summary: When history threatens to repeat itself, Spencer Reid runs headfirst into danger, proving that the love he once lost will not be taken from him again.
content warnings: none! just angsty so grab tissues i guess?
a/n: i rewatched the maeve episode and can't get it out of my head and. i don't think listening to sad songs were good to my mind haha
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
masterlist
Aaron Hotchner knew it was over the moment Spencer finished the profile. The room was quiet and completely still in that way the BAU conference room only ever got when something irreversible had been said. The whiteboard was filled with hastily written notes—dates, locations, victimology, but no one was looking at them anymore. They were all looking at Spencer.
“Male,” Spencer said, voice steady but eyes unfocused, like he was already somewhere else. “Late forties. Highly intelligent, but profoundly narcissistic. He doesn’t just hate women, he resents them. Specifically, women who are successful, independent, and intellectually superior to him.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair. “You’re saying he targets women who make him feel small.”
“Yes,” Spencer replied. “But more than that, he needs to destroy them. To prove to himself that no matter how accomplished they are, he still has power.”
Hotch felt it then. That cold certainty was settling in his chest. Rossi asked the question none of them wanted to voice. “And the escalation?”
Spencer swallowed. “He’s been circling someone for weeks. Studying her routine. Her work. Her relationship.”
Garcia’s fingers froze over her keyboard. Hotch already knew the answer, but procedure demanded he ask. “Who?”
Spencer hesitated for half a second. Just half.
“My girlfriend.”
The word landed like a gunshot.
“No,” JJ said softly. “No, Reid—”
“He fits the pattern perfectly,” Spencer continued, faster now, as if outrunning his own fear. “She’s accomplished, intelligent, and confident. She’s everything he despises, and she’s close to me.” Spencer paces around the room, and the team notices how his fingers tremble when he pushes his hair back. "I—She's been telling me this man, whom she keeps seeing in front of her office. It's not coincidental, I know it isn't."
Hotch stood. “Garcia. I want eyes on her. Now.”
“I’m already trying,” Garcia said, panic creeping into her voice. “She’s not answering her phone. I’m pulling traffic cams, cell pings—anything.”
Spencer was already out of it. HE looks up the ceiling to blink off the tears of pain, anger, and fear all mixing and bubbling up his chest. He can't do this, not again.
“Reid,” Hotch snapped. “Sit down.”
“I can’t,” Spencer said. His hands were shaking now. “If he has her—”
“Spencer,” Hotch said, firm. “We do this by the book.”
But Spencer wasn’t listening anymore. They didn’t know until the last minute. Garcia let out a sound that didn’t quite qualify as a gasp or a sob. “I—I found something.” The screen at the front of the room flickered to life. It was a video feed. Dark. Grainy. A single overhead bulb. There she was, tied to a chair. Hands bound behind her back. Hair disheveled, face bruised. A gun pressed to her temple. Her breathing was shaky, but her spine was straight. She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t begging. She was crying quietly, silently, but her eyes were defiant. Spencer’s world stopped.
“Let. Me. Go.”
Her voice cracked through the speakers, each word deliberate, controlled, like she was clinging to dignity as her last weapon.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no—”
His body burned, anger, fear, terror all colliding at once. It was prison all over again. Maeve all over again. That helplessness. That knowledge that someone he loved was suffering while he stood powerless.
Hotch grabbed his arm. “Reid, listen to me—”
Spencer ripped free.
“I have to find her,” he said, voice breaking. “I have to.”
Garcia was typing furiously. “The stream is masked, but I can try to trace the signal. It’ll take time.”
“How long?” Spencer demanded.
“I—I don’t know. Minutes. Maybe longer.”
Spencer was already moving toward the door.
“Reid!” Hotch shouted. “You are not cleared to go in alone.”
But Hotch knew it was useless. He couldn’t stop him. "I need Garcia," Spencer mumbles before bolting through the door.
It was an hour of hell. Spencer paced like a caged animal, replaying every moment he’d ever failed to protect someone. Every time, he’d been too late. Every time, he’d believed loving someone meant risking their life. Garcia finally looked up, tears streaming down her face. “I’ve got it.” An abandoned industrial building. Edge of town. Spencer didn’t wait for orders. He ran to the car. Spencer never disobeyed traffic laws; no stop sign went unnoticed, even in unwatched intersections. Three seconds: stop, look right, look left, go. But today, he wasn't having it; every second mattered. He rushed through the streets with determination and eagerness to race against the clock, which was ticking quickly.
The team followed, hearts pounding, fear thick in the air. Hotch cursed himself for letting this happen, for not locking Spencer down the moment they knew, but some things couldn’t be commanded, and love was one of them.
Spencer reached the door first, and as soon as he did, he heard it. A dull thud. Her gasp. Please. He hears her beg again. Another blow, another shriek.
