"So does Rossi,” she continues. “So they're going to worry. They're going to hover. They're going to ask you how you're feeling fifty times a day."

A tiny smile tugs at your lips. "...Probably."

“Definitely,” she smiles briefly before her face goes serious again. “Eventually, you’re going to have one of those days where you can’t sleep, and where you…remember. And you’re going to tell yourself that you can’t tell Rossi because he’l blame himself, or that you can’t tell Spencer because he’s already dealing with so much…”

You stare at her. She’s exactly right, and it is slightly scaring you. You feel your throat start to tighten up.

“When that happens, call me,” she says casually, but seriously. 

“Okay…” you smile at her. 

“I’m serious, Y/N,” she looks deeply at you. “No matter how early or how late it is, if you need someone who isn’t your uncle, or so…Spencer-like, or you just need another girl to talk to, call me.”

“I will,” you exhale.

She nods, letting the silence settle in the air. For a moment, the only sounds is the heart monitor beeping quietly, the hum of several machines, and the TV on the lowest audible volume level.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence. “When you’re no longer attached to all this crap, Morgan says we’re taking you bowling.”

You smile, “he told me.”

"I told him you'd probably still have stitches,” she says

"What'd he say?"

Emily straightens in her chair and drops into her best Derek Morgan impression. "'That's why they'll never expect her to win.'"

You laugh silently, you’ve noticed that doesn’t hurt as bad. "...That sounds exactly like him."

"I know."

Emily tells you about Garcia attempting to organize everyone's hospital visiting schedule into a color-coded spreadsheet.

"She made Hotch RSVP,” she tells you.

"...Did he?"

"He replied with exactly one word."

"What?"

"'Received.'"

You laugh silently again.

Knock. Knock.

Spencer appears from behind the door, carrying his satchel and a tote bag you recognize as your own. For a moment, all you do is look at him.

His hair is still damp from the shower, darker than usual where it hasn't dried yet. He'd changed into a red FBI Academy hoodie you'd seen him wear dozens of times before and a pair of grey sweatpants that looked soft enough to sleep in. He still hadn't shaved, the few days' worth of stubble starting to cover his jaw.

He looked tired. Really tired. The shower hadn't erased the dark circles beneath his eyes or the exhaustion that had settled into his face, but it had washed away the hospital. The antiseptic smell. The dried tears. The four days he'd spent refusing to leave your side.  He looked a little more like your Spencer again.

His eyes find yours almost instantly. 

"Hey,” he says, already crossing the room before the word is finished. "How are you feeling?"

“I’m okay,” you smile.

He sits his sachet and your tote bag beside his chair before he leans down over your bed.

"Nothing happened while I was gone?" he asks gently.

"No,” you assure him.

"No nightmares?"

"No."

"No nausea?"

"No."

"You've been okay?"

"I've been okay."

“Okay,” he exhales. You can visibly see the tension leave his shoulders. “Good.”

He stands from your bed, looking over and seemingly realizing Emily was in the corner for the first time. She’s sitting in one of the table chairs, just staring at him with her mouth so slightly agape.

“...What?” he frowns.

“You…have a beard,” she sounds distraught.

“I’ve been a little too busy to shave,” he says, immediately bringing a hand up to run along his jaw.

“And you’re wearing…sweatpants,” she tilts her head toward his lower half.

“Yes?” he questions, looking down at himself.

“I’ve known you two years and I have never once seen you in sweatpants.”

“They’re comfortable,” he shrugs.

“I’ve just never seen you dress…normal,” she says like her entire world has changed.

“I don’t think I typically dress abnormal,” he argues.

“No, you just typically dress nice,” she explains. “It’s just weird to see you in a hoodie.”

You can’t suppress your giggle at their exchange.

“...What?” Spencer asks, looking over at you.

“Nothing,” you smile. “I think you look cute.”

“Thanks,” he says, his face and ears turning a light shade of pink. He reaches down into your tote bag he sat next to the chair. “I brought you something.”

“You did?” you ask, trying to peek down into the bag. He nods, pulling your planner out and lying it gently across your body. “My planner?” you say, feeling your heart swell. 

“I thought you probably missed it,” he shrugs. He pulls out another thing from the bag and puts it across you as well. “I brought you a sweater too…the one you always steal. A-as long as you’re able to pull the sleeve up to show the IV it should fit over everything.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes. Not only did he bring your planner, which you had thought about at least once an hour since you woke up, but he brought his favorite sweater of his for you to wear. The sweater that you know for a fact was in your closet.

“You went to Uncle Dave’s?” you say, looking up at him. “You didn’t even go to your apartment, did you?”

He freezes, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “...no.”

“Why?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“I just figured you’d want your planner,” he shrugs awkwardly. “And I knew I still had clothes in your room from the last time I stayed over.

You glance over at Emily, looking shocked at how naturally the words spill out of Spencer’s mouth. She looks between the two of you. 

“...Rossi lets you stay over?” she sounds, sounding disbelieving.

“Once,” Spencer answers, settling into the chair.

“After trivia night,” you add, knowing that Emily would have far more questions than Spencer, who was at the end of the day, still a man, would answer without being prompted. “He just forgot to take him home.”

“That’s insane,” Emily says, standing and starting to gather her things as the sun starts to set in the windows outside. “I think you have a second reason to call me now,” she smiles.

You nod, knowingly, and thankful for her for not mentioning the previous promise with Spencer here now. She grabs the undrank coffee from the table, and stands near the door. 

“I’m heading home before it gets too dark,” she announces. “Please take care of yourselves, both of you.”

You and Spencer both nod at her as she slips out of the room, leaving you two alone again.

HOTCH7:30 PM

You and Spencer are sitting in comfortable silence, him reading, and you watching him read, when a firm knock sounds at the door.

“Come in,” Spencer calls, looking up from his book.

Aaron Hotchner steps inside. You almost don’t recognize him, not in a full suit. He’s still in slacks, but he wears a grey polo shirt rather than a white button up, tie, and jacket. You understand how Emily felt seeing Spencer in his sweatpants and hoodie now.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says first. “I had Jack today.”

“You didn’t have to come,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, walking over beside your bed. He studies you for a moment, like he’s assessing. "You look better."

"You did well,” he says. You tilt your head slightly. “...in there.”

"...I tried not to die,” you say, half smiling.

"You were severely injured,” he recalls. "And you still kept his attention on you."

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but Spencer tightening his grip on your hand makes you realize.

The unsub.

"I was just trying to keep him talking so he didn’t hit me again,” you admit.

"Exactly,” he nods. "You bought time."

"I didn't really think about it like that," you say, looking down at your blanket.

"Have you ever considered hostage negotiation?" he asks.

You laugh, but look up at him to see that he is dead serious. "...What?"

"You stayed engaged,” his tone stays perfectly even. "You regulated his emotions, you redirected his attention, you kept him invested in the conversation despite your injuries." He looks at you for another second. “Did Dave teach you to do that?”

“No, I just…did it.”

"I think you'd be good at it."

"I'll...keep that in mind."

"I hope you do."

The door creaks a little, opening without having been knocked on. A nurse wheels in a small medication cart.

"Evening meds,” she sings, coming to the side of your bed. She checks your bracelet before pushing medication into your IV. The familiar warmth spreads through your arm. Your eyelids immediately feel heavier.

"You'll probably be asleep in about ten minutes," Spencer tells Hotch.

The nurse finishes disconnecting the syringe before wishing you goodnight. By the time she leaves, you're already struggling to keep your eyes open.

"I'm not tired," you mumble.

Spencer smiles. "You've said that every time."

"I'm serious!” you argue.

"Mhm,” he hums, scooting his chair closer to you. Instead of taking your hand, he lays an arm over your body and onto your thigh in a protective way. You sit your hand on top of his.

"Night," you mumble.

"Goodnight," both men say in unison.

Hotch lingers a moment after you fall asleep. He silently watches as your breathing evens out. Once he’s sure you are out, he turns to Spencer.

“How are you doing?” He asks.

"I'm okay." Spencer says.

"Are you?" Hotch studies him.

"...I'm tired."

"I can see that."

"Are you taking care of yourself?"

"I'm trying,” Spencer nods

Hotch's eyes drift toward the table in the corner of the room. "We know about the notebook,” he says sternly.

"...I'm just keeping track,” Spencer says quietly.

"Is that all you're doing?" Hotch stares.

"...Yes."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No,” Spencer says strongly. Hotch doesn’t let up his intimidation stare. "I promise."

"You're doing a good job, Reid,” Hotch says, a little softer in both his tone and his look. "I'm proud of you."

"...Thank you."

Hotch nods once. "Get some sleep."

Spencer looks back toward you. "I..."

"She'll still be here. And she'll probably sleep better if she knows you are too."

Spencer considers that. "...Okay."

"Promise me."

"I will."

Satisfied, Hotch straightens his jacket.

"Take as much time as you need," he says as he opens the handle of the door, preparing to leave.

“Thank you, sir.” Spencer answers, smiling with relief as Hotch quietly lets himself out.

The room falls silent again. Spencer looks down at your sleeping face, his arm rests across you, holding you in the only way he can right now. Your hand is still wrapped loosely around his. He smiles to himself, leaning forward and kissing your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers before lying his head across you, using your lap as his pillow for the night.

_____

Read Part 33 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: this took SO long i’m sorry (don’t tell me not to apologize i will continue to apologize even though i don’t need to) anyways um yeah idk what to really do next with this series, i think i might lowkey do like a three month time jump because i don’t want like 8 parts in a row being spencer taking care of ur broken ribs lmao thats so repetitive

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

JOIN MY SIDE BLOG!

HAVE RECCOMENDATIONS/SOMETHING TO SAY?

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmhh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive @allidoisreid

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. 🥰🥰🥰

[milla984]

Spencer Reid’s hands in different episodes

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

»— Masterlists links in bio —«

[buckysdecaflove]

Some way to decompress.

All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.

Masterlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid x F!Reader

Warning/Tags: Smut, barely any plot, Kind of Sub!Spencer, established relationship. If I'm missing any tag I'll add them later.

Word Count: ~1.6k

Summary: There are some times when Spencer just needs to shut down his brain, and you're always the one he goes to.

Author's Note: This is a request! Thank you so much for sending to me! And I'm so sorry for taking so long! :(

Working with your partner might seem like a difficult task. Unless your partner is Dr. Spencer Reid. The only man who could be scolding you because you forgot to use a cup sleeve earlier in the morning, just to not look a’t look at you as soon as you arrived at the FBI offices. It was not like he ignored you; it was more like a kind of minimized interaction to avoid any interactions at work.

Everyone knew about you. There was not a single soul who didn’t know about you. From the higher-ups to the newbies. Everyone was aware that Dr. Spencer Reid and the Senior SSA had been together for years at that point. You even had a Love Contract in your files to avoid any liability if you ever had a messy break-up. Something that didn’t worry anyone. Everyone had seen how you two interacted, and they all knew you were endgame until the day any of you died.

It had been a long week. Strauss had been chewing your asses off since Spencer got injured in the last case. He had been using a cane to walk around and was prohibited from joining the team at the field. That got him bothered; every time he tried to complain to you, you let him do it and pampered him just to remind him it would be temporary—he would be at the field as soon as he was cleared up by a real physician.

After three weeks, he got cleared up, but he felt rusty now. Some things would slip his mind; he got startled by a gun sound. He was already getting mad at everything. At the way his leg hurt from time to time, at the way details escaped his gaze.

Everyone noticed the way you tried to comfort him, even when they were not used to seeing you two that close in front of them, or when you were at the job. They loved to see you letting your loving side slip when you thought no one was looking around. The reality was that you didn’t really care if they watched you. It was not a secret that your love for him was rooted in your soul.

“C’mon, honey.” You stroked his back, “You just need to get used to it again.”

He grunted, “I’ve been doing this for years; I shouldn’t be needing this.”

“It’s the first time you’re out of the field this much—give yourself some grace.”

“We need to get going,” Hotchner shouted from the other side. You and Spencer looked at him and nodded.

He walked away and got into the truck with him. You walked to the truck with Morgan and Emily.

“Looks like someone's going to need to let off some steam tonight.”

You chuckled.

The whole team had this idea that Spencer was this rough guy with you. Just because you were always showing them the tender side he deserved and loved when you were in public. You would never dare to let anyone see who you both were behind closed blinds.

You and Spencer rapidly fell into a different kind of dynamic.

When you were at work, he was more on the stern side, and you loved it. You loved to see him almost avoiding you just to not let his mask slip. Oh, and if he loved to see you being your bubbly self.

But as soon as you closed the door of your apartment, he was literally on his knees. He never even thought of taking a step without letting you know—better said—without asking you if he could do it.

He loved to be this genius he had always been, but when it was about you… He loved to follow your orders, to be whatever you wanted him to be that night.

And after that, the shitty comeback to the field, you knew what your loving boyfriend needed.

He was sitting on the couch, fully dressed. Legs spread and hands on his knees. Still thinking about all the mistakes he had made through the day and how he could have avoided them.

“You were so good today, baby.” You mumbled, walking towards him. Your dress did nothing to hide your body, and your missing underwear didn’t help either. He hadn’t even batted an eye at you.

“No. I was not… I was a disaster; Strauss’ gonna consider me a liability if I keep it up like that…” And when he finally lifted his head towards you.

His brain melted. That laced dress did its work perfectly, and when he tried to find what underwear you were going to nudge on his mouth that night, he realized there was none. He swallowed.

“C’mon… I need you, don’t make me force you to beg…”

He fell on his knees immediately. His back flushed against the couch, you walked towards him and placed your leg on the couch just next to his head. You lifted your dress enough to show what he was almost drooling for. Your hand found the back of his head, and you pulled him closer; his hands traveled from your knees to your inner thighs, his eyes fixed on your cunt.

He leaned closer, and without a spare thought, he started to circle your clit with his tongue; it was slow, just how you liked it—just the way you had taught him how to do it. His hand was now in your hips, just to embrace you slightly more.

Then you sank a little bit more, making his head flush to the couch, and that’s when the real show started. He took his opportunity and started to kiss, suck, lick, even bite as much as he could. You were now steadying yourself in the back of the couch.

“Not too eager, baby.” You scolded, but his mind was too deep into having your cunt on him that he didn’t slow his pace. Your legs were already trembling as his mouth worked on your slit. Lapping harder on your cunt, his hands gripping your hips to make you flush on his face, he was sure he could come on his pants just by eating you out. Nothing new; he had done it so many times that he was not even embarrassed about it anymore. He knew you loved to see the mess he had done on his pants even when you hadn’t even touched him.

You pulled him by his hair and made him look at you—his lips were swollen, eyes almost lost in pure pleasure. “If you keep misbehaving, I won’t let you come.”

He grunted, tilting his head back. “I just need you on my face.” You scoffed a laugh and made him eat you out again.

Finally, you let yourself go and grinned on his face, slicking his face with your juices, one hand gripping the couch while the other gripped his long curled hair as you pulled him closer.

You didn’t even realize when, but you were already working his zipper and taking out his cock—it was already leaking as you stroked it slowly; his hips twitched, and he whimpered every time your hand left his cock. “Please, I need you.”

“Ask it nicely, baby.”

“Please,” He mewled.

Carefully, you looked down at him, your knees straddling, your slit kissing his tip. You knew him; he was barely there. His mind was all over the place, thinking about the way your slit caressed his tip, the way your hands felt soft at the touch, on how

“Look at me, Spencer.” He fixed his eyes on you. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

He nodded.

“Earn it.” You mumbled on his ear, and he gripped your hips again.

“I’ll do whatever you want. I can beg, I can be on my knees to eat you out all night if you want, but please… Please, fuck me…”

You cupped his chin and kissed him slowly, finally sinking on his cock. He cried out on your mouth, his eyes rolling back, toes curling, fingers bruising on your skin as he dug them even harder. You bounced on his dick while he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing.

You were the only person who knew this side of him. The side that just wanted to stop thinking, to stop being this genius, and to only function to give you the pleasure he was sure you deserved. When you bossed him around, his mind just shut down; he was brainless every time he heard you ordering him around. He really loved to be under whatever spell you had put on him.

You noticed it; he was already twitching inside you, whining and grumbling as he tried to make himself last longer.

“Can I…” His voice broke in a cry, “Can I come inside?”

You were still bouncing on his throbbing cock as your hands rested on his chest; he was trying not to look at you—he knew he would lose the battle if he did that.

You lifted your hips, making his cock almost slip out from your cunt. He whined, and without thinking twice, he pulled you down, and you strangled a moan. “I—am sorry…”

“Do you want to be punished?” You leaned on his shoulders. You wanted to keep yourself in your role, but the way his cock bullied your cunt made you weak.

“No… No… I’m so sorry…” Spencer cried out as he hugged you, his hands grasping at the soft fabric of your dress. “Let me come… Please…”

He was below you, just accepting the way your body slid up and down; you nodded and looked up at him.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Come for me.”

Bucky squirmed, and with a raspy grunt, he came undone, spilling his warm ropes of cum inside. His whole body went limp, your knees hurt, and you finally stumbled against him.

“Thank you, thank you.” He pecked your cheek. “Needed this.”

“I needed you, too.”

@maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @cynbx @rufles2 +add yourself to my tag list!

[cynbx]

Fantastic story.

[starbucksandpearls]

[milla984]

Criminal Minds screencaps S03E14 Damaged

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @cynbx @reidsbookclub

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

»— Masterlists links in bio —«

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 31)

No Apologies 

summary: Three days after you fall unconscious in the ambulance, you wake up to Spencer's hand in yours, and discover he never let go. 

word count: 4k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), ambulance descriptions as the patient, vomiting blood, loss of consciousness, hospitalization, IV descriptions, vague dilaudid mentions

_____

Read the Kidnapping Part HERE

Spencer doesn’t wait for the stretcher. He just runs. 

He doesn’t even hear what Morgan shouts from behind him. And he barely notices Rossi matching his exact speed on the side of him. Right now, the only thing that exists is the weight in his arms and the way your breathing hitches against his chest as he runs through the field.

The ambulance doors are already open by the time he reaches them. Two paramedics jump down instantly.

“What happened?” one of them asks.

Spencer doesn’t even pause to think.

“18 year old female, kidnapping victim. Approximately 8 hours in captivity. Multiple blunt force injuries to the head and torso. Possible concussion. Check for broken ribs. She just vomited blood,” he says the words so fast, it was like he rehearsed. He hadn’t. 