“Stop!” Spencer shouted, slamming his fists against the metal door. “Please, please take me instead!”
His voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Please don’t kill her, take me! I can’t lose her, I can’t, I can’t do this again. Not her. Please. I can’t do it if I lose her!”
The team froze behind him, weapons raised, hearts in their throats. Spencer slammed and punched, and eventually kicked the door open, and almost immediately, a gunshot rang out. For a split second, time shattered. The team looked at each other, tears almost rounding their eyes, wondering, was it over?
Spencer didn’t remember letting go of the gun. One moment it was warm in his hand, solid, real, proof that the threat was over, and the next, it clattered against the concrete floor, loud and final. He barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed down to the way her heartbeat stuttered against his chest, too fast, too fragile, too much like it had almost stopped. She was alive. Beaten, in pain, but Alive. That word echoed in his head, over and over, like a prayer he was afraid to say out loud in case it vanished. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, as if the simple act of holding her could anchor her to the world. His hands were shaking now, no, trembling, violent, uncontrollable tremors running through his fingers and up his arms.
She felt it. “Spence,” she whispered gently, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck. “Hey. I’m here.” That was all it took. The dam broke.
“I thought I killed you,” he sobbed, the words tearing out of him without permission. “I thought I walked in and it was, and I was too late again.”
Again. He couldn’t stop shaking. His knees buckled, and if she hadn’t been holding him too, he might have collapsed entirely. He pressed his forehead into her shoulder, breath coming in short, broken gasps. Maeve. The room blurred, the present bleeding into the past like it always did when fear got too close. The sound of a gunshot. The way Maeve’s voice had gone silent mid-sentence. The way his brain had cataloged every possible outcome, every statistic, every probability, and still failed to save her. He had known the odds then, too. He always knew the odds. That was the cruelest part.
“Spencer,” Hotch said softly from somewhere behind them, but Spencer barely heard him. All he could hear was the echo of his own voice from years ago, bargaining with a man who had already decided how the story would end. It hadn’t worked then, and tonight, for one unbearable second, Spencer had been certain it wouldn’t work again.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered into her hair, voice raw, stripped of all logic. “I can’t live through that again. I won’t survive it. I won't survive without you.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused, terrified in a way that had nothing to do with the unsub and everything to do with memory. Prison had carved something into him, something permanent. The isolation. The violence. The constant awareness that he could be taken, hurt, erased, and no one would get there in time. Loss wasn’t theoretical to Spencer Reid. It was muscle memory.
“I know the facts,” he said suddenly, almost hysterical. “I know them better than anyone. I know the probability of repeat victimization, of retaliatory violence, of losing loved ones when you’re in law enforcement. I know all of it.”
His hands clenched into the fabric of her jacket. He was wailing now. This broke her heart. Everyone knew he was broken, but she knew how deep it ran. His heart was shattered.
“But when it’s you,” he choked, “everything goes out the window. All the math disappears. All I can think about is, is you not breathing. You not laughing. You not existing. And I can't do it!”
His body shook harder now, tremors rippling through him like aftershocks. This wasn’t adrenaline anymore. This was trauma reclaiming its territory. She cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were glassy, bruises blooming across her skin, but she was solid. Real. Alive.
“I’m not Maeve,” she said softly, not cruelly, not defensively, just truthfully. “And you’re not losing me tonight. I'm here, right here with you, Spencer. I won't leave you, not now, not ever.”
That name broke something open in him. Tears streamed down his face unchecked, his body curling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, safer. He pressed his forehead to hers. She wrapped her arms around him fully now, grounding, steady.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured.
“I know,” he said weakly. “I can’t make it stop.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to.”
He let out a broken laugh that dissolved into another sob.
Spencer Reid, who never acted on impulse, who calculated every move, who lived by data and reason, had run headfirst into danger tonight without hesitation, because loving her wasn’t logical. It was instinct. It was the one variable he couldn’t quantify, and as he clung to her, trembling and undone, he realized something that scared him even more than loss: He would do it again. Every time. No matter the odds.
The hospital room was dim and quiet in the way only trauma wings ever were, lights low, machines humming softly, the world deliberately slowed to keep people from breaking apart any further. Spencer sat on the recliner beside her, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The tremors hadn’t fully stopped. They came in waves now, smaller, less violent, but persistent, like his body hadn’t yet received the message that the danger was over. She lay against the pillows beside him, wrapped in blankets, a thin hospital bracelet circling her wrist. Spencer kept looking at her like she might vanish if he blinked too long.
“Baby, you can sleep,” she said gently.
“I know,” he replied, voice quiet. “I just, I want to make sure you’re still here.”
She reached for his hand. He startled slightly at the contact, then immediately laced his fingers with hers, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin.