Who would rehearse their worst nightmare?

The two paramedics exchange worried looks with each other.

“How much blood?” the other once asks.

“I-I don’t know,” Spencer swallows. “Enough to cover…” he looks down, holding you out a little to keep you off his soiled sweater. “...me.”

One of the medics nods. The other speaks. “We need to get her on the stretcher.”

“Can you hold her for a second longer?” The other medic asks, already climbing in the back of the ambulance.

“Yeah, yeah I got her,” Spencer says. He holds you close to him. He knows the second he puts you down, there’s an unknown amount of time before he can hold you again. Anywhere between 3 days and 3 weeks, he guesses. He pleads for it to be days.

The two medics lower the stretcher beside him and count down from three. They gently lay you on the mattress. You don’t even feel them sit you down. You hope it’s because they’re just gentle, but you know it’s because the pain is overtaking your body and causing light sensories to be less noticeable. 

The second Spencer’s hands are off of you, one of the medics is already checking your pulse while the other slips an oxygen mask over your face. The feeling of the air being blown on you is cold.

“Ma’am,” one of the medics says, trying to get your attention. “Can you hear me?”

You blink to say yes.

The medic nods. “Good, can you speak?”

“...Y-yeah,” your voice feels fried. Which is strange, because you didn’t do much screaming.

“Okay, good. I’m going to ask you some questions, alright?”

“Yeah.”

He shines a dim flashlight in your eyes, checking your pupils. 

“What’s your name?” He asks.

You blink slowly, you stutter, but you answer.

“What year is it?”

“...2007.”

Spencer, who is hovered over the paramedics still, watching you, corrects you before the medic is able to. 

“Eight,” Spencer corrects. “It’s 2008.”

“That’s what I said,” your words slur. You can see worry cover the entirety of Spencer’s face. You don’t know why.

“What hurts?” The medic with the light asks.

You try to laugh, but wince from the pain the diaphragm contractions cause. “...everything.”

The medic uses the hand that isn’t holding the light to your eyes to check your body. His hand is gentle, but the second it reaches your left side pain shoots through your entire body. You suck in a sharp breath, which only makes it worse.

“There?” the medic asks. 

You nod.

“Don’t nod,” the medic says. “Keep your head still.”

“O-okay, sor- i’m sorry,” you spit.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says as he keeps examining you. “Do you remember the last time you lost consciousness?”

“...car.”

“So only the one time?” 

“No…”

Your words are becoming slower and more slurred. And Spencer is becoming more worried.

“Y/N?” He says, looking down at you on the stretcher. You look toward him, your eyes clouded. You can’t really make out his face very well, but you know it’s him. He reaches for your hand without thinking, your fingers curling weakly around his. “I’m right here, Y/N.”

Can y-you,” you look between Spencer and the “c-come…”

You try to lift your head at him, but immediately regret it. A wave of blood pours out of your mouth down the side of your face and the stretcher onto the ground. Far more blood than before. Far darker than before. Thicker than before. Enough that every bit of color leaves Spencer’s face. 

The medics start moving noticeably faster around you. The other one hangs fluids and sets up IVs in both of your arms.

“Pressure is 86/75, tachy at 130.” the medic who formerly held the light says. “We need to go.”

You cough again, your entire body shaking with it. 

“You’ll be okay,” Spencer says, squeezing your hand. He’s unsure if he’s talking to you or himself.

You feel your eyelids drooping and hear Spencer say your name. “T-tired…” you say.

“I know,” Spencer says.

“Stay with me,” one of the medics says.

“S-Spen…” you try to say his name, but you can’t force it out.

“I’m here,” he says, not making you use your energy to finish his name. 

“...’m s-sorry,” you try to apologize.

“For what?” he asks, tears pricking at his eyes.

“Blood…on…you…”

He lets out something between a laugh and a sob as he looks down at his sweater. He can’t believe that out of everything going on right now, you feel like you have to apologize for getting blood on his sweater.

“one of…fav..o..rite,” you try to continue.

“I can buy a new one, Y/N. It’s okay,” he says sincerely.

“...’m sorry,” you repeat, a tear falling from your eye.

Your grip loosens on his hand as your eyes roll shut.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls. You don’t respond.

The monitor starts beeping faster. Spencer’s heart skips a beat.

“Y/N!” he yells, you don’t answer.

One of the medics reaches across you, buckling you into the stretcher. “She’s unconscious.”

The other medic climbs into the back of the ambulance. “We’re good, load her.”

The medic on the ground locks the stretcher into the landing and begins to raise it up. Spencer stands on the ground, standing with tears in his eyes.

“Sir–” one of the paramedics starts.

“She asked for me to come,” Spencer says.

The medics share a glance, then one sighs. “Get in.”

“Just stay out of the way,” the other adds.

_____

You don’t know how long you were out for. There were no dreams, or nightmares, or anything to give you a sense of passing time. It was just empty.

Sound is the first thing to return. There is a steady beeping and the soft hum of an air conditioner near you. That’s different from the steady dripping and buzz of a lightbulb. You hear a distant squeak of shoes against polished floors, different from the loud thud of steel toe boots on concrete. 

Then comes the ache. It’s everywhere. 

Your ribs feel like they’ve been smashed. Your stomach burns. Your head pounds with every beat of your heart. Even simple breathing feels abnormal. 

You slowly open your eyes. The room is dark, the light is off. White walls, white floors, white ceiling, IV pole. Hospital room.

Your eyes drift to your left. 

Spencer.

He’s asleep in a chair he pulled up right beside your bed. He’s folded on top of himself awkwardly, his arm against the metal bar on the side of your bed and his head is leaned against it like a pillow. His hair falls in front, completely hiding his face. His other arm is sprawled out in what almost looks upside down. His hand is in yours.

You use what feels like every ounce of strength you have to squeeze it. 

His head jerks up so fast his arm slips off the metal bar.

“Oh my God,” he says, the look on his face is something you’ve never seen before. It’s a mix of maybe grief, shock, happiness, relief, and like five other things. His chair scrapes loudly across the floor as he shoots to his feet. “You’re awake!”

His eyes fill with tears as he laughs a disbelieving, shaky laugh. He grabs one of your hands and holds it with both of his.

“Hi,” you say weakly. Your throat scratches painfully as you speak.

He lets out another broken laugh once he hears your voice. One of his thumbs continually rubs circles over the back of your hand like he needs constant confirmation that you’re really alive and awake and lying in front of him. 

“I thought–” he stops himself, swallows, then starts over. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

You try to speak something, but your throat feels like sandpaper. 

“Water?” you manage to get out, painfully.

“Oh,” he says, reaching for the cup sitting beside your bed that the hospital had offered him. “Yeah, yeah, here.” 

He helps you lift your head just enough to get the straw to your lips.

The water is cold. It feels so good against your raw throat. You only manage a tiny sip before the pain in your ribs reminds you to not get so ambitious. Spencer lowers the cup as soon as you pull away from the straw.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. 

“What day is it?” you ask. You see his face change.

“...Tuesday.”

You frown. Your brain feels slow to process information. Spencer seems to notice you struggling to put the pieces together.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” he tells you.

You stay silent, staring at the ceiling.

Three days?

“You needed surgery to stop internal bleeding,” he explains carefully. Your face twists with a small amount of fear. “They stopped it, don’t worry. They said everything went just fine.”

“Three days?” you say, still stuck on that. 

Spencer nods. You look at him, and you realize he’s telling the truth. He’s wearing the same clothes, his sweater has been shed and sits on the back of a chair, leaving him in a white t-shirt that he wears under the sweaters that no one sees. The shirt is full of wrinkles from days of wear. His eyes are bloodshot like he hasn’t slept. His hair, which he hasn’t cut in a while, lays flatter than normal against his head, like days of not being washed. His face is unshaven, his beard longer than you’d ever seen it.

He looks older.

“Have you been here–”

“Yes,” he interrupts.

“The whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Spencer…” Your heart twists in your chest,

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone…” he says quietly.

“You s-should’ve…gone home…sleep,” you say.

“I slept here,” he says like he truly believes it counts.

“S-spencer you look–” you stop yourself. You look him up and down again. His eyes follow yours. 

I know,” he says. “But I didn’t want to be gone when you woke up. And I wasn’t, so deal with it.”

You smile, only slightly, but he still notices. 

“What time is it?” you ask, realizing you have no idea.

“1:13 pm, why?”

“D-do you need lunch?” you ask. You know him. If he says he hadn’t left the room, he meant it. You hope the hospital staff brought him food, because you knew he didn’t leave to get any.

“Rossi is out getting food, he should be back in 20 minutes,” Spencer says.

“Is Unc-uncle Dave okay?” you ask. You’d been too focused on the pain in your own body and the train wreck covering your boyfriend that you hadn’t even thought about Dave. 

“Yeah, he’s been here every day. He tried to stay here all night the first night, but I asked him to go home to sleep,” Spencer said.

“He l-listened when you told him…go home?”

“I didn’t tell him to go home,” he argues.

“You s-said–”

“I convinced him to.”

“How’s that…different?”

Spencer looks almost embarrassed. “I reminded him that if you woke up and found both of us wearing the same clothes we wore Saturday you’d be mad,” he smiles weakly.

“You’re r-right.”

“He agreed,” Spencer says. “He said you’d yell at him before you yelled at me.” 

You laugh, forgetting that it is one of the most painful things you could possibly do. The pain was apparent enough on your face that Spencer pointed it out.

“I was going to tell you to not laugh,” he says.

“You were t-too s-slow,” you say.

“Garcia and Morgan stopped by too. They brought me a crossword book…but I finished it in 30 minutes…” he tells you.

You smile, wanting to laugh, but remembering the pain it brought.

“What’d they…say?” You ask, remembering how vulnerable you were toward all of them now that they…knew.

“Well Penelope brought you like ten stuffed animals, they’re all over there,” he motions to the window sill. Sure enough, there were about ten stuffed animals lined up on it. “And Morgan told you that if you ever got kidnapped again he was going to be mad at you. Then he asked why you ignored him.”

You can’t stop your laugh this time, but you were able to control it, keeping the pain to a minimum.

“Everyone else has been texting me every few hours,” he says. “They’re all wanting to visit you once you’re feeling a little bit better, if you are okay with that, of course.”

You smile and look around the room. “Maybe…tomorrow?” you say. “D-do you know how l-long I have to…be here?”

He looks at you for a moment. “I don’t,” he admits. “I could make an estimate.”

“I know you could,” you smile. There isn’t much more in the world right now that you could want more than to hear him ramble about something. Even if that something was the amount of time you’re going to be stuck in this bed.

“You had surgery to stop internal bleeding,” he says, starting to count on his fingers without realizing it. “Multiple rib fractures, concussion, and significant blood loss, so presumably they’ll want to monitor your hemoglobin, neurological status, and pain management and make sure there aren’t any postoperative complications.” 

You wait for him to give his estimated number. He doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know. 

“...So?” you ask, forcing him to estimate.

“If everything progresses normally,” he tilts his head. “I’d say between four and seven days.”

Between four and seven? Those are two completely different answers. 

“So basic’ly you…don’t know,” you say, smiling.

“No,” he says shyly.

“Thought you were…a d-doctor,” you tease.

“You know I’m not that kind of doctor,” he says, smiling. A real smile. A wide smile. 

“You’re s-smiling,” you point out.

“I’m happy,” he says. “You’re alive.”

“I’ve b-been alive,” you say sarcastically.

“Yeah I know.” His eyes start to shine. “But you’re awake now. And you’re…” you can practically hear the lump form in his throat. “you’re still making fun of me.”

“I’ll always m-make fun of you,” you tell him, smiling back now.

His tears run down his face instantly. Not from panic or grief this time, but from relief. He doesn’t try to hide them from you.

“I was prepared for a lot of outcomes,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “You being sarcastic and making fun of me immediately wasn’t one of them. But I think it’s the best one.”

You smile, fighting tears of your own. Normally, you’d welcome them, however you can imagine crying is going to be even more painful than laughing.

“Come h-here,” you say, giving him a weak smile. “...hug.”

“Y-you have three broken ribs,” he says hesitantly through his tears. “I could hurt you.

“You w-won’t,” you say. “even if y-you…do I w-won’t be mad.”

He smiles, carefully leaning over the bed. You weakly wrap your arms around him. You can’t squeeze, but they’re there against him, and that’s more than he had for the past three days. His hair tickles your face.

“Y-you need a…haircut,” you tease.

He rests his forehead against yours instead of putting his weight on you.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I l-love you t-too,” you say, taking one hand off of his back to pull one of his hairs out of your mouth.

“I promise I’ll get a haircut as soon as you're home,” he smiles.

Knock. Knock.

Spencer quickly wipes his face with the back of his hand as you slowly unwrap your arms from around him.

“Come in,” Spencer says, his voice the loudest sound you’ve heard since waking up.

The door opens as you finally lay your arms back down to your sides. Spencer stands, opening your view to see your uncle entering the room carrying a pizza box.

“We’re back,” he announces automatically. Then he glances towards the bed and freezes. “...Kid?”

You can feel your face brighten. “Hi Uncle Dave,” you say, smiling.

“You’re awake?” His voice barely works. 

Behind him, you see a floppy mop of hair peeking over his shoulder. A floppy mop of hair you weren’t expecting to see.

“...Logan?” 

Spencer smiles slightly. He purposely left that part out of the story.

“I was about to call–” Spencer starts, feeling their eyes.

“No you weren’t,” Rossi says, walking further into the room to put the pizza on the little table in the corner.

“I was about to!” Spencer argues.

“You were making kissy faces with my niece,” Rossi raises an eyebrow. His voice is serious, but you know your uncle, and you know that when his eyebrow raises like that, he’s joking. You’re pretty sure Spencer knows that too.

Rossi sits the pizza box on the small table in the corner of the room and then immediately walks toward you. Spencer steps away, returning to the chair he pulled only inches away from your bed.

“You gave me one hell of a scare, Kid,” your uncle says, reaching out and resting his palm against your one unbruised cheek.

“I know…I’m s-sorry,” you say.

His face mixes with happiness and relief from hearing your voice and sadness and grief from hearing how slow and drained your voice is.

“Don’t say that you’re sorry,” he says.

“O-okay. Sorry,” you didn’t mean to say it that time.

He shakes his head. “We’re done with that word.”

“...Okay.”

“I’ve been waiting three days to hear your voice, I don’t want to hear you apologize.”

“Missed me?” you smile.

“I’ve had enough peace and quiet,” he teases.

Logan is still in the doorway, not having moved a muscle. His eyes are completely fixed on you.

“...Hey,” you say softly. You’re unsure if your voice is even loud enough to reach that side of the room.

He crosses the room in just a few steps, standing next to Rossi by your bed. “You look like shit,” he says, his voice a little higher than normal. 

You smile at him, he’s not being mean, he’s being your brother. And that’s what you need far more than sympathy right now.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he tells you, still staring at the bruises and cuts covering your face.

“I know,” you say with a weak smile.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t think you do.”

“I f-feel bad,” you say slowly. “...can’t say s-sorry though. Unc-uncle Dave… grounded m-me.”

Your uncle looks partially offended standing next to you. 

“I brought pizza,” he says, like that was somehow a help to you.

"You think... I can eat pizza?" you ask.

“No,” he says. "I brought pizza for everyone else."

“Oh,” you frown.

“I brought you hospital-approved ice chips."

He hands you a cup of ice that you assume was originally for his drink. You find it comical that he’s still acting like a host, even in a hospital room. He reaches into the pizza box and pulls out a slice, handing it to Spencer. 

“Eat,” Rossi says, his voice demanding. Spencer couldn’t protest if he tried. He takes a bite. Logan also gets handed a slice and demanded to do the same. He accepts without arguing. Only after both of them have food in their hands does Rossi finally take a slice for himself.

You chew on a piece of ice as you watch them. Your uncle, your brother, and your boyfriend, all standing in your hospital room. Apparently for the fourth day in a row now. They all look exhausted, Spencer a little more than the other two, but they were all here, and they’d all sacrificed over half of their week to be here with you even when you didn’t know they were.

“...T-thank you g-guys,” you say, drawing each of their attention. They all look inquisitive. “...for ev-everything.”

Your uncle gives you the look he’s given you thousands of times since you moved in with him. The look that said ‘don’t be ridiculous.’

“Kid,” he says, his voice smooth and gentle. “There wasn’t anywhere else we were going to be.”

You sit there slowly crunching ice chips while Spencer obediently eats the pizza Rossi forced into his hands. Logan leans against the wall with his paper plate, picking the pepperoni off. You smiled, remembering how when you were younger he’d always give them to you to eat. 

The television mounted high on the wall plays some daytime game show with the volume turned almost all the way down. You hear nurses passing in the hallway and some muffled voices through walls and doors.

You almost feel calm. 

Knock. Knock.

Before anyone can answer, the door opens. A woman in a white coat steps inside, followed by a nurse pushing a computer cart. She glances down at her clipboard, then up at you.

“Well,” the woman says, “Look who’s awake.” She walks to the side of your bed while the nurse begins to check the monitors. “I’m Dr. Williams, I performed your surgery.”

“...Thanks,” you don’t really know what else to say.

“You’re welcome,” she laughs softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts a…lot,” you say.

“Yeah, we’ll get you something for that,” she looks toward the nurse, who nods and walks out of the room. “I’m gonna do some pushing, this is going to be a little uncomfortable.”

She starts gently feeling around your abdomen. It is very uncomfortable actually. You feel almost balloon-like. You suck in a sharp breath as soon as her fingers reach the incision in your midsection. She eases her hands a little bit.

“The surgery went very well,” she says, still feeling around on your abdomen and moving toward your ribs. “You had a laceration in your spleen that was causing internal bleeding into the stomach, which is what was causing you to vomit blood. We were able to repair it completely without removing anything.”

You glance toward Spencer, who is now standing, and hanging on to every word.

“We’ll keep monitoring your blood counts,” the doctor continues. “You’ve got three fractured ribs, and a concussion along with…” she glances at your chart. “numerous bruises and contusions that we want to keep an eye on.” 

The nurse comes back to your room with a small syringe with no needle attachment. She moves immediately toward your IV.

“What is it?” Spencer asks quickly.

“It’s Fentanyl,” the doctor says as you watch the clear medication disappear into the IV line. “If she needs something more we can look into Hydromorphone.” 

Spencer’s face goes white. 

The medicine going through your IV doesn’t feel like much at first, but then, all at once, your whole body gets warm. Not hot, it’s a comforting warmth. You lose feeling in everything. The pain has completely subsided. 

“Woah…” you blink as the edges of the room begin to soften.

“What?” Spencer immediately notices.

“I think…” you murmur, your words slowing more than they already are. “...this is…stronger than…ice c-chips.”

That earns a chuckle from everyone, including the doctor and nurse. You didn’t realize it was funny. 

“It works quickly,” the doctor says. “You’ll probably fall asleep soon.”

She wasn’t kidding. Your eyelids suddenly weigh a hundred pounds. You battle to keep them open, but you lose.

“...m’sorry,” you mumble, unable to open them back up.

“No,” you hear three voices answer at once. 

“...Right,” you smile.

No apologizing. 

You remember.

The last thing you feel before falling unconscious, this time by sleep, is Spencer’s fingers lacing through yours, exactly where they had been when you’d woken up. 

And this time, you know they’ll still be there when you wake up again.

_____

Read Part 32 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: i wanted to continue the part with visits from the team and a deep convo between spencer and reader but this is already so many fucking words so i guess there’s going to be more parts in the hospital then i originally planned for.

also, hydromorphone is the generic name for dilaudid, that’s why i made spencer go :0

i was in the hospital for almost a month last summer and they gave me dilaudid and i felt very spencer then

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

JOIN MY SIDE BLOG!

HAVE RECCOMENDATIONS/SOMETHING TO SAY?

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. I am so glad she is going to be okay. 🥰🥰🥰

[yesiamagenius7]

Season 4 Episode 8 Masterpiece

[cynbx]

Love this episode.

[spencereidluver]

The Second Man

This is Part 30 of my Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Series, however it can also be read on it's own

summary: After you get kidnapped, Spencer calls on the BAU to help find you. By doing that, he learns a part of your life that you had hidden indescribably well, that even a team of FBI profilers, minus your uncle David Rossi, could've guessed.

word count: 11.2k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), kidnapping, violence, physical assault, blood, vomiting blood, regular vomiting, trauma, dead parents, murder mentions, references to past grief counseling, tobias hankel mentions, drug mentions (dilaudid), references to drug cravings, emotional distress, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, probably some other stuff too

_____

– Your POV –

It was a perfectly normal Saturday morning. You were driving to Spencer’s apartment on the same route you’ve driven so many times before. Spencer would probably know the exact number. You should ask him.

The sun was shining, traffic was light, and you were humming along to the random song on the radio.

Then your car started acting weird.

The engine sputtered. The temperature gauge shot up. You frowned, pulling over to the side of the road. You popped the hood, trying to see what was going on.

Before you could even get a good look, you heard gravel crunch behind your car. You turned around just as a man stepped out of a truck.

“Need some help?” he asked.

Before you could answer, everything went black.

_____

– Spencer’s POV –

She was 15 minutes late. 

I check my phone. Nothing. Not a single call or text. She always calls when she was running late or in traffic. 

I try calling her. It rings three times, then goes straight to voicemail.

That’s weird…

I try again. This time it doesn’t even ring, I’m just met with her voicemail.

Something is wrong. 

I can feel my heart in my throat. And in my wrists. And in my temples. Everywhere. I stand up from the couch and pace the living room, my phone still clutched in my hands hard enough that my knuckles turn white. I feel like I’m going to pass out.

I go back to the couch and sit down. My knee shakes, I can’t stop it. 

I call Rossi. He answers after an acceptable number of rings, no voicemail from him.

“Hey,” I say as soon as he answers. “Is Y/N still at home?”

“No? She told me she was going to your apartment,” Rossi replies, his voice calm. I wish I could be calm.

“She should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.”

“Is she in traffic?”

“S-she would’ve called. She always calls. S-something is wrong.” 

It’s impossible for him to not have heard the tremors in my speech.

“Reid, slow down,” he says, trying to calm me. I appreciate the effort, but it doesn’t work. My brain is already sending the smell of old wood to my nose and the sound of Russian roulette cylinders clicking against my head to my ears.

I interrupt him before he can finish what he was going to say.

“Her phone is going straight to voicemail, Rossi. That’s weird. I’m going to look for her.”

“Alright, I’ll try to call her too.” His voice is a little more worried, but nothing that I am feeling. “Be safe, kid.”

Kid.

She liked it when Rossi called me ‘Kid.’

I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my ears. The drive along her usual route felt endless. Every red light made my knee bounce harder. Every car that looked vaguely like hers made my head jerk. Every stop sign made my heart sit heavy in my throat. Every mile without seeing her made my stomach feel tighter.

And it all dropped and stilled when I saw her car on the side of the road.

The door was open, all her stuff was still inside. Her keys, her bag, everything.

I slammed on the breaks and jumped out of my car, not even pulling off the road. I cross the street with my phone already to my ear, ringing Rossi.

“Dave, her car,” I spit into the phone.

“What?”

“It… It’s on the side of the road. She’s not in it. All her stuff…her keys…”

My voice cracked on the last word. I was shaking. I could feel it in my hands, my legs, my chest, everything. I started pacing back and forth beside her car, one hand in my hair, pulling at it without realizing.

Rossi’s voice came through the phone, tense this time. “Call Hotch and the rest of the team. I’m heading to the BAU right now. Take pictures of the car and get here as soon as possible.”

“O-Okay,” I say and hang up. This didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.

I took a few quick pictures of her car, my hands shaking still, probably causing terrible quality. I hurriedly get back in my car and drive as fast as I could without putting anyone in immediate danger. I was following traffic laws, but my mind was spiraling.

What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if–

I remember Rossi told me to call Hotch.

“Hotchner,” he answers, sounding the same as always.

“Hotch,” I swallow hard enough he could probably hear it. “I can’t find Y/N.”

“What happened?” His voice still sounds the same, but there is the smallest glint of concern, meaning he’s really concerned.

“Her…car. And her stuff…But…no her. Help.” 

That was not a cohesive sentence. 

My voice was shaking so badly. I could barely get the words out. I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to keep my mind occupied.

“I’ll call everyone in. You get here and be safe please. You sound a mess,” he says sternly. He was right, but I wanted, no needed to help.

“No!” I rebut. “I can help. Let me help.”

“Okay. You call Morgan and have him call Garcia. I’ll call JJ and Prentiss.”

That’s better than nothing. At least I’m not being completely useless. I compose myself the best I can, which isn’t very well, then call Morgan.

“What’s up, kid?” He answers, his voice calm.

“Morgan, something happened to Y/N.”

“What?” The calm is gone. 

“She’s gone. All her stuff is still in her car.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“C-can you call Garcia?”

“Calling.”

I don’t even remember pulling into the BAU parking lot or going inside. All I know is now I’m sitting with the whole team at the briefing table and Rossi is standing above us holding a case file he brought.

The conference room is quieter than usual. Everyone is looking at me or Rossi. Mostly at me. Probably because I look a mess, and Rossi just looks tense. I truly admire his composure. My knee wont stop bouncing. It’s bouncing high enough it hits the table every few times. I know everyone notices. 

Rossi cleaners his throat, standing in front of the evidence board. He looks surprisingly put together, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his jaw and the way his grip on the file is just a little too tight.

He clears his throat. “You guys are about to learn a lot about me,” Rossi says, his voice heavy and serious. “And a lot about Y/N.” He looks directly at me. “Stuff not even you know.

I swallow hard. I’m nervous. Because Rossi sounds serious. And this is scary.

My girlfriend is gone.

Rossi opens the file and holds up a photo of a house. “Three years ago, Y/N’s parents, or my brother and his wife, were murdered inside their house in New York. The man who did it, Dennis James, was caught at the scene and immediately arrested. Y/N and Logan came to live with me.”

The room is silent for a moment before Morgan finally speaks.

“Y/N’s parents were murdered?” His voice is low,

Even I didn’t know that.

“Yes, they were,” Rossi continues. “I always suspected a second attacker. My brother was an Elite Army Ranger who would not have been easily subdued by James. This needs to be the first thing we look into.”

“Has anyone checked on Logan?” JJ asks.

“We sent a plane to Spokane, he should be here around 1:30.”

“Good,” Hotch says, leaning forward. “Walk us through the timeline, Dave.”

“Y/N left my house this morning at about 7:45 to go to Spencer’s. Around 8:45, Spencer found her car abandoned on the side of the road. She’d only made it about a quarter of the way there. The door was open and her bag, wallet, and keys were still inside. Reid says there was no obvious signs of a struggle, but we’re gonna get forensics on it.”

“And her phone?” Morgan asks.

“S-straight to voicemail,” I answer, my voice cracking. “She always calls if she’s late. Always.”

Emily looks at me sympathetically. She doesn’t say anything.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know about her parents,” Garcia says quietly. I wonder if she sees herself. I know her parents passed when she was younger.

“You couldn’t have,” Rossi replies, voice steady. “She doesn’t talk about it. None of us really do, but now we have to.”

Hotch looks to the case file in Rossi’s hands. “What do we know about the original case?”

Rossi flips to another page in the file. “Dennis James was arrested at the scene. He confessed and said he did it alone and that was that. But the way my brother was killed…it never set right with me. He was a Ranger. James was a nobody with a petty crime record. I always suspected there was another person, but since James confessed, there wasn’t much more I could do.”

Morgan leans forward, his jaw clenched. “And now that second person is coming after Y/N three years later?”

“It looks that way,” Rossi says. “I let myself believe I was wrong. Garcia, can you start digging into James’s life in prison? Find everything.”

“On it,” Garcia says, standing up quickly. “I’ll find everything, I promise.” 

The way Garcia looks at me when she leaves makes my throat thick. The way everyone looks at me makes me wish I was anywhere else. I can barely sit still. She’s been gone for an hour. What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she–

“Reid!” 

Hotch’s stern voice jolts me to attention.

“Yes, Sir?” I answer.

“I need your head in this,” Hotch says seriously.

“I know,” I say, voice shaky. “I’m trying.”

I do know. And I am trying. I’m just not succeeding. 

Hotch nods at me anyways, ‘I’m trying’ being a good enough answer for him. He stands up and looks around the table quickly. 

“Alright,” he starts. “We’re working this as a standard abduction. Garcia is already looking into Dennis James. JJ, I need you to coordinate with local PD and find out if there’s any traffic cam footage from the area. Prentiss, I want you to run geographic profiling–”

I look at him weird. I always do geo profiling. His eyes meet mine, but he just continues talking.

“Rossi, stay here and start building the profile. Pull all you can on the original case.” 

“Gotcha,” Rossi says, putting the photos and documents back into the file in his hands.

“Morgan and I are going to go to the scene. Reid, you’re coming with us, is that okay?”

Why was he asking? I nod anyway. 

The drive back to her car feels endless. I do not want to go back there. I replay Hotch’s words in my head over and over again. 

I need your head in this.

I know he does. More importantly, I know she does. It’s just hard. I keep getting distracted. I keep drumming my fingers against my thigh, trying to burn off the nervous energy. It’s not working. Nothing is working. I can’t stop thinking.

What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s–

“Reid,” Morgan says loudly to get my attention. He’s looking at me through the rearview mirror. He surely can tell that my head is not in this. “We need you with us, man.”

“I’m here,” I say, voice shaking. 

I lie.

We pull up to the side of the road. Her car is still there. Her door is still open. Her bag is still on the passenger seat. Her keys are still in the ignition. 

It looks like she just stepped out.

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Hotch and Morgan get out of the car first. I just sit in the back, staring. Thinking. Tapping my fingers. Bouncing my knee. Preparing.

I’ve already been here. I’ve already seen this. There’s no direct sign of a struggle. No weapon, no blood, nothing that suggests she’s… everything points to her having left the scene ali–

I need to get out of this car.

I have to force my legs to move. They feel heavy. Too heavy. Everything feels heavy. My legs, my eyes, my heart, my voice… It’s all so much.

I approach her car. I just stand there. Staring. 

The crime scene techs are already processing it. I just stand there. Staring.

Morgan is talking to one of the techs. I just stand there. Staring.

 For a long, long time.

Hotch finally approaches me from behind. He comes up and stands directly to my side. 

“Do you need to leave?” He asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “I can help.”

But I’m not helping. I’m just standing there. I’m just staring. I should be looking for something, anything, I know I should. But my head and my body are just…stuck.

“I know you’re worried, but you could be helping somewhere. I need you to try to be objective. Please.” Hotch’s voice is calm, but firm. I hate that he’s talking to me like this. Not because I think he’s being rude, he actually is being rather nice considering I’m just standing here doing absolutely nothing, but I just hate that this situation exists at all.

And I hate that I don’t know what to call it other than a ‘situation.’

“Go look for something. Anything,” Hotch tells me.

I nod and force myself to move. I walk around her car a few times, trying to see it as a crime scene instead of her car. 

The hood is popped, but not open, almost like she was in the process of opening it when she was–

I open the hood. I look over the inside. 

The radiator hose.

It’s cut. Not torn, cut. Cleanly. Like with a knife. Meaning this wasn’t a spur of the moment abduction. It wasn’t someone waiting for an opportunity. It was someone who had created one.

“I think I’ve got something,” I call out to Hotch. My voice is surprisingly more put together than it has been all morning. Hotch and Morgan both come over to me. “The radiator hose, it’s cut.”

“That’s a clean cut,” Morgan says. “He sabotaged the car.”

I keep walking around the car, I notice the tire tracks in the gravel. I look to Morgan who is following me to my left.

“There are two different sizes of tire tracks, but they’re spaced out like they’re from one vehicle,” I tell him.

“Like someone was driving on a spare?” Morgan asks.

“No… I’m thinking more like a heavy duty commercial vehicle.” 

I pull out my phone to call Garcia. She doesn’t give one of her quirky greetings. I don’t know how to feel about that. But now is not the time to think about that.

“What? What can I do?” She says when she answers the phone.

“Garcia, I need you to compile a list of drivers of commercial vehicles with alternating tire sizing. Think dump trucks, semi trucks, anything multi-axle,” I tell her.

“On it…453 names.”

“Okay now cross reference those with Dennis James.”

“57.”

“That’s still too many…” I say.

I pull the phone away from my face for a moment.  “Can we get a measurement of these tire tracks?” I call out.

One of the crime scene techs comes over and measures. I hover over him, reading the numbers out loud as he takes them, both for myself and for Garcia.

“The front tire is…about 15 inches wide,” I say, tip-toeing to get the best view possible. “The back is…about 22.5 inches.”

“Okay,” Garcia says, a little confused and drawn out. “What do you want me to do with that?”

“I…I don’t know. Can you figure out commercial vehicles with tires that size?”

“I’ll do my very best.” 

She hangs up. I slide my phone back into my pocket and stare at the tire tracks again. 

My eyes go to her car. I stare at it. I’ve seen it so many times. In her driveway the night we met, at the park we took a walk at the first time we hung out just the two of us, when we used to sneak around and get morning coffee or lunch, the Christmas party, every Sunday dinner, in her driveway when I picked her up for the time we went to the Smithsonian, in the parking lot of my apartment, I’ve seen her car a lot. And I never thought that it would be a focal point of a crime scene.

What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s dead?

The possibility of her being dead hits me harder than anything I’ve ever felt. My stomach twists so violently I double over.

No.

That isn’t possible.

My breathing turns shallow. I press a hand over my mouth in an attempt to steady myself, but my fingers are shaking too much to do anything.

I stagger away from her car, only making it a few feet before everything in my stomach is in a pool on the gravel. I drop to my knees to stop it from splattering everywhere. Another wave comes out. I hear footsteps, but my vision is tunneled.

I can only tell it’s Morgan because of his voice.

“Reid,” he says, his voice thick with concern. 

I feel a hand rest softly between my shoulderblades as I cough, trying to catch my breath.

“Give him a second,” I hear Hotch say as he approaches me as well.

I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed. 

“I-” I cough again. “I’m okay.”

“No,” Hotch says sternly, but quietly. “You are not.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m more embarrassed than sorry, but my brain isn’t working well enough right now to explain that.

“For what?” Morgan asks, shaking his head at me.

I gesture toward the mess in the gravel.

“Kid, you’ve been running on adrenaline for two hours,” Morgan says. 

Hotch crouches down in front of me. His voice is incredibly soft, even for him. “What happened?”

I swallow hard, my mouth still tasting disgustingly like vomit.

“He planned it,” I say, looking up at Hotch. “He would’ve had to have done this at Rossi’s house.” I look back to her car. “He…he watched her.” 

I can feel tears coming. I stop talking before I embarrass myself more. I stare at the tire tracks. Hotch thinks for a moment, Morgan just stares.

“We’re done here,” Hotch finally says. “Let’s go.”

“What?” I say, looking back to him.

“I have everything I need from you today,” He says sternly.

“I can keep hel-”

“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “I need you functioning.”

“I can function,” I say, taking Morgan’s hand he offered, helping me to stand.

“You just threw up beside a crime scene,” Morgan points out. 

“I think I’m aware of that,” I snap. I don’t mean to.

Morgan keeps his voice calm. He pats my shoulder. “I think you need a break.”

“I don’t want a break," I answered quickly. I can’t have a break.

“We’re taking you back,” Morgan insists.

“No!. I can’t. Please.” I’m fighting tears now. I know they can tell. I wish they couldn’t.

Morgan and Hotch exchange a glance. I don’t like it. I don’t like when I’m the center of attention. I shouldn’t be the center of attention now. It should be Y/N. I’m just distracting Hotch and Morgan from getting anywhere. I open my mouth to say something, probably to protest again, but Hotch beats me to speaking.

“Reid.” His voice is stern. I don’t like it. I don’t like it. 

I don’t like this.

“I-I can’t go home,” I stutter through a tear falling down my cheek. “I can’t…I can’t sit somewhere and wait. If you guys make me leave I’ll just think…about where she is…or if she’s hurt…or if she’s…” I lower my voice as low as I can. “dead.”

I hate that I just said that. I hate that I even have to think it. I hate everything that is happening right now. I wish I could be more help. I wish I knew how to be more help.

“What can you do?” Hotch asks.

“What?” 

“If I let you stay,” he continues. “What can you do?”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. I don’t know what I can do. I’m not thinking straight. I don’t know what I can do.