“I'm right here,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Every time I try to calm myself down or try to sleep, my brain reminds me how close it was. How statistically improbable this outcome is.”
He swallowed.
“That’s how it always starts.”
She shifted carefully, turning toward him. “Spencer.”
He looked up.
"When I close my eyes, I see you, and I see myself not making it in time, and I know I did, but what if I didn't?"
“But you did. Spencer, you saved me.”
The word hit him harder than she expected.
His breath hitched. “I just can't help but think that I'm cursed. Everyone I love gets into some kind of danger because of me."
“You are definitely not cursed. You said so yourself, it just comes with the job, and I know you think it doesn't have to be, but the world isn't perfect," she said firmly. “And besides, cursed people don’t love the way you do. They don’t run into danger knowing the cost. They don’t break every rule they’ve lived by just to save one person.”
His eyes filled again.
“That’s not a curse,” she continued softly. “That’s being human. A human who loves. Deeply.”
“I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that if I just follow the numbers, I can control the outcome,” he admitted. “That if I’m careful enough, smart enough, detached enough, I won’t lose anyone again.”
His voice trembled.
“But you make me reckless.”
She smiled faintly. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“It is,” he said weakly. “In several jurisdictions.”
That earned a quiet laugh from her, soft, breathy, real. Spencer’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction at the sound.
“I don’t want you to stop caring,” she said. “I don’t want you to stop choosing me. I just want you to believe that loving me doesn’t doom me.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her.
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
A knock sounded at the door.
Hotch. Spencer stiffened immediately, instinct kicking in before fear had even finished settling. He straightened, withdrawing his hand reluctantly.
“Come in,” she said.
Hotch stepped inside, expression calm, measured, but not unkind.
"How are you?" Aaron asks, and she smiles at him. "Had better days, but I'm fine here," He nods before looking at Spencer, who was already looking at him. Spencer didn’t wait.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I violated protocol. I disobeyed a direct order. I compromised the team.”
Hotch opened his mouth. Spencer continued, voice steady but fragile beneath the surface. “You don’t have to say it. I should be placed on probation. Mandatory counseling. Possibly desk duty.”
He met Hotch’s gaze. “I’ll accept whatever disciplinary action you decide.”
The room was silent. Hotch studied him for a long moment. Then his expression softened, just barely.
“You’re already on probation,” Hotch said. Spencer nodded.
His voice lowered. “I’ve seen what happens when agents don’t get space to heal. I wasn’t about to let that happen to you.” Spencer swallowed hard.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “Thank you… for not making me ask.”
Hotch nodded once. “Take the time you need. For her, but most especially, for yourself.”
Hotch claps him softly on the shoulder. Then he left, closing the door softly behind him. Spencer exhaled shakily, tension finally bleeding out of him. She reached for him again.
“You see?” she murmured. “Not cursed.”
He leaned into her touch, finally letting himself rest against the bed, forehead pressed to her shoulder.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him steady. His breathing evened out, at last, and for the first time since Maeve, since prison, since every loss that had shaped him, Spencer Reid believed that maybe, just maybe, love didn’t always end in tragedy. Sometimes, it stayed.
spencer reid, who, doesn't usually go to the bars when the team goes. he doesn't find much interest in it and really, truly, hates it when morgan tries to make him do a car bomb. the environment is either too sticky, too sweaty, or all of the above, and everyone is too close. no matter what kind of bar it is, spencer can just feel the germs radiating off everything. and it's loud. overstimulating. he's tried to have conversations there, but he can't talk as much as he wants because of the music or other shouting from tables.
but when you joined, immediately taking up the invite, spencer couldn't help but follow in suit, much to the teams surprise. except you of course, ignorant to the different facial expressions portrayed by the team.
which is why he was here, now, trying not to think about the gum wad he accidentally brushed underneath the table. or that when he sets his drink down, then picks it back up, it sticks first. he indulges in your voice instead, your conversations.
he wouldn't call it fawning, no, but garcia would. she bumps morgan, moving her eyes over spencer, to emphasize her point. because, maybe he did look a little like a lost deer, not knowing what to say or do around you. he was truly just trying not to spout out a statistic or fact about things relevant to your conversation, just so he could speak.
you, on the other hand, were more discreet. or, sort of. maybe you weren't sitting in the booth with your chin on your hand, watching spencer (like he was you, which you thought was adorable)- but you became more vivacious, bubbly, maybe loud too. the alcohol wasn't helping.
you tried to keep the flirting at a minimum with coworkers, you knew it was unprofessional, but you almost couldn't resist.
"spence, is that a new sweater?" you flutter your eyelashes, the effect of your gin and tonic starting to buzz in you. the alcohol flush in you matches a similar flush in his cheeks.
"i, uh, yeah. it is, actually."
you rest