I stare down at the gravel for a long moment.

“T-the files,” I finally say. Hotch waits for me to continue. “T-the original case files. If I could just… If I could read then maybe…” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “S-sorry, my brain is–” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll stay out of everyone’s way. I just…” I look directly into Hotch’s eyes. “Please don’t make me leave.”

I could swear Hotch’s expression softens, something that I’ve seen maybe three times in the four years I’ve known him.

“You’re not staying in the field,” He says sternly. I almost argue. “We’ll bring you back to the BAU.” 

Relief floods through me. I can feel it in my body. “Thank you,” I say.

“If you show any signs that you are pushing yourself too far I am pulling you,” Hotch finishes.

“Yes, Sir.”

Morgan steps beside me, guiding me toward the SUV. 

“Come on, Kid,” he says. “Let’s go.”

I don’t argue this time.

I don’t have anything left to argue with.

The drive from the scene back to the BAU is almost silent. Morgan drives, Hotch is in the passenger seat, and I’m alone in the back. Nobody turns on the radio. Nobody talks. The only sounds are the tires against the pavement, and Hotch’s phone when JJ and Emily call with an update.

I stare out the window. Everything outside keeps moving. People are walking dogs, someone is mowing their lawn, a little kid is riding a bike down the sidewalk. It’s all a reminder that the world didn’t stop.

But it should have.

My phone is still in my hand. Or, in my hand again. I’m not sure. I don’t remember picking it back up. I unlock it anyway. Her contact is still open. I stare at her picture for a long time. It’s a picture of her I took at a coffee shop before we were even dating. She’s looking up at the camera with two cups, one hers and one mine, in her hand. She’s smiling. I love her smile. 

I press call. It goes straight to voicemail. Again.

I don’t leave a message. I don’t even know what I’d say.

‘Please answer.’ ‘Please be alive.” “Please don't be going through what I went through.”

Neither seem particularly helpful.

“You good, Kid?” Morgan asks me through the rearview mirror.

No.

“I’m fine.”

They let me lie.

Hotch’s phone rings again. He answers it immediately.

“Hotchner.”

There’s a pause while the person speaks. I try my hardest to listen to either side of the conversation, but Hotch’s broken responses make no sense when I don’t have the information. 

Morgan looks at him as soon as he hangs up the phone, waiting for an explanation.

“She narrowed the commercial vehicles from 57 down to 11,” Hotch explains.

11. That’s progress.

I clear my throat before I speak. I know if I hadn’t the bubble in my throat that is the only thing keeping me from crying would cause a weird sound.

“D-did they find any blood?” I ask quietly. So quietly.

“No.” Hotch says, looking back over the seat at me.

I nod.

No blood. No blood is good. 

My brain tries to reassure me. No blood means she could still be physically unharmed. But trauma doesn't always leave blood. My left arm aches where the needle used to stab. I rub the spot through my sleeve before I even realize I'm doing it.

Morgan notices. He doesn't say anything. He just looks away. I'm grateful.

People can survive being kidnapped. People survive kidnappings all the time. Statistically–

I stop myself from thinking that.

Statistics don’t matter when it’s someone you love.

_____

–Your POV–

The first thing you notice is the pain. Not in your head, in your wrists. Whatever is tying your hands isn’t fabric or rope. It’s…plastic. Ribbed plastic. And it’s thin. 

Zip ties.

Every instinct tells you to move, to rub at whatever hurts, to free your hands. You have to force yourself to stay still. It’s hard.

It’s quiet in here. All you hear is your own breathing. Slow, uneven, too loud. The air smells…wrong. Not like outside, but not quite inside either. It feels…damp. Like old wood and dust, but wet, and there’s a lingering smell of something metallic underneath it all.

Your eyelids are impossibly heavy. It takes too much energy to open them. But you do. You want to see where you’re at. It’s blurry at first. You blink rapidly to clear your vision. It only works a little.

The walls are unfinished wood, some are warped, leaving thin slivers of daylight between them. They’re almost black near the floor, like they’ve been soaking up moisture for years.

It smells old, like damp lumber and dust that has been sitting undisturbed for years. The concrete beneath your feet is cracked in several places. One corner of the room has a shallow puddle where water must’ve leaked in recently.

You look up. The ceiling is low enough that anyone above 6 feet could probably touch it without stretching. A single lightbulb hangs down from a frayed cord. It sways just barely. Just enough to make shadows crawl across the walls.

There are no windows on the wall. The only exterior light is shined through the gaps in the wooden walls. You catch the faintest strips of daylight through some, others reveal nothing but more wood. 

Maybe another room?

The only furniture is the chair you’re tied to and an old workbench shoved against the opposite wall. Its surface is covered in what has to be years of scratches. There’s a small pile of rusty nails, a broken coffee mug sits near the back of the surface, there is a tipped over motor oil bottle that leaked til empty, and a chain falls over the front and onto the ground.

You stare at the workbench longer than you probably should. Even if your hands weren’t tied, you couldn’t reach it.

The walls themselves don’t look insulated. Just plywood over framing. Like a shed, or a detached garage, or maybe a barn?

Somewhere nearby, water drips steadily.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound is driving you insane.

The room feels cold despite it being warm outside. It’s not air conditioned, just concrete holding onto the cool temperature from overnight. The cold seeps through your jeans where they press against the metal chair.

You shift. 

The chair scrapes loudly across the concrete. The sound echoes much longer than it feels like it should. Your breath catches, you exhale slowly and quietly, as if the chair didn’t alert whoever was nearby that you were awake.

Your heart begins to pound. Your breathing starts coming too fast.

In.

Out,

In,

Out.

Your vision starts to blur around the edges. 

Spencer.

Spencer always counts.

1.

2.

3.

4.

No, not like that. Count your breathing.

Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.

Again. 

Again.

Again.

It doesn’t make a difference.

You hear a sound so faint you almost convince yourself you imagined it. You hold your breath, hoping you did. But there it is again. 

Footsteps.

Every muscle in your body locks. 

The footsteps are slow. Not rushed or running, whoever it is, they’re in absolutely no hurry.

You can feel your heartbeat in your head. You swallow hard.

Think. 

Come on.

THINK!

Maybe if he thinks you’re still unconscious…

You let your head fall forward, your chin nearly hitting your chest. You close your eyes and slow your breathing. You put all your focus into not moving.

Stay perfectly still, and maybe he’ll leave.

The footsteps grow louder. And closer. Each one echoes through the concrete floor beneath your feet.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

He’s getting closer.

And closer.

You curl your fingers against the zip ties that are digging into the skin of your wrists. You fight every instinct to look in front of you.

The footsteps stop right outside the door. The silence that follows stretches for ages. You start to wonder if he’s just standing there waiting on a sound from you. Or maybe he left. You’re too scared to look up and check.

You hear a metallic rattle. Then a click. Then a heavy clunk. Then the sound of creaking hinges and a wave of warm air filling the cold room. 

The door opened.

You hear the footsteps getting closer. Slow. Agonizingly slow. 

Your breath threatens to speed up again.

No. 

Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.

Again. 

Again.

Again.

Control your breathing.

The footsteps stop. Whoever it is, they’re standing right in front of you. You can smell him. He smells like sweat. And diesel fuel. And like old cigarette smoke. 

You squeeze your eyes tighter.

Please, just go away.

His shadow blocks the light that’s casting on you from the bulb.

“You can stop pretending.”

Your heart almost stops. 

The voice is calm, almost conversational.

“I know you’re awake.”

You don’t move. You stay perfectly still. You keep your eyes squeezed shut.

Maybe if you don’t look at him he’ll lea–

SMACK!

A sharp crack explodes across your cheek. Your head snaps sideways, mouth opening. The pain is instant,  hot and stinging. Before you can stop yourself, a gasp tears through your throat.

“There you are,” he says, voice almost warm. Like he’d been waiting for that.

You slowly lift your head, meeting your eyes with his.

“I don’t like being ignored,” he says, crouching until you’re eye level.

Your cheek throbs. You swallow hard, but refuse to look away from him. 

He studies your face for a long moment before he reaches out. You brace yourself to be hit again, but instead, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You’d almost rather him have hit you.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he smiles.

_____

–Spencer’s POV–

I’m gripping the edge of the conference room table as Rossi finishes explaining the details of her childhood. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the same spot on the table. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, I don’t really know. Time doesn’t feel real.

Hotch walks into the conference room carrying another file. “We have more information,” he says.

Everyone looks up at him. Garcia is behind him with a stack of papers. “I pulled what I could from her school records,” she says quietly.

Quietly. 

That scares me. Because Penelope Garcia is almost never quiet.

“This is counseling information from her school in Virginia,” Garcia says, handing them to me.

I know why I got handed them. I read 20,000 words per minute. Of course I’m going to be handed the paperwork.

But the FBI Academy doesn’t prepare you to have to read through your girlfriend's counseling notes from the months after her parents died while she was missing.

I don’t think anywhere could prepare you for that.

I take the papers, but I just sit them on the table in front of me. I can feel everyone staring at me. Waiting. Waiting for me to start reading, to share any notable information I find. But I can't. I don't want to read them. It feels…wrong.

If she wanted me to know about this, she would’ve told me. I feel like I’m abusing her trust looking into her life like this. This is a major breach of privacy. 

“No,” I say, shaking my head. Everyone looks at me, all confused. I can feel tears coming. I don’t want to cry in front of everyone again. “I-I can’t.”

“Do you need to go home?” Hotch asks me. 

“No!” I protest. “I just…it feels wrong looking into her life like this…”

Everyone just stares at me. I know they’re trying to sympathize, but no one knows what I’m feeling right now. Not a single one of them. Not even Rossi. Because Rossi at least knew about her parents being murdered. I didn’t even know that. And now they expect me to dig into the entire history of my girlfriend’s life since then? It feels wrong. I feel like I’m violating her.

Everyone else gets assigned new tasks or sent back to the one they were working on. I stay at the table, sitting completely still, doing absolutely nothing. Morgan is the last one other than me in the conference room. I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he walks over to me.

“Hey, Kid,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I look at him. “I know you feel weird doing this…”

“If she wanted me to know she would’ve told me,” I interrupt.

“I know,” he says. “But if you don’t look into her past…” He locks his eyes with mine. His face looks serious. “Then she might not get a future.”

He pats my shoulder twice then turns and walks out of the room.

He’s right.

I open the file. I stare at the first page for almost a full minute before I force myself to turn it. The paper feels heavier than it should.

Maybe because I know once I read this, I can never forget it.

Guardian. It means Dave.

I already hate this. But I keep looking through the files. I have to.

Session One: Question: How are you sleeping? Answer: Fine. Observation: Student appears significantly sleep deprived. Guardian reports frequent nightmares. Question: How are you feeling today? Answer: Tired. Observation: Student pauses for approximately 20 seconds before answering.

She couldn't even hear someone say "parents." I close my eyes.

God.

I flip to the next page and force myself to keep going.

Teacher Report: Student has spoken fewer than twenty words during school hours since enrollment.

Twenty.

Twenty words.

My eyes go back to the sentence. I read it again.

Twenty words.

I can't make it make sense. She narrates everything. She reads books out loud. She hums when she studies. She thanks cashiers twice because she's worried she didn't say it loud enough the first time.

Twenty words.

The thought physically hurts.

Session Two: Question: Have you made any friends yet? Answer: No. Question: Would you like to? Answer: Maybe.

I smile. Just a little. Then immediately feel guilty for smiling.

Question: Do you miss your old friends? Answer: I stopped answering the phone. Question: Why? Answer: Because they'd ask what happened. Question: And? Answer: I didn't have anything to say.

I put the papers down, unable to breathe for a second.

I picture her at 15 years old sitting next to her phone and watching it ring. Because saying the words out loud would've made them real.

I wipe at my eyes. I don't remember starting to cry.

I pick the papers back up.

Guardian Update: Guardian reports student continues eating almost exclusively dry cereal.

I laugh. Not because it's funny. It's small and pathetic, actually. But because she still eats cereal. All the time.

My chest tightens. I remember making fun of her for eating cereal for dinner a few times. I didn't know. I had absolutely no idea. She laughed at the joke. Her laugh seemed genuine.

I hope she knows I never would've made fun of her if I knew.

I feel like I have to force myself from getting sick again.

Session Three: Question: Teachers mentioned you played piano. Answer: Used to.

I furrow my eyebrows.

Piano?

Question: Why did you stop? Observation: Student became tearful. Session paused. Answer: Mom taught me.

I didn't know she played piano. I wonder if she can.

Session Four: Question: You played varsity basketball as a freshman?

Basketball? What?

Answer: Yeah. Question: Why didn't you try out here? Answer: Dad always practiced with me.

I actually have to cover my mouth.

Basketball?

Piano?

She never told me. Not once.

I thought I knew everything about her. But I don't even know her favorite sport. Well, what used to be her favorite sport.

It stopped being her favorite sport the day her dad died.

I don't even realize I've stopped reading again until a tear lands directly in the middle of the page. I wipe it away carefully, like somehow preserving the paper matters.

Session Five: Question: Can we talk about the funeral? Observation: Student immediately became distressed. Hyperventilation observed. Session paused approximately six minutes. Question: Why didn't you go inside? Answer: Because if I walked inside then it meant they were really dead.

I lean forward until my forehead hits the table. I can't stop crying. She didn't skip their funeral because she didn't care. She skipped it because she loved them too much.

I don't know how long I stay like that. Eventually I make myself keep reading. Because Morgan was right. If I don't...

The final page is a discharge summary.

I barely make it halfway through before one sentence catches my attention.

Student has begun maintaining a daily planner to reduce anxiety and establish a sense of control over unpredictable events.

The planner.

It was never because she liked organization, it was because her entire life fell apart on a random Wednesday, and she wanted to make sure nothing ever surprised her again.

It all makes sense. The color coding, the schedules, why she hates being late, why she plans everything...I always just thought it was how she, when actually, it was how she coped.

I slowly close the folder.

The girl I fell in love with didn't exist before she was 15. She built herself completely from scratch, but somehow she still became the kindest person I've ever known.

I press both of my hands to my eyes so hard that my vision goes white.

Please let us find her. Because I need to tell her that I love her. I love every version of her.

Even the 15 year old girl who couldn't speak more than 20 words a day.

I don’t realize everyone else has come back until someone quietly pulls the folder from beneath my hands. I don’t know how long I was just sitting there. I look up to see who’s there.

Rossi.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just glances at the file name and then back to me, knowingly.

“You okay, Kid?” He asks gently.

No.

The room has gone strangely quiet. I can tell everyone else is pretending not to listen. Which is fair, I guess. 

Rossi pulls out the chair beside me and sits down, refusing to let me get away with just sitting here quietly and destroying myself with my own mind. The folder sits on the table between us. He looks at me, just waiting on me to answer.

“I always thought…” My voice cracks so badly I have to stop talking and regain my composure. I can’t look at Dave, so instead, I stare down at my hands. “I j-just thought she liked organizing things.”

Tears fall from my eyes. I don’t have the energy to stop them anymore. My voice is thick and nasally. There is no hiding it.

“I made fun of her for it,” I continued. “I used to tease her for having three calendars. I thought she was just o-over prepared.”

Rossi keeps looking at me. His eyes are glassy too. 

If he starts crying I am going to lose it.

Everyone is staring at me now. I’m probably speaking loudly. It’s hard to control the volume of your voice when you are this emotional. There’s some tie to your autonomic nervous system there, but I’m too sad to think about it. Which is scary. 

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know that she played basketball, or the piano, or that she…she skipped the funeral,” I choke on my words. “I-I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

“No, you are not,” Rossi says, wrapping an arm around me.

“I am,” I wail. “I didn’t even know how her parents died…I…I thought I knew her…”

“You do,” he corrects. 

“I keep thinking,” I say quieter now, regaining the smallest bit of dignity. “if she had just told me…”

“Would you have loved her more?” Rossi asks.

“N-no, I don’t think I would necessarily love her more…”

“Would you have just hurt for her sooner?"

I nod reluctantly. Because that’s exactly what I was trying to say. But hearing it be said out loud made it seem selfish in a way.

I would’ve loved every version of her.

“Dave,” Hotch says from the back of the room. We both look. “We’ve got Logan.”

_____

–Logan’s POV–

This guy’s office is smaller than I expected. The BAU is huge. I’ve been here a few times, mostly just visiting my uncle, but I’ve never been in the head of the team’s office. For the #1 agent in one of the most prestigious units of the FBI, I expected it to be bigger.

Instead, it feels contained. Everything has a place. There’s a dark wooden desk separating us. He sits in a leather office chair in front of a built-in bookshelf lined with binders and case files. There’s no decorations, aside from a photograph of a little boy, likely his son, near the corner of his desk. There’s a landline phone and a neat stack of paperwork, along with a name plate with Aaron Hotchner engraved in gold lettering.

I sit in one of the visitor chairs with my elbows against my knees. I don’t want to be here, but I know I need to be. 

“I’m sorry we’re having to speak under these circumstances,” Agent Hotchner says to me. 

He’s stern, professional, almost like a military parent. I would know.

“Me too,” I say, giving a half smile.

“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, “but anything you remember could help us find your sister.”

I swallow, “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

He nods, a pleased look peeks out through his face. “Good. Tell me about her,” he opens the folder sitting in front of him.

I almost laughed. Not because it’s funny, but because where do you even start with a question like that?

“She’s…” I start, then have to stop and think. I realize I have no idea how to describe my sister. “She’s stubborn.”

“How so?” He asks, writing something down.

“If she decides she’s doing something, she’s doing it,” I say.

“Even as a child?”

“Oh, especially as a child.”

“So what was she like growing up?”

“Happy. She was loud, just always talking,” I smile. “About everything. Dad used to joke that she narrated her own life.” My smile leaves. He notices.

“When did that change?”

“After our parents died.”

He nods again, writing. ‘Did your parents ever mention anyone threatening them?”

“No.”

“Any problems at work?”

“Dad was army, everyone was a problem at work.”

“Outside of work?”

I think for a moment. “N-no? I don’t think so.”

“Did either of your parents ever insinuate that someone was following your family?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Was there anyone who paid special attention to your sister during that time?”

“She had this b-boyfriend who was kind of a dick, b-but they only dated a few months I don’t think–”

“This man would’ve been older. Around your parents' age.”

“I don’t remember anyone, no.”

“No one at all?”

I think. Hard. I try putting myself back into that time, but I can’t think of anything.

“Wait…Actually…”

______

–Your POV– creepy old man alert. there is nothing physical aside from some face grabbing and mentions of hitting, but it’s mostly just weird ‘ur hot, fuck me im 40’ vibes

There’s nothing in this world that can prepare you for how intense pain can be. It’s not an umbrella term for anything that hurts. There are layers to it.

Pain is the sharpness in your ribs every time you breathe in too deeply. Pain is the throb behind your left eye. It’s the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. It's the burning in your throat every time you swallow. 

Pain is your body’s way of keeping a record.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The dripping that was driving you insane just a few hours ago has become your best friend. You focus on it, because focusing on it means you aren’t focusing on the fact that every time you breathe it feels like something inside your chest is scraping against something that it shouldn’t be scraping against.

You have at least one broken rib, you’re sure of it. Maybe more. Your vision blurs every few minutes, and it’s only worse when you move your head. Your eye is swelling shut, you imagine it is the deepest color purple. You look to your left out of your right eye to the pool of blood that you threw up.

That’s the part that worries you most. 

Worried, not scared. You won’t let yourself be scared. Your father always said fear made people sloppy. You didn’t want to be made sloppy.

“You’re quieter than I imagined.”

You look up at him without lifting your head. “Should I be screaming?”

Your voice is snarky. He seems to like that. You don’t like that he likes that.

He walks up closer to you, taking your chin in his hands. You think about biting his thumb, but you figure you’ll let him talk first.

“You’re very beautiful.”

You roll your eyes up at him. “Thanks,” you say sarcastically. You purposely cough up blood and spit it at him. He laughs. 

Ew.

“I know a lot about you.”

The way he says it makes something cold settle in your chest. You don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the silence. In fact, he almost seems to be enjoying it.

“I know you hate mushrooms. You always pick them off your pizza.”

Your stomach drops. You feel all the blood leave your face, but you stay silent.

“I know you order the same coffee almost every morning.”

You shake your head at him, in an attempt to call his bluff.

He tilts your face up to look at him. The movement sends a shooting pain through your skull. You wince slightly. He runs a thumb over your lips, pressing onto the hole you bit in your bottom one earlier after he kicked you.

The salt from his thumb stings through your lip. You could bite his thumb off. If you wanted to. 

But you think you have a better chance of survival if you hold off on that.

“A medium iced vanilla latte, right?”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. None of this is public information. None of this is something someone could guess that correctly. He’s watching your face carefully, looking for every reaction.

“I know you don’t often sleep in your own room anymore. Thinking of leaving ol’ Dave on his own after he took you in?”

You glare at him.

“I know you sleep on the left side of the bed when you’re at Spencer’s apar–”

“Stop.” I demand. Your voice comes out harsher than you expect it to.

He does stop though, not because you told him to, but because what he wanted was for you to get mad. And he found just the thing that would do that.

Spencer.

“Who are you?”

He chuckles. “You already asked that.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

He reaches out again to brush another loose strand of hair behind your ear. You jerk your head away, your vision going completely white for a moment.

“Don’t touch me,” you demand.

“You don’t like being touched? That’s sure not what it looks like when you’re in Spencer’s bed.”

The way he says Spencer’s name makes you want to kill him.

He smiles at you. His teeth are crooked and yellow.

“You’re awfully affectionate with him for someone who doesn’t like physical touch. You’ve only been together what, two months?”

Your jaw tightens. You just keep staring at him silently.

“And you’re already spending almost every night at his apartment?” His eyes drift over your face, a darkness in his eyes that makes your stomach feel hollow. “Don’t you think that’s a little…dirty?”

“What?” you say, caught off guard. First he was talking about mushrooms on a pizza and now he’s trying to slut shame you or something? He’s just trying to break you. You won’t let him.

“Being with an older man.”

You almost laugh. He has to be kidding.

“What is he now? 25?”

“26,” you mumble. “He’s not that old.”

“Oh, so you’d go older?”

You stare at him. He waits for you to answer. You don’t. You have absolutely no intention of doing so. He slowly drags his tongue across his bottom lip, an attempt to be seductive. It makes your skin crawl.

He leans down close to your ear.

“Do you think I’m too old for you?”

You shudder. Every instinct in your body screams at you to get away from him. But you can’t, so you slowly turn to him and smile a smug smile at him.

“I wouldn’t fuck you if it would save my life,” you whisper to him.

He looks at you for a moment, before chuckling.

“Good to know.”

The way he says it makes your stomach twist. 

“How do you know me?” you ask, hoping to change the subject from whatever was happening.

His smile lingers. “I told you.”

“No, you told me that you knew me. Not how you know me.”

For the first time he doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies your face, almost admiringly.

“You ask good questions.”

“If you’re not going to answer how you know me, can you at least tell me why you chose me?”

“I know your father. I knew him very well.”

“No you didn’t.”

He smiles a reminiscent smile. “Dennis always got the credit.”

Your entire body goes cold.

“Dennis James?”

“Yes, Dennis James.”

“The man who killed my father?”

“You know, you stayed late after school that day? You weren’t supposed to.”

“H-how do you know that?”

“You were supposed to walk through that front door.” Your chest tightens. “You were supposed to be next.”

The room goes silent. You don’t hear the dripping water, or your own breathing anymore. All you can hear is your uncle’s voice from three years ago.

“Something about this doesn’t feel right.”

He was right. He’d been right all along.

You look back at the man standing in front of you. 

“Who are you?” you ask.

He smiles.

“My name is Steven Woods. And I killed your father.”

_____

–Spencer’s POV–

If going through her old school records wasn’t enough, now I’m being sent to go through her room. I hope she can forgive me for this. But if she can’t, at least I know it’s because she’s alive. 

Walking inside of Rossi’s house feels wrong. There’s no TV playing in the living room while she insists she’s watching it, or laughing coming from her room upstairs. It’s just me and Dave walking through the door in complete silence.

Neither of us want to be here. 

We stop outside her bedroom, Rossi stares at the door for a long moment before he reaches for the knob.

“I’ve never gone through her room before,” he says quietly. “Not this deep.”

I get it. I’ve been doing this all day. There’s something that feels deeply inappropriate about going through someone’s things when they’re not there.

Her room is exactly the same as how I know she would’ve left it. Her bed is unmade. A sweatshirt is draped over the chair at her desk. Three planners are stacked neatly beside her laptop. A half-finished novel rests face-down on her nightstand.

Her room doesn't look abandoned. It looks like she walked out five minutes ago. Like she'll come back upstairs any second and ask why we're standing around in her room.

My chest tightens. "This feels wrong," I say.

“I know,” Rossi nods. "But you know she'd rather it be you than anyone else."

I swallow. "I know."

Because I do. Even missing. Even scared. Even if she doesn't know where she is. She would want me looking. So I do.

We separate. Rossi starts at her desk. I move toward the bookshelf. Every movement feels intrusive. Like I'm taking something that doesn't belong to me. I run my fingers over the spines of her books. Most of them I've seen before. Some I've borrowed. One has sticky notes sticking out of almost every chapter. Of course it does.

I smile. Just for a second. Then I hear Rossi stop moving.

I turn. He's standing at her closet.

He has one of her sweaters in his hands.

No.

Not one of hers.

One of mine.

I recognize it immediately. The dark one she always steals because she says it's softer than hers.

Rossi looks at it. He smiles. Then it disappears. Because we both remember why we're here. He folds it carefully and places it back. Then he moves back toward the desk.

And that's when he sees it. The yellow sticky note.

His entire body stills.

I know what it is before he picks it up. I know because I remember writing it.

‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’ 

Followed by my phone number.

The first time I gave her a way to contact me. Rossi slowly lifts it. His fingers tighten slightly around the paper. 

"I forgot about this,” he says, his voice barely audible.

I don't answer. Because I know what happened the last time he saw it.

The argument. The anger. The fear.

"I was so angry,” he says.

I look at him. He doesn't look angry now.

"I thought I was protecting her,” He looks down at the note. "I thought I knew what was best. I thought I was stopping something before it could hurt her."

"Rossi..." I try to stop him. We don’t have to do this right now. I’ve already forgiven him.

"No,” he shakes his head. "I need to say this."

“Okay.”

 "I was wrong,” his voice cracks slightly. "I spent so much time worrying about what could happen to her that I didn't see what was already happening." 

He looks around her room, then at the note.

“Spencer, I know you’ve learned a lot about her today, but I need you to know that you’re the reason that she was able to hide it so well.”

“I don’t know if that’s neces-” 

“No, it is. The night that she met you, that was the happiest she’d been since she moved in with me. And I’m sorry that I kept you guys apart for so long.”

“It’s okay, Dave. I get it,” I tell him. 

I do get it. I don’t know what else to say though. Because I don’t know how to respond to someone apologizing for something they can’t undo.

“I should’ve trusted her,” he says quietly. “I should’ve trusted you.”

I look away because suddenly it’s all too much. Too many emotions, too many memories, everything is just so much.

Rossi carefully places the note back on her desk, more visible this time. “She’ll want to see this when she comes home.”

When.

Not if. 

When.

I hold on to that word.

I notice a box underneath her bed labelled “school”. I pull it out and open it. Inside it’s filled with notebooks, folders, old yearbooks, and at the very bottom, there's an old composition notebook with no title, just visible years of usage. 

I open it. The first thing I see isn’t a table of contents, or an entry. It’s a warning.

‘If anybody is reading this aside from me, please stop.’

I immediately close it.

“What?” Rossi says, looking over at me.

“She wrote for people not to read this,” I explain.

“She also likely never imagined someone would be reading it in order to save her,” he says softly.

He’s right.

The first pages of the notebook aren’t journal entries. They’re lists. And schedules. And goals.

Today’s Goals: 

speak to one person

eat something (cereal doesn’t count)

stay awake through english

don’t cry at school

My vision blurs as I continue reading. It only gets worse.

Practice: 

if someone asks “how are you?” don’t say “fine.” instead, say “i’m okay.” or “good, how are you.”

It was so bad that she had to practice small talk. 

I just want to give her a hug.

Things I don’t want to forget about mom:

she always sang frank sinatra while cooking

she hated mushrooms

she smelled like vanilla, which is funny, because she used coconut scented shampoo

she could bbq better than dad

I stop reading. This is too much for likely no reward. I stand up and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

“You need a break, Kid?” Dave asks, looking at me.

I sit down on her bed. “Hey Rossi,” I say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rossi sits the book he’s holding down and sits next to me.

“Because she finally got to stop being 15.” He gives me a half smile. “She would’ve told you eventually.”

“Are you just saying that?”

“No. She’s slow to warm up.”

“I mean yeah, but I’ve spent almost every day with her for the last two months, and she didn’t even hint at what happened to her parents.”

“Spencer, for the first two months after she moved in she didn’t speak a word to me. Not once.”

He tells me about how all she would eat is cereal. And how every question he asked would go unanswered. He tells me about how she didn’t unpack, and how she slept on top of her comforter because making the bed felt permanent.

He tells me about the first time she spoke to him after moving in. He had burnt a lasagna, and she appeared out of nowhere and told him to cover it with foil. The story makes me laugh. Because even then, without trying, she was funny.

“Rossi, I know what she’s feeling,” I say. “Right now.”

“This job will do that to you,” he says, unknowingly. 

I realize that I was so caught up in the fact that neither of them told me about her parents, that I realize that neither of them know about what happened to me. 

Rossi could assume. He knows this job, and if he wanted to know, he could find the files. But she had no idea. 

And Rossi mentioned me helping her, but I don’t think I’ve given her enough credit for helping me.

My brain takes me to another place. Another time. 

Concrete. Darkness. A locked door. A grave yard. 

Tobias.

I remember the feeling of not knowing if anyone knew where I was. I remember how scared I was to hear any sound. I start shaking as I remember the feeling of the needle–

“Spencer?”

Rossi’s voice pulls me back. I realize I’m not in the shed. I’m here. I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I didn’t even know I was crying.

“Do you know?” I ask him through my tears.

“About Tobias Hankel?” 

The name makes me gasp. I nod, my head falling into Rossi’s shoulder. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I say. “And now she’s in the same position I was.”

Rossi wraps an arm around me. It’s comforting, but not comforting enough.

“You’re here now though, aren’t you,” he says. He has a point. But I can’t stop thinking about her. Her all alone. Or if she’s hurt. 

“What if she thinks no one is coming?” I say. And then I immediately find myself sick. The trash can beneath her desk is suddenly the closest thing in the room. I barely make it.

When it's over, I stay there, embarrassed Humiliated.

"I'm sorry,” I say.

Rossi immediately shakes his head. "No."

I wipe my mouth. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize,” he says.

I start to speak, but Dave’s phone rings in his pocket. 

It’s Garcia.

“David Rossi,” he answers.

“We got him,” is all Garcia says. And Dave and I are immediately down the stairs and out the front door.

______

–Your POV–

You know he’s angry before he touches you. You’ve picked up on a few of his tells. The way his jaw tightens. The way he stops blinking. The way he goes quiet.

The quiet is always worse.

Because Steven likes talking. He likes hearing himself explain things. He likes feeling important.

And right now, you’ve made him feel small.

"You really think you're better than me."

It isn't a question. You don't answer. That makes it worse.

He steps closer.

“You think you understand everything.”

You look at him through your swollen eye.

“I understand enough.”

His face twists.

“You don't know anything about me.”

“No?” You swallow against the pain. “I know Dennis is the one everyone remembers. You know what I think?” You force yourself to keep looking at him. “I think you’re still angry because you spent your whole life standing behind someone else.”

His boot hits before you can prepare. Pain explodes through your side. A sound escapes you before you can stop it. You hate that. Not because it hurts. Because he heard it.

He smiles.

There.

That’s what he wanted.

Fear. Submission. You refuse to give it to him.

“You’re not scary.”

The smile disappears. “What?”

“You heard me.” Your breathing shakes, but your voice doesn’t. “You’re just desperate.”

He grabs your face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You stare at him. And suddenly you know exactly what to say. “You know what?”

He pauses. “What?”

You let out a small laugh. It hurts. Everything hurts. But you do it anyway. “Dennis never cared about you.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.” His expression darkens. “He used you. You were just the guy behind him.”

His breathing gets heavier. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know he got the credit. The headlines. The fear.” Your voice lowers. “And you got nothing.”

His face twists. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

His hands curl. “You don’t know what happened.”

You glance toward the wall. Just for a second. A movement. A shadow.

Someone outside.

Someone looking through the gaps in the wood.

Morgan.

Your heart jumps. But you don’t react. You keep going.

“I know my father fought Dennis. You weren’t the one who beat him.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice is steadier now. “Because my father was strong.”

His anger returns. “He was stronger than you.” 

His hand grabs your hair. 

You cry out.

He pulls you upright, forcing you to look at him. “You think you know everything.”

“No.” You look at him. “I know one thing, you needed Dennis.”

The wall beside you splinters. Steven turns.

The wood breaks.

“FBI!”

Everything happens at once. Morgan comes through first. Hotch behind him. Emily right behind.

Steven reacts instantly. You barely have time to breathe before he pulls you against him. A gun appears, pressed against your head. 

You didn’t even know he had a gun this whole time. Not once did he show or mention it.

Everyone stops. Your heart pounds.

“Back up!” Steven’s voice shakes.

Hotch raises his hands. “Steven.”

“No.”

“Put the weapon down.”

“You don’t understand.”

Hotch’s voice stays calm. “You wanted this. You wanted someone to know your name.” The gun shifts slightly. “You wanted people to see you. They see you now.”

For a second it works. His grip loosens. The gun lowers. And that second is enough.

Morgan moves. He tackles Steven away from you. The gun hits the floor. Everything becomes noise.

Shouting.

Movement.

Then suddenly, you’re free. Emily is there immediately.

“Oh my God.” Her voice breaks slightly.

She cuts through the zip ties. Her hands are gentle. Careful. Like she’s afraid you’ll break.

You try to stand. Your legs immediately give. Emily catches you.

“Nope,” she says, holding you up.

“I can walk.”

“You can barely stand.”

You glare weakly.

Her arm wraps around your waist. “Come on.”

Every step feels impossible. Your ribs burn. Your vision swims.

“I can’t.”

Emily tightens her hold. “Yes, you can.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

Your eyes close. “I can’t.”

Emily looks toward the door. “Spencer is outside.”

That’s enough for you to fight through the near immobilizing pain. For him

The second you step outside you see him. And he sees you. For one second he doesn’t move. It’s like his brain can't process that you’re actually standing there.

Then he runs. He doesn't walk. He runs straight toward you.

Emily lets go just enough for him to reach you.

And then you’re in his arms. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. He just holds you. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like if he lets go you’ll disappear again.

Rossi reaches you seconds later.

“Kid,” his voice breaks. “Are you okay?”

You nod. Just once. 

And immediately regret it.

Pain shoots through your body. Your stomach twists.

Spencer notices. “Y/N?”

You try to answer. You don’t get the chance.

You cough. Then again.

And suddenly blood is everywhere.

On your lips.

On his sweater.

On his hands.

You throw up against him.

For a moment, nobody moves. Then Spencer panics. Not because of the blood on him. Not because he’s covered in it.

Because it came from you.

“No.” His voice is hoarse. “No, no, no.”

“I’m okay, Spencer,” you try to convince him. “It’s not the first time.”

“That’s worse,” he says, looking at Rossi, then at the paramedics. “We need an ambulance.”

You try to tell him you can walk. You can’t. Your knees give almost immediately

“I’ve got you, Spencer says, catching you.

Before you can argue, he lifts you. You rest your head against his shoulder. And for the first time since waking up in that shed… You let yourself believe you’re safe.

_____

Read Part 31 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: i got this out way faster than i thought i was going to be able to. i was originally going to make it a little longer by having the last scene be everyone visiting reader in the hospital, but i decided that i want to dedicate an entire chapter to that. so next chapter will be that yippee

i really hope you guys enjoy this, i know it's longer than anything i've ever written, but i'm like 92% proud of it.

also happy birthday to my goat @allidoisreid

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

JOIN MY SIDE BLOG!

HAVE RECCOMENDATIONS/SOMETHING TO SAY?

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. 😱😱😱

[milla984]

MGG as Paul 500 Days of Summer (2009)

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover @reidsbookclub @cynbx

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

»— Masterlists links in bio —«

[farewellang]

i wanna share an apartment, a room and a bed ☆ spencer reid series

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see chapter 5 | see the series ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

6 the nightmares

☆ summary: one nights, cécile hears spencer having a nightmare and she cannot bare to leaving him alone in his struggle. this takes the two rommates in a journey of trust and shared beds.

☆ tags: nightmares, mentions violent of bau cases, insomnia, cécile overthinks a looot, shared bed, fluff fluff tooth-rotting fluff

☆ author's note: i always come back and here i am. i had an awful time writing this chapter i don't even know why i guess that after graduating i couldn't stand to look at a google doc no more. but i hope you guys enjoy: tell me what you think, like and reblog!!

☆ word count: 1.8 k

Cécile Jones hated waking up in the middle of the night.

When it happened, she knew it would always end up with, at least, one hour of staring at the ceiling wide awake, trying to convince her brain it was still night and that she should sleep.

So when, dreaming, she heard screams and woke up suddenly, she looked at her alarm clock - 2 am - and groaned. She shifted positions in her bed, moving her sheets to cover different parts of her body - she was cold, then too hot - and insulted her mind under her breath: it was only a bad dream; why wake up? Why now?

But as she moved frantically, she heard it again: it wasn't exactly a scream, more a cry for help, juvenile and scared.

She was sure she wasn't dreaming this time, but where did it come from?

She got up from her bed and looked down from her window, searching for the cause of the scream.

Nothing.

She tried to listen closely: rubbing her tired eyes and temples, she tried concentrating.

It was Spencer’s voice.

How could she not recognise it? Of course, she was tired, and, when they talked, Spencer’s voice was always so grounded, even if fast and sometimes anxious; but now that she was thinking about it, it was actually so obvious that it was his voice.

Worried, she stormed in the hallway, dragging her lime green slippers to Spencer’s closed door.

“Spencer? Is everything okay?” she knocked, shyly.

There was no answer, but the screaming seemed to stop this time definitely. After some minutes, in which Cécile discussed with herself if she should go back to sleep or check on Spencer first, a faint whisper came from behind the door, deep and sleepy.

“Everything’s okay, Cécile. Go to sleep.”

“Are you sure? You were screaming,” she stated, realising that, if she wasn't a hundred percent sure that her roommate was okay, her brain would definitely not fall asleep anymore.

With her ear on the door, she heard Spencer lift his sheets, get up from the bed, and open the door.

“I’m okay, see?” He said. “It was just a nightmare.”

Cécile smiled, tilting her head to the side.

She was still worried: the boy had been on four cases, at least, only that month, and he always seemed more shocked when he came home. The blonde girl had tried cheering him up, leaving him freshly baked cookies on the counter for when he came back or playing the guitar more often, which she knew he loved. But that didn't help with that hurt and scared look Spencer had on his face. Cécile could not describe it any other way: Spencer looked scared, traumatised, hurt, his eyes empty and his mouth in a constant frown, sometimes folded in a faint smile when Cécile’s jokes were particularly funny.

“Okay. I'm making myself a chamomile tea if you want some.”

He just shook his head and forcefully smiled, then closed the wooden door behind him.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

Cécile had always looked forward to bedtime, especially during hard periods of her life; nighttime was the moment that finally symbolised the end of an exhausting day.

After a horrible shift at the diner - she learned that she definitely didn't like the feeling of being completely covered in beer - usually, all that she could think about was her bed, the end of that day, and the feeling of her sleep mask on her tired eyes.

However, that night, trying to remove the sticky and sugary residues of beer from her hair in the shower, she wasn't looking forward to bedtime at all.

What if Spencer had nightmares again? And that was if she chose to believe it was a nightmare: what if he was in pain and didn't want her to know? If she got in bed, it meant that Spencer went to bed too, and that could only mean that the screaming could start again.

As she tiredly exited her bathroom, she looked left and right in the hallway, scanning the house, trying to find Spencer walking towards the bedroom. Instead, she found him scrunched up on the couch, book in hand and glasses slightly tilted by the pressure of the hand on his temple.

“Aren’t you tired?” She asked, softly, looking across his shoulder to figure out what he was reading.

“Yeah, I was waiting for you; I wanted to say goodnight.” He simply said, closing the book.

“Oh, you didn't need to.”

“I definitely did. You've been looking at me like I am destined to die in my sleep tonight, so I wanted to reassure you. Don't worry and goodnight.”

Cécile was left surprised, brows furrowed at the boy’s remark.

Not that he was wrong - Spencer was always right, unfortunately - but he was being witty? That was normal if they talked about movies, or literature, maybe even music, but not worries and reassurances: Spencer had always been really sweet and careful about things like that. Maybe she was overthinking it, maybe it was just a joke, and - like Morgan says - they don't always land.

Still debating whether his comment was a defense mechanism or just a joke, the girl slipped under her light blue covers.

Closing her eyes extra tight, Cécile felt like a child scared of monsters under her bed, only she wasn't the one having nightmares. She found herself on alert, subconsciously waiting for that now-familiar (she had played it in her head so many times) groan and juvenile cry.

She managed to sleep for an hour maybe, but her apprehension grew by the minute and left her sleepless. Spencer's mind could apparently feel her waiting in his sleep, and he started screaming, like the night before.

As if she had never laid down, she jumped up, put on her slippers, and ran to Spencer’s door.

“Spencer, please, open up.”

Silence. Flat, aseptic silence came from behind the door. Like nobody was actually there, like she imagined it all.

After a few minutes, the door magically opened, but only a crack, and Spencer was still hiding behind it, like a guilty child.

“Can I come in?” Cécile then asked, scared that every word might make the door close again with a witty comment.

In response, he just left the door hanging open while he slowly and tiredly walked to his bed, sitting on the edge.

“I fear you're not really okay...” she said, whispering in an almost comical way, like she was telling a made-up secret to a kid. Spencer stayed quiet; his usual banter vanished, and his eyes lost.

“Are you having nightmares?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It's been three weeks.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?” Cécile said, sitting on the bed next to Spencer, her legs crossed in a comfortable position.

“I just- I don't know. I keep on reliving these last cases, but instead of anonymous victims, I see my co-workers, my friends, you. All dead.”

Cécile couldn't help but notice how she wasn't implied in the friends category, maybe meaning she was something different, something more. Was it weird? She tried to make that thought vanish and put her hand on Spencer’s leg, trying to make him understand that she was listening.

“I'm so tired, but, at the same time, I’m so scared of sleeping because I know I will see those scenes again.”

“Spencer,"

“Yes?” As he responded, his eyes stared in her direction, shiny and semi-closed, full of tiredness and fear.

“You need to distract yourself." Cécile stated. "And I have the perfect solution: I have just rented - drum roll… - 10 Things I Hate About You, and it's the kind of film that I love and you'll hate! Perfect to fall asleep to and dream about Heath Ledger. We should watch it together; what do you think?”

Spencer looked amused for a second, then went back to his frown.

“No, Cécile. You have lessons tomorrow. You have to sleep.”

“Okay, then I'll sleep here.”

Cécile didn't even realise what came out of her mouth. They weren't that close, not enough to sleep in the same bed. How could that even cross her mind? Her mind raced as she waited for a response and thought about a justification for that embarrassing proposal.

“You’d do that?”

Of all things, the blonde girl didn't expect that response.

“Yeah, of course!” she answered, sounding a little too enthusiastic.

Scared of making a fool of herself, she quickly got up and lifted the covers on the right side of the bed and made herself comfortable.

“Come on, let's sleep.”

Spencer lowered himself on the bed, where the tangled sheets left a proof of his sleepless night. He was a little bit ashamed, but definitely grateful for her wanting to help.

Cécile felt enormous in Spencer's king-size bed, so she squeezed herself in, making herself smaller, trying to take up as little space as possible. With her face towards the wall, she squinted and frowned, truly hoping to disappear into that tangle of sheets.

Beside her, Spencer stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, frozen in place as a constant stream of thoughts flooded his mind. He didn't know what to say, do, or think. He turned slowly, finding a way to keep the mattress from creaking, and began to study the back of her neck, her blonde hair scattered across the white pillowcase.

Cécile, feeling his studying eyes on her, slowly opened her eyes one at a time. She let out a breath, then pressed her eyelids shut in a frown of desperate embarrassment.

Slowly but unexpectedly they fell asleep, their bodies as distant as possible and their minds intertwined in the same thoughts.

They both couldn't say when the embarrassment was replaced by trust and affection, but they were woken up the next morning by Spencer's alarm and found themselves tangled in each other.

No screaming, no nightmares.

Cécile had rapidly distanced herself, just enough to make that position less embarrassing, but kept her body close to Spencer’s.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, that night helped her as much as it helped Spencer.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

And the next night, all that Spencer Reid had to do was stand in front of the couch as Cécile was finishing washing the dishes. His tall, thin figure emanated tiredness, but trust at the same time. His brain seemed to crave a nightmare-free sleep and connected that feeling to Cécile's presence in his bed.

His roommate dried her hands on a towel and looked at him with a loving smile. They didn't need to say anything; their eyes were already speaking: Spencer’s eyes seemed to say, “I need you,” and Cécile’s responded, “I know.”

And in the following nights they repeated the first one, trusting each other in a familiar dance, and the embarrassment slowly faded away.

︵‿⊹︵‿୨♡୧‿︵⊹‿︵

@hiddentattooodyssey @the-anarchist-public @cynbx @grassisalwaysgreener

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ see next chapter ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ (link will be added)

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter. 🥰🥰🥰

[spencereidluver]

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party (part 29)

Making It Home

summary: spencer gets back from a week long case and surprises you with two things.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-neice!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), smut (dry humping, oral (both m&f receiving) cum swallowing, talk of cum swallowing, sort of awkward sex talk (but it’s very spencer to me)

_____

It had been exactly one week since Spencer left you on his bed at 6:00 AM while he left for a case. A case that lasted far longer than anyone expected it to. You spent about 80% of the week worrying. Which seems like a lot, but with your uncle and your boyfriend are actively risking their life for seven days straight, it makes sense.

Spencer called you the second he got back to the BAU after the case was over. He told you Hotch had waived the paperwork to Monday because of how exhausted everyone was and that if you wanted to come over, he should be back in 20 minutes or so.

And of course you wanted to come over. You packed a bag faster than you ever had, not even bothering to change out of your flannel pajama pants or put a bra on under your tank top. You only put your shoes on and quickly threw a hoodie over your head. The quicker you moved, the quicker you’d get to see Spencer.

You wrote a quick note for your uncle and placed it on the kitchen island for him to see when he got back.

Went to Spencer’s. We will be back for dinner tomorrow! –Y/N <3

You felt a little bad leaving Uncle Dave to come home to an empty house after a long case, but you also knew that he usually liked to just go to his bed after, so you didn’t feel too guilty.

You practically ran all the way to your car with your bag. It didn’t even register to you that it was raining until you got in your car and the interior lights illuminated the droplets on the windshield. 

The rain was coming down steady by the time you pulled out of the driveway. The streets were darker and emptier than you’d ever seen them, likely because it was almost midnight during a storm. But there wasn’t a single other car that you saw. It was peaceful in a way.

You drove carefully with your hands tight on the steering wheel. The river beside the highway was black, the only sign of it being water rather than pavement was the reflection of the streetlights. 

Your heart was racing from the excitement of finally seeing Spencer again. After seven whole days of not really knowing if he was okay, only accompanied by checking your phone every five minutes, or trying not to spiral every time the news would mention anything related to the case. The worry never left the back of your mind. You’d tried everything to keep yourself busy, drawing, studying, cleaning, organizing your bookshelf, organizing Rossi’s bookshelf, but none of it ever really kept you from thinking about the imminent danger that Spencer and your uncle were in. 

But now that they were both on their way home, the relief felt better than any high ever could.

You turned onto Connecticut Ave., the street that leads to Spencer’s apartment complex. The rain was heavier here, the drops sounding dense as they hit the roof of your car. You turned into the parking lot and sat in your parked car for a moment, debating on waiting for the rain to stop.

But the second you remembered that Spencer was waiting for you inside, you knew you couldn’t wait. You’d run to him even if there was a tornado outside. You grabbed your bag and pulled your hood over your head, and made a run for the entrance.

By the time you made it up to his door, your hoodie was completely soaked. Luckily for you, it got the worst of it and you could easily take it off.

You knock lightly on the door. Spencer answers almost immediately.

He stands there in his work clothes, kind of. His tie is gone, and his collar is unkept. His sleeves are rolled up unevenly on each arm, and his hair is messier than normal. He looks exhausted.

“Hey,” he said, his voice thick from a laugh of sleep. “You came.” He sounded almost surprised.

“Of course I did,” you say, stepping inside. “I missed you.”

Spencer closed the door behind you, his eyes flicking over your soaked hoodie and damp hair. “You’re soaked,” he said, concern creasing his brow. “It’s pouring out there.”

You glanced down at yourself, realizing for the first time how wet you actually were. “Oh yeah, it’s mostly just my hoodie. I just need to take it off.”

He nodded quickly. “That’s fine. Here, let me take your bag.”

You handed him your bag and shrugged off the soaked hoodie, draping it over the back of a chair to dry. Your tank top was a little wet too, the thin fabric clinging against your waist.

You heard Spencer’s breath catch in his throat. You wondered if it was from your tank top. It usually was. 

Before you could say anything, Spencer’s eyes moved past you to the living room. “Oh yeah,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, “I got a shelf for you.”

You turned to look where he was pointing. A new, simple wooden shelf sitting next to his desk. It had two neat rows, and everything on it was yours.

Your spare charger. The hoodie you’d left months ago. The book you’d been reading and forgotten. A few hair ties. The purple highlighter you lost a few weeks ago and had to make an emergency trip to get a new one of. Even the small blanket you liked to steal when you got cold on his couch. There was also a little basket with some of your favorite snacks and the pair of fuzzy socks you always complained were missing.

You stood there, staring at the shelf, and felt your eyes start to sting.

Spencer noticed immediately. “Y/N? What’s wrong?” He said quickly, stepping between your line of view of the shelf. “Did I do something wrong?”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “No, Spencer. I’m crying because this is literally so sweet.”

He looked confused for a second, then relieved. “Oh. Well… I didn’t want you to cry.”

You laughed through the tears, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him. “I’m crying because I’m happy, you dork.”

“Oh,” he said again, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “I guess that’s okay then.”

You looked up at him, and he was staring down at you with a huge grin on his face, the one that made his eyes crinkle and your heart do flips. You reached up, pulled his face down, and kissed him.

The kiss started soft and grateful, full of all the missing you’d both felt over the past week. But it didn’t stay soft for long. Spencer’s hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. His tongue brushed against yours, warm and eager, and you melted into him, fingers threading through his hair as you kissed him back just as hungrily.

You stumbled backward together, still kissing, moving from the entryway into the living room. Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and Spencer sat down on it, pulling you into his lap without breaking the kiss. His hands roamed your sides, sliding under your shirt to touch bare skin as the kiss grew heated.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. Your voice came out breathy and soft. “I missed you so much.”

Spencer’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen from kissing, and he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “I missed you too,” he whispered, voice rough.

You leaned in and kissed him again, deeper this time. His hands slid further under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin as he rocked up against you. You moaned softly into his mouth, grinding down against the growing hardness in his pants.

The kiss grew messier, more desperate. You could feel how much he’d missed you in every touch, every soft groan he made against your mouth.

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. “You look really hot,” he whispered, voice rough.

You smiled, still rocking slowly against him. “Yeah? Why?”

He got shy immediately, ears turning red. He tried to kiss you again to avoid answering, but you pulled back, grinning.

“Tell me why you think I look really hot,” you said, teasing. “I want to know.”

Spencer’s face and ears went even redder. He looked away, embarrassed. “Your… your tank top,” he mumbled shyly.

You smiled, still grinding against him. “Yeah, I know you like when I wear tank tops. Why? Tell me. It’s okay.”

His voice was barely audible. “They make y-your boobs look really good.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “You can touch them if you want to.”

His eyes got wide with excitement. “R-really?”

“Yeah. Go for it.”

Spencer’s hands slid up your sides, hesitantly at first, then bolder as he cupped your breasts through your tank top. He squeezed gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you moaned, grinding down harder against him.

You continued dry humping with you on top, his hands playing with your boobs as you rocked against his hardness. The friction was perfect, the rough fabric of his slacks dragging against your soaked underwear with every movement.

You reached down and started using your hand to jerk him off through his pants. Spencer let out a broken moan, hips bucking up into your touch.

“T-that feels s-so g-good,” he whimpered, head falling back against the couch.

You smiled, stroking him faster through his pants. He felt thick and heavy in your hand. You pulled him down real close to your face by his collar, lips brushing his ear. “Can I suck your dick?”

He could only nod really fast, too overwhelmed to speak.

You kiss a thin line gently from his ear to his mouth. You let your lips hover just off of his. “If you need me to stop, tell me, okay?”

He nods in response again.

You slid off his lap and knelt between his legs. You unbuttoned his slacks and pulled them down just enough to free him. He was bigger than you expected, and far prettier than expected as well. He was rock hard, long, and fairly thick. The tip was a deep pink and was leaking. He had the kind of cock that could make someone’s mouth water at the sight, and he was completely unaware of it, which was even better.

You took him into your mouth, starting slow. You started with just the head at first, swirling your tongue around it, licking up the precum that kept leaking from the slit. Spencer’s breath hitched, his fingers threading through your hair as he tried to stay still.

“F-fuck! Y/N– that feels– oh god!”

You took him deeper, bobbing your head slowly as you worked him with your mouth and hand. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and Spencer let out a broken whimper, hips jerking slightly. You loved the way he tasted, honestly He wasn’t too salty, more bitter, likely from the amount of coffee he drinks. You moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch in your mouth.

You pulled back for a second, stroking him with your hand as you looked up at him. “You’re so big,” you whispered, voice husky. 

Spencer’s face was bright red, eyes glassy with pleasure. “Y-you don’t have to say that,” he stuttered, embarrassed.

“I mean it, Spencer” you said, leaning down to lick a long stripe up the underside of his cock. “You’re gorgeous.”

You took him back into your mouth, sucking harder this time, taking him as deep as you could. Spencer’s hips bucked involuntarily, and he let out a loud, broken moan, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Fuck Y/N! I can’t– I’m–”

You hummed around him, bobbing your head faster, one hand stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. You could feel him getting closer, his thighs trembling on either side of you, his cock twitching on your tongue.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Cum in my mouth, Spencer,” you whispered, stroking him fast. “I want to taste you.”

He came hard with a loud, broken whimper, spilling into your mouth in thick pulses. You swallowed everything, moaning softly around him as he shook and gasped above you.

When he finally stilled, breathing hard, you pulled off with a soft pop, licking your lips as you looked up at him.

Spencer’s face was flushed, eyes glassy, and he looked completely wrecked. “That was… I’ve never felt anything like that,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You smiled, crawling back up on the couch next to him. “Good. Because I loved it.”

Spencer turns to you, his eyes still full of lingering desire. “Can I finger you?” he asks, somehow sounding innocent in the way that only he could.

You smile at him. “You really don’t have to,” you say. “If you want to be done we can be.”

“No, I want to,” he says sincerely. He lowers his voice. “I want to…make you cum.”

“Well I guess since you’re offering,” you tease, taking his chin in your hand and kissing him.

You turn to have your back against the arm of the couch, extending your legs down. He settles between your thighs, hooking his fingers on the waistband of your flannel pants and underwear at the same time. 

He eyes you up and down before he does anything.

 “You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he says. “You’re just so perfect.”

You smile down at him, tangling your fingers in his hair and scratching his head. He gently pulls your pants and underwear down. You help him kick them off.

Once your pants are off, he wastes no time before inserting two fingers into you, your body giving very little pullback as you were already very wet. He curled his fingers exactly the way you showed him how to. 

He slips a third finger inside of you, curling his middle and ring finger while letting his index finger go into you at full length. He uses his thumb to press firmly on your clit, a much much needed attention. You grind your hips into his and as you feel your high already approaching.

“Fuck, Spencer,” you moan, tuggling slightly on his hair. “I’m close.”

His thumb suddenly halts its movements. His fingers continue moving in and out of you. Without warning, you feel his tongue press onto your clit. You involuntarily squeeze his face with your thighs, causing him to giggle into you.

“Is this okay?” he asks, not slowing his fingers movements at all and barely having taken his mouth off you.

“Yes,” you practically scream. “Oh my god, yes, Spencer.” You use your grip on his hair to push his face into you. He sucks gently on you as his fingers keep their rhythm steady inside you.

You begin to feel the tightness in your stomach, knowing you were about to come loose. You buck your hips, which only makes Spencer lick and suck harder on you, which is just what you needed to be pushed over the edge.

“Oh my god, Spencer.” You moan. He feels you clench around his fingers, knowing this means you are cumming.

He hums into you, the vibrations making your hips buck like crazy into his face. He slows his fingers as he feels you begin to come down, licking circles around your clit. Once he’s satisfied you’ve finished, he returns to hover above you.

He looks down into your eyes. His hair is sweaty against his forehead, cheeks red and hot, and oh my god his lips and chin are absolutely soaked with you. Just the sight is so… god. 

You bring your hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down to you. You kiss him with passion, open mouthed, wanting to taste yourself on him. “God, you…” you can’t even find the words to say. He’s staring at you with a goofy grin on his face, clearly proud of himself. “I fucking love you, Spencer.” 

“I love you, Y/N,” he says, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Do you want to maybe go cuddle in my bed?”

You smile at how cute he is after just making you forget your name. “Sure.”

He smiles back, that small, relieved smile that always makes your heart squeeze. The two of you stand slowly, neither of you seeming particularly interested in letting go of the other. 

Spencer slips his hand into yours as he leads you down the short hallway to his bedroom. The room is exactly how it always is. 

Neat. Books stacked on the nightstand. A cardigan folded perfectly across the desk chair. His comforter pulled halfway down from where he'd clearly gotten ready for bed before you'd arrived. Spencer quietly turns on the bedside lamp. Warm yellow light fills the room, replacing the harsh overhead light with something softer. Much softer.

He pulls the blankets back for you without thinking. You laugh quietly. 

"What?" He asks, confused.

"You always do that." You say.

"...Do what?" 

"You always make sure my side is ready before yours." 

"I do?" 

"You do." 

He looks surprised. "I didn't realize–"

"I know." You smile, climbing into his bed and immediately burrowing beneath the blankets. Spencer follows a second later. 

The two of you shuffle around, each trying to find that comfortable position you somehow always ended up in. Your head settles against his chest. One of his arms slides beneath your shoulders while the other wraps around your waist, holding you close enough that you can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Your leg hooks lazily over one of his. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. Perfect. 

Neither of you says anything for a while. Outside, the rain continues tapping softly against the bedroom window. The apartment is quiet. Safe. His fingers absentmindedly begin tracing little circles against your back beneath your tank top. 

"...Can I ask you something?" He asks out of nowhere.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. "You can ask me anything." 

He nods slowly. "...Okay." He pauses for a long moment. "...Do you like it?" 

"Do I like what?" 

Spencer immediately looks embarrassed. "...Never mind." 

"No, no." You laugh softly. "You brought it up. What are you talking about?" 

He hesitates, cheeks already turning pink. "...I don't know how to say it without sounding... weird." 

“It’s okay, just ask me.”

“Do you like… swallowing semen?”

You can’t help but laugh. “First of all, please don’t call it semen.”

“Sorry.”

“Second, it’s kind of complicated.”

“How?” He looks at you with genuine curiosity in his eyes.

You smile. “It’s not that I like enjoy it,” you explain. “It doesn’t really taste the best. And it can hurt my stomach sometimes. But I do like doing it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know. I guess it’s a way for me to feel close to you. And it’s sort of sexy in a way.”

He nods the way he does when he learns information he’s never been exposed to before. He’s silent for a few minutes, but the kind of silent that feels like he’s thinking

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you think it’s weird that I like to…you know…”

“I don’t know,” you giggle.

“I only know the scientific word for it and I’m not allowed to say that apparently,” he teases.

“You can say it.”

“Do you think it’s weird that I really enjoy performing cunnilingus on you?”

You giggle again, feeling a little like you were making fun of him, which you weren’t intending to do. “No, Spencer, I don’t.”

He smiles, almost relieved. “What do you want me to… call that? And is that something I can…ask to do?”

“You can ask me.”

“How?”

“Just be like ‘hey y/n can I eat you out?”

“Eat you out…eating you out,” he repeats quietly under his breath. “Okay. Okay cool.”

You reach up and brush a piece of messy hair off his forehead. 

“I really love you, Y/n. I’m glad you came over.”

"I don't think I'm letting you leave ever again." 

You felt him laugh against the top of your head. "I don't think Hotch would approve." "

I don't care what Hotch thinks."

"I figured." 

"You can just work from home." 

"I don't think the FBI works that way." 

"It should." 

"I'll suggest it at the next staff meeting." 

You smiled against his chest. "Good." 

Spencer shifted just enough to pull the blanket a little higher around your shoulders. "You always get cold," he murmured. 

"I wasn't cold."

 "You were about to be."

"...Probably." 

"I know." 

You smiled. Of course he knew. His fingers combed gently through your hair. Not because he was trying to. Just because he liked touching you. You could've stayed like this forever. Your eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. 

"So..." you murmured sleepily. 

"So?" 

"Goodnight." 

He smiled. "Goodnight. I love you." 

You didn't even open your eyes. "I love you too." 

He kissed the top of your head. Soft. Slow. Like he had nowhere else to be. Your breathing gradually evened out, matching his. The rain continued outside. His heartbeat became slower beneath your cheek. You felt his fingers tighten around your hand one last time before relaxing completely. The last thing you remembered before sleep finally claimed you was the quiet certainty that, after the longest week of your life... He made it home.

_____

Read Part 30 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

_____

a/n: guys i’m not gonna lie, i genuinely have no idea how long the next part is going to take me. i have some very ambitious plans for it, and it may take time for me to figure it out. I’m can already tell that I am going to be very perfectionistic about the next part. I’ll be sure to post some proof of life while I work on it, maybe some updates and sneak peaks. I plan to also post my planner on @spencereidluver-blog so follow if you’re interested in that

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

JOIN MY SIDE BLOG!

HAVE RECCOMENDATIONS/SOMETHING TO SAY?

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @moongirl27 @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx @tostellify @redorquid @prettylittlewrites @starry-swan @badwolf1271 @yelenasvestpockets @skzreputation @alexxavicry @baleriavaleria @reidandweep @ragingabovacado @amobigode @ShawnHatosysRightBicep @klutzylaena @sweetdreams-tn @frenchabysskisser @rysstiles @whatintheducks @spencerreidsproblem @cookieshakr @kitykatnumber @ddee34312 @p1xelplanets @hiddentattooodyssey @agent-nobody-knows @buzzybee420 @ilovespencerriedmh @ihaveatank @sassy-persona @criminalvalentine @thefeverburningalive

[cynbx]

Fantastic chapter.

[buckysdecaflove]

Hating on her?

All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.

Masterlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU F!Reader

Word Count: ~6k

Warning/Tags: Fluff, Smut (Kind of slow burn on this one), Enemies to lovers trope, Light Angst, Spencer gets shy in sex, A lot of gun pulling, blood, Reader and Spencer get hurt, A lot of swearing, Mention of Cat Adams. If I'm missing any tag I'll add it later.

Summary: Spencer and you develop an insane hate towards each other, always on each other's throats, just to finish on each other's mouths.

Author's Note: This is partially a request and a repost. This one was like the first fanfic, or one of the first, that I wrote for Spencer, and now I think It's lost, so I wanted to give it a fresh start. If you read it the first time I'll recommend you read it again since it has a lot of new things. Thank you to the anon who gave me this request, and I swear I'm catching up with all the requests I got!

Spencer had never been your closest friend—you were just a newbie when he went through the whole Cat Adams comeback ordeal. You’ve shared at most three or four months together before he got arrested in Matamoros, and he had been way busier with his mother, so he never gave you more than a nod as a greeting. 

Sometimes you two would bump into each other when you were trying to find answers in a case. Never too harsh, never too rude, only kind of distant, but when he was framed, everything besides the cases was around Spencer. 

Someone had free time? Visit Spencer.

No cases? Investigate Mr. Scratch and a way to catch him up.

You, particularly you, were free? Cover someone up so they can do the things previously mentioned. 

You never visited him in prison since you didn’t feel like he wanted to see you—at the end, you had just known each other for less than six months. But you did what you could to support the team and protect them. You really tried your best to be of use to them, so as not to feel like a burden. Nothing else was on your hands; if you ever had the chance to go, you wouldn’t even know what to talk about with him being there. 

After everything came to an end, the bureau decided the team needed to rest, so the team took some weeks off. Everyone except you and Matt had left for a mandatory break. The routine was easier now—Garcia came once in a while to check on you, Matt was getting used to the unit, and you were missing the old routine in the office. 

When everyone came back shortly after Spencer was reinstated with the FBI, it got no better—that nodding became an almost imperceptible shake, ending with no more than a glare. 

So, you decided to do the same. If he was not going to acknowledge your existence more than necessary, why would you try to make any difference? At the end of the day, you both did not have to pretend you liked each other. 

But something grew up between you two—a kind of hate neither of you could explain. Every time you stumbled with the other, you had to make such a fuss out of it. Eyerolling, shoving the other’s shoulder. It got to the point that a war was declared; now it was Spencer’s personal matter to make your life the most insufferable possible, never in ways that interrupted your workdays, but in petty ways. 

Even when he used the same mug for years, the day he learned which mug you liked the most, he started to use it, only to spite you, and he knew—he knew well how easily he could make you angry.

On the field, he would never even let you finish a thought when he was already trying to end your idea and make it ‘better’. Everyone thought it was fun—both of you had a very different perspective and train of thought, and somehow always ended up having the same idea with a difference of one second, and every time ended with a snarky comment coming from either of you.

“You just need to try to work together,” Emily scolded Spencer.

“I’m not rude ever.” He pursed his lips.

“No, but you two are on each other’s throats every day. We can’t keep doing that.”

“I’m gonna try my best,” Spencer lied.

“Not try, do. Spencer, you’re basically her senior. You are the one who needs to set a precedent.”

He grunted and walked away.

The truth behind it was that you couldn’t even be in the same room without shouting at each other—everyone knew better than to keep you close unless you were on the field. In there, both of you were professional, cordial, and never interfered with a case, even when you wanted to rip the other’s head off.

But bump into each other in the kitchen? Federal Crime. 

It was almost like all the snarky comments and the daggers were saved for later, and as soon as he saw you in a non-public place, he would attack you, and you would respond immediately.

“C’mon, it will be fun.” Luke leaned on your desk while you were finishing some late paperwork. 

“I’m tired, and I need to rest.” You grumbled, “Besides that, you always leave me alone when a girl starts hitting on you…” 

He snorted a laugh, “It was just one time.” 

You rolled your eyes, “Let me think about it; I need to finish this, or Prentiss is gonna chew my ass.” 

You both knew that was certainly a yes, but you did not want to answer right away.

When you finally finished the paperwork, you started to walk to Luke’s desk just to notice Spencer was standing next to it.

“Oh, this is gonna be so much fun…” Luke snorted.

The implication made you gag. “I’m not going if he’s going—”

He rolled his eyes.

“Guys, please. Just this one night, you don’t even have to interact, and I will drive both of you home.” 

“Fine.” You growled and walked to Luke’s car.

At the bar, and just like you anticipated, Luke left your side after forty minutes to talk to a girl. You sighed and stayed at the bar; you didn’t even notice where Spencer was—as if it could make any difference. He would have made fun of you for believing in Luke's word and left you stranded, too. 

You were drinking on your own until a guy approached you. 

“Are you on your own?” A man asked. You nodded without even looking at him. “May I?” 

You saw him pointing to the empty chair by your side and nodded.

“How come a beautiful lady like you is alone?”

“Not alone; my friends are there talking with some girls.” 

“Oh, well, good to know now you have someone interested in you now.” 

“Yeah, but I’m the one who’s not interested, thank you.” You didn’t even bat an eye at him.

“C’mon, you seem like someone super interesting—let me treat you to a drink,” he said, placing a hand on your back.

You arched your back at the touch and made a disgusted face.

“I said no.” 

You looked him dead in the eyes. As you tried to stand up, the man took you by your wrist and held it hard enough to make you squirm. When your other hand found his wrist, you felt a second hand on your hip, and a second man appeared from behind. 

“What the fuck?” You said, looking at the second guy. 

“I saw my friend struggling a bit to convince you of that drink.” 

“Fuck off, dude.” 

You tried to shake the first guy's hand off, but the grip got harder; when you were about to make a whole scene, the second guy got pushed from behind—a broad body appeared.

Fucking Spencer Reid making his appearance as if he were a knight. 

“She clearly told you both to fuck off.” A raspy voice left his lips.

He was looking down at the man, his lips pursed just like he did when he was getting irritated in the field.

Had he always looked that good? 

“Go fuck yourself, man. This is not your business,” the man took you by your arm, and you squirmed again. 

No, no, no. 

You knew well the short temper Spencer could have when a jerk was testing limits. You knew how he had gone all Cell Block “D” on some of the unsubs or suspects he had encountered the last few months.

“Please—just let me go, he’s not—please.” You were making no sense, but the grip was hurting you, and seeing the fucking smirk on Spencer’s face got you in a chokehold 

“This is the last time I ask you to let her go.”

Spencer took a step further, and you were able in that moment to take his hand off you when both men locked eyes with him. 

“Please, Spencer—don’t do this—you got the bureau on your ass, and the team won’t be able to be without you if they bench you again.” You pleaded while you gripped his shirt. He scoffed a laugh and fixed his eyes on you.

“You just pulled out your gun on me last week because of a fucking yogurt, and now you say you all need me?” 

“It's not because of me, idiot,” you muttered, “it’s for the rest of them…”

He chuckled and looked directly into your eyes—you had never paid attention before to how deep the honey in his eyes was. “Are you gonna miss me?” he pouted.

You groaned as a response; he didn’t even care anymore what you had to say, but before you could say anything else, you heard one of the guys there mocking you.

“A fucking gun? Don’t make me laugh.” One of the men said with a smug smile on his face. 

Spencer was never the one who bragged about his gun, but a swift move made the gun on his waist flash. It was obvious he did it with the full purpose of showing it off. 

The closest guy took a step back, while the other tried to widen his chest, making himself bigger at the sight. Spencer smirked and took a step closer to them. 

You started to hop over Spencer’s broad body, trying to see your surroundings. 

“What are you doing?” He looked down at you.

“Looking for fucking Alvez. If you’re not paying attention to me, at least I know you will listen to him.” 

When you spotted him, you pushed him aside and ran directly to Luke—you took him by his collar and made him walk.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Fucking Spencer is about to get in—” a glass shattering sounded across the bar, “that—”

Luke saw Spencer pinning a guy to the wall and ran to him. 

“Reid, let him go—It’s time to leave.”  

“C’mon, man. We were only joking around—” 

“Fuck off, I’m taking a taxi.” You said that as soon as you saw Spencer was not even reacting to Luke’s voice. 

You were now on the street waiting for a taxi when you heard Spencer’s voice coming from the threshold, “Look, she is all talk; she wouldn’t leave.”

“I’m still waiting for the fucking taxi, idiot.” 

“C’mon. We will take you home.” Luke took you softly by your wrist, but it still burned from the earlier friction.

When Spencer saw your bruised wrist, he was about to go back to the club, but Luke stopped him by the shoulder. 

“Let’s get her home—she’s tired, she’s bruised and needs to rest,” Luke sighed, “We will check those bruises there.” 

“And what was that fucking shitshow there?”

“Well, you weren’t comfortable right there, and those guys were crowding you.” 

“But you hate my guts,” you said before he made you walk to Luke’s car.

“I don’t hate your guts—” you raised an eyebrow, “the fact that I’m not fond of you does not mean I hate you. And even if I did. I would be the only one hating on you, not a pair of fucking pricks who know shit about you.” 

“Get into the car before I leave you both here,” Luke said. Getting in, Spencer opened the car door and threw it at you before you could even say thank you. 

You fell asleep on the way to your house; you didn’t even realize when it happened. Spencer and Luke were talking nonsense, and your mind decided it was not worth listening to.

“Man, can you wake her up?”

Spencer sighed and walked to your door. He opened the door slowly, and as softly as he could, he touched your shoulder.

“Hey, we are—”

A punch. 

You punched him as a reflex before you could even comprehend what just happened. Your hand landed hard right in the middle of his face—right in the nose. You were almost sure you heard a crack when the punch landed.

“Fuck, fuck, stupid Reid, why would you wake me up like that?!” You started moving your hands out of nervousness. 

Luke snorted a loud laugh before stepping out of the car to check Spencer, “Like what, you weirdo?!” 

You really felt guilty; you knew well the banter between you and Reid had no place for something like that—you would never punch anyone… who didn’t deserve it, and at this moment, Spencer didn’t deserve it. 

The three of you hurried to your apartment to clean the wound and assess it. 

Luke couldn’t stop laughing while Spencer dropped his head down to make the blood slip through his nose. 

“God—let me bring the first aid kit—Luke, do you need a drink? I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. A drink would be nice.”

“And me?!” Spencer said with offence in his tone.

“Shut the fuck up, you’re the whole reason we are in this situation.” 

“You were the one who punched me!” 

“You were the one who made a whole fuckin scene in the bar! I was in fight or flight mode.” 

Spencer was about to answer when you threw a frozen veggies bag in his direction, and he caught it in the air. 

“You’re insufferable,” he said, putting the bag on his face, “now I have to explain a black eye and a probably broken nose tomorrow.” 

“Dramatic.” 

You brought Luke a whiskey; he sat on a small table you had, and Spencer was still on your couch, resting from the injury. 

You took your shoes off and went to check Spencer. His nose was definitely not broken, but it was not going to be pleasant to have it in that state. Luke got closer to you, too, and smirked at the sight of you being that close to him.

He was always telling the rest of the team that you too only needed to blow off some steam, and it was either literally fighting, or fucking—guess you chose the first. 

“There’s no way they like each other,” JJ said, tilting her head. “I think she would prefer to be buried alive than spend ten minutes with him.

“I already told you, they have two options, they either make out or fight it out,” Emily chuckled. “Twenty bucks says they are gonna make it out.”

“Nuh uh, forty bucks that she is gonna end up beating the shit out of Reid.” Emily looked at Luke, and they sealed the deal with a handshake.

“Are you both really betting on your coworkers' very questionable relationship?” Garcia chimed in; JJ, Emily, and Luke nodded. “Fine, I have a better bet: she is obviously gonna punch him hard, but like hard—and after that they are gonna make out.” 

“How much?” JJ seemed interested. 

“Fifty…” Garcia said very confidently, and just then, JJ chimed in too. 

//

“I think we should get going—Spencer needs to rest, and you, too, should rest.” 

You nodded. Luke was about to hand you the glass when Spencer made a sudden move that threw you off, and you dropped the glass and stepped directly on a shard of glass. A bloody scream left your mouth. 

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” Spencer said, getting closer to you, “stop moving your feet!” 

He gripped your hip to make you steady and then made you sit.

“God, let me see your foot,” Luke leaned while checking the cut on the skin, “oh. That’s gonna make it difficult.” 

“Is it that bad?” He shook his head, “Then?” 

“There’s one right at the center and one on your foot’s sole—it’s gonna be hard to walk for a few weeks—let’s get you cleaned to check it better.” 

Spencer cleaned up your bloody foot as Luke made sure there were no more glasses on the floor.

“Yep, that would be a pain for some weeks.” You groaned. 

Spencer looked at you, all blood-stained, and then bit his inner lip, “I think I will stay for the night.”

Luke looked directly at him with his mouth agape.

“What did you just say?” You asked, almost offended.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself—you’re not gonna be able to walk on your own, and Luke can’t stay because of Roxy.” 

The three of you sighed. He was right. 

“Please, please, don’t kill yourselves just tonight. We will arrange something with the team, and we will take care of you until you can at least walk without limping out.” 

Luke helped you limp out to the bedroom—you sat on the mattress looking at your injured and now bandaged foot. Spencer knocked on the door. He was still on the threshold waiting for you to make him come in.

“Hey… Uh, don’t sleep on the living room couch, it’s horrible for the back—” you tilted to the sofa you had in front of your bed, “that’s a sofa bed, you can stay there—and I have some new shirts and pajamas in that drawer there, they are all new and washed.” 

You didn’t quite understand how the dynamic was going to work, at least for the night, but you weren’t going to be rude to him. You both acted like idiots the whole night, and these were the consequences of your actions. 

“Thanks, can I hand you something? Or do you want to take a shower? I—I don’t want to make it weird—only want to uh, you to feel comfortable.” 

You nodded, “The drawer next to that one, there’s pajamas there, you can throw them at me, and you can get changed in the bathroom.” 

After what seemed a painful eternity, he came out from the bathroom and sat on the couch; you both were completely confused about what the next step was. 

“I—I want to apologize, I’ve been an asshole this year…” He said quickly, and your mouth fell open. “You were nice to me, even before what happened with the prison thing, but I was struggling with my mother’s Alzheimer's getting worse and then better—a whole rollercoaster—then, Morgan left, Hotch went into WITSEC, and I felt I couldn’t handle having a newbie and be fond of her—”

He sighed before continuing.

“Then prison, Cat Adams, my mother being kidnapped by her—Stephen’s death, it’s been—horrible, and I guess I didn’t want to make more friends, and you were so nice, it made me so angry irrationally, you know? And then—I started to be petty to see if you would stop.”

“And I did.” 

“And you did. And I felt like an idiot, but I couldn’t backtrack then.” 

“You could have backtracked, you know it, right?” You chuckled.

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t want to. It was funny to see you all angry.” 

You both chuckled. 

“I’m so sorry for everything you went through these last years—nothing of it was your fault.”

“Nor yours, and I was an idiot—I’m sorry.” You smiled. 

“Apology taken.” 

“I think it’s time we go to sleep; this is getting too intimate too soon.” You joked; you could feel the heat on your cheeks, and that was something you didn’t expect to feel about Spencer. 

Early in the morning, Luke called you to let you know he would go earlier than expected to take Spencer to his apartment to get ready. He helped you as much as he could to get ready, and when Luke arrived, you were ready.

The arrival at Quantico was pathetic; you were limping out with Luke on your side, holding you tight, while Spencer had a very notable black eye and a cut on the middle of his nose. 

“What the hell happened to you two?” JJ's voice was almost scared. 

“Who won the bet?” Garcia chimed in; Luke threw daggers at her, and JJ chuckled.

“What bet?” Spencer asked curiously.

“Answer our question first… Are you two okay?” 

“Two completely different instances, but we are fine.” You said with shame; they looked at each other without believing it much. 

“Let me take her to her desk,” Spencer said, and, grabbing you by your hip, you rested your arm on his shoulder.

You both walked through the elevator, leaving all of them at the reception. When the doors closed, JJ and García looked back at Luke.

“What the hell happened?” JJ shouted.

“What, what?” Emily ran on her heels, “Did I just see Dr. Spencer Reid holding our baby SSA by the hip?” 

Everyone nodded.

“So, at this point—Emily has won, ‘cause yesterday she punched him hard on the nose, but—apparently they made amends at night—because, yes. Spencer Reid spent the night at her house.”

“God! Oh my stars!” Garcia started to jump out of happiness, “No. I demand more time—by the end of the month, they are gonna kiss, and we all know it.” 

“Fine—but we all know that if they stepped this further in just one night, it wouldn't take that much,” Emily said before walking to the elevator.

Back in the bullpen, you were sitting at the desk where Spencer had left you to bring coffee.

“How’s your foot?” Spencer put your coffee down on your desk; you looked up, and he still had your mug in his hands.

“I thought you were going to stop being a jerk with me.” 

“I never said that; I said that I feel bad for doing it,” he smiled, “and besides that—I now like your mug; I’ve been using it for months now, and I like it.” 

You chuckled and shook your head.

“How’s your foot doing by now?”

“My foot is fine—still hurts, but it is not bleeding anymore.”

“Uh—do you want a ride when we are done?” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Yeah, that would be nice, only if you’re okay with that.” 

“I think I owe you a lot more than just some rides back home.” 

“It’s fine, Spencer. I understood why you acted like that—it’s valid.”

He shook his head and knelt in front of you.

“Don’t ever say that again; it was not valid. You were nothing but good to me.” He was about to start a tirade when Penelope’s heels echoed through the bullpen.

“Guys,” Penelope walked in, interrupting, “New case.”

When you got to the briefing room, he sat next to you, something you both had never done since it always led to childish discussions.

When the case was finally explained, and everyone was getting ready to leave, Emily pointed at you.

“With that injury, you’re a liability on the field. You’re staying here with Penelope.” She paused, “And since Spencer’s the one who’s been so attentive, he’s staying with you.”

Both of you were about to start arguing with her, but she just cocked an eyebrow. Both of you lifted your arms in surrender. You knew better than to try to fight back her decision. This was partially a liability protection, but more, a punishment for the way you both had acted last night.

The night caught up, and the case was slow; no clues were leading to anything.

“Garcia, go to sleep. We will call you if we need something.” Spencer patted her back when she was bobbing her head, almost falling asleep.

“No. I need to be here.” She intervened.

“We will call you if something’s needed. We will keep an eye here.”

She pouted, but Spencer made her stand up.

“Are you two gonna be okay?”

“We won’t kill ourselves, I promise.” You told her from your chair.

“C’mon, you too. I’m taking you home, and I’ll pick you up tomorrow.” Spencer walked to you and offered his hand to help you stand up.

You nodded while you steadied yourself on his arm, and you felt his hands gripping your waist. You didn’t want to admit it, but you felt some kind of heat brewing inside.

“I’m trying my best to make it fair… Do you want to have dinner with me, and then I’ll drop you off at your house?”

“Spencer… that’s not necessary, I promise.”

“I know, I want to.” He helped you get in the car. You furrowed, “Please.”

“Fine… I think we can do it and be near if anything happens.”

“Something else I could offer you or your wife, Sir?” The waiter spoke to Spencer and your cheeks heated immediately.

“We are all fine. Thank you so much, just the check.”

The way he spoke so sternly and softly took you out immediately. It was a Spencer you had never seen—you knew the Agent, the one who could beat the shit out of a man if he talked wrongly to any of you, you knew your coworker who got on your nerves every day… but this man in front of you was someone who made you forget everything you knew about him.

“Are you okay?” He snapped you out of your mind, and you just nodded.

“All fine, Reid.”

After dinner, you were already walking back to his car—the dinner had been almost mute as neither of you knew exactly what kind of conversation you two could hold after months of fighting.

When you got to your house, he helped you walk in and waited for you on your doorstep.

You knew he was going to head back to the office, and you didn’t want him to spend the night there. The beds at the quarters were hell, and everyone knew it.

“Reid… Do you wanna stay for the night? It’s closer and… then you don’t have to spend the night at the office…”

“I wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Spencer, you spent the night yesterday; I think we have stepped out from the uncomfy stage by now.”

You walked slowly to the side and made him walk in. After he got changed into something borrowed from your drawers, he sat on the couch with you already in your pajamas.

“Since you need to be awake for the night, what about some good movies? I promise I can let you pick from my wide selection on Netflix.”

He chuckled and nodded, “I guess commercial movies with no real meaning would make it for the night.”

“I heard you hadn’t watched Twilight…” You smirked, and the furrow in his eyebrows made you crack a laugh. “It’s gonna be so much fun. I promise…”

By half the second movie, you were already falling asleep on Spencer’s shoulder while he rambled about how the movie didn’t even make sense; he hadn’t noticed you were already surrendering into falling asleep.

He moved slightly, hovering his arm over your shoulders to make you lean closer to his side. You were half asleep but looked up at him

“Look at you, you can even be nice…” You mumbled.

“I’m nice… You just get on my nerves…” He smiled and looked down, tugging you closer to his side.

You chuckled, “I literally don’t do anything…” You felt the heat crawling up to your cheeks yet again.

“You look pretty flustered.”

“I’m not flustered…”

“Oh, you are… Your cheeks give you away.” His finger circled your cheeks, and you bit your inner lip.

“It’s just that I’m tired…”

“Oh, is that the reason also why you got all flustered when the waiter called you my wife?”

“Well, I was hoping you were going to correct him… I’m far from a wife to you.” You looked up at him, cocking an eyebrow.

Something in the air changed, and before any of you could backtrack, he was already all over you. His hands cornered you on the couch as his legs made space for him in the middle of yours. His lips felt rough at the touch; his movements were clumsy, like he didn’t have much experience. Your hands fell on his hair, pulling him closer.

“This is really happening?” You mumbled between kisses.

“We can stop it—” His voice came ragged, and you pulled him back into the kiss.

Then, you pushed him to the couch and crawled to his lap, sitting on top of him. You took his hands and placed them on your waist. You lifted your shirt and set free your not-so-flattering bra, but he stared at your breasts as if they were made out of gold.

He was appalled—his eyes were locked on them as his hands gripped your waist, like if he were trying not to touch them.

“Spencer… you can touch me…” You cupped his chin and made him look at you, but his eyes showed something else. “What’s going on?”

“I think… I think I can’t do it… I… don’t have much experience.” You chuckled. “Don’t laugh at me… It’s not like many women get interested in a genius who just rambles…”

You rolled your eyes, “You better be joking…”

“I’m not joking!”

“Spencer… Look at you… From what I’ve gathered, you were handsome before… You are handsome… and after prison… this ragged, beaten man who came from it… I’ve seen how girls in other departments or in PD see you…”

He furrowed, “So you been noticing that?” You grunted and tried to stand up, but his hands held you on his lap.

“Don’t… Just… I just don’t want to make it wrong…”

You pursed your lips, “Are you sure you want this?”

He nodded, and you smiled. Sitting still on his lap, you leaned and started kissing him again; your tongue opened his mouth slightly, finding his. He let a small moan out of his lips, while his hands found your cheeks and steadied you close to him.

Carefully, you placed your hand between you two and unzipped his jeans, setting his cock free. Without taking your eyes off his, you started to jerk him off. His mouth fell open, and a sharp intake of breath left his lips as he pooled in your hand. You dragged your hand up and down, and he was not even able to think about the implications this whole situation could bring to your workplace—he could only focus on the way your eyes looked at him with hunger, how your soft hand felt as you pleasured him.

Never in his life did he think he would have you on top of him, making him feel like this—and there you were, with your focus solely on him, like he was the only thing you could ever want to see.

You finally stopped your ministrations and stood up. Taking his hands, you helped yourself get rid of your clothes; he looked at you while you used his hands to get yourself naked. He was completely surprised by the way you had taken all the control over the situation. You kneeled in front of him and from there, he knew he was in trouble—there was no way he could handle you and be triumphant about it.

You helped him to get rid of his sweats, and your eyes fixed on his throbbing cock. To your surprise, he was big… The kind you knew it was going to hurt, and at that point, you didn’t care. You were not even sure what had led you to all this, and you were not about to start questioning anything. You took it softly, but he placed his hand over you.

“No… Please… I… don’t think I’m gonna last if you do that…”

“Where’s that cocky Spencer who’s been giving me hell?” He shook his head in defeat.

“Far away from here…” You scoffed a laugh and stood up, sitting again on his cock.

“You take all the fun.” Fighting your urgency, you placed yourself on top of his cock, not sinking on it yet. Just leaving the tip to kiss your slit.

“Now you’re doing it on purpose.” His nails dug in your skin as you hovered on his cock.

“Certainly…” When you finally rocked your hips to let him bury into you, your head tilted to his shoulders, and a gasp left your mouth.

He started to slam from below, splitting you open, pushing himself in you—you felt completely dizzy as the aching feeling on your cunt spread through your body. He captured your lips in a kiss as he tried to distract himself from the rush of heat he was feeling; his mouth kept devouring you feverishly, like it was the only thing he could do right in the moment.

The air grew thicker as you moaned on his mouth, his sweaty body got you in a chokehold—he looked so exposed at that moment—and you could only focus on his twitching cock bullying your cervix in a way no one had done before.

Maybe it was the fact that you knew he was so under you at that moment after months of him teasing, fighting, getting on your nerves. Maybe it was the sangy taste of his sweat on your lips, or the musky smell that filled your lungs, but you knew you didn’t want to finish this and start the weird stage of “what’s next now?”

A mumbling on his mouth and the way his legs spasmed made you grind slower.

“I… I need to cum…” He begged, and you clenched at his words; this made him thrust harder. “Please…”

You nodded and took his mouth again, swallowing any word that came from his mouth. He finally twitched inside you and released warm ropes of cum inside you. You knew you were going to regret doing this, but at this point, writhing over him, with his spill in you, you didn’t care much about the aftermath.

You were about to stumble into him when he leaned you on his arm, creating a small space between you—enough space to slide his hand and start circling your clit.

You rolled your eyes and let yourself loose on his arm. He knew exactly what he was doing, what spot to touch in a way no one had even thought of.

“Did you know,” he circled the soft nub again, “this single spot has almost ten thousand fiber nerves?”

You were not even thinking straight; you just nodded at his words.

“And a fingertip only has approximately three thousand… So, something small can create enough friction to make you cum only by touching this…”

You hated him.

You hated every time he started to ramble about scientific facts, and he knew it. He was doing this just to annoy you as he gave you the greatest orgasm you had ever felt. You finally came undone. You were still clenching around his cock as he tugged you into his chest.

“You’re an asshole.” You mumbled breathlessly;0 he smiled and kissed the crown of your head.

You were already dozing off when a phone started to ring; he scoffed and leaned with you on his body.

“I knew we shouldn’t have left the office…” He took the first phone he could reach and answered.

“Reid here.” You were still resting on his chest, even when you knew that call meant that you two needed to rush to the office.

Emily chuckled on the other end of the phone, “I’m not gonna ask why you answered her phone; I’m just gonna ask you two to go as soon as possible to the office.”

Reid’s color left his face, and when you overheard, you turned your head just to notice he had taken your work phone instead of his.

“Fuck,” you mouthed, and he tilted his head back.

“On our way.”

He finally withdrew you from his cock and helped you stand up.

“We can solve all this later…” He towered over you and stuck a hair strand behind your ear. “But… I don’t think I can pretend this meant nothing.”

“Neither do I…” You looked up at him, “So…”

“We can call a truce… for now.”

“I can accept a truce.”

Taglist: @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @cynbx @rufles2 +add yourself to my tag list!

[cynbx]

Fantastic story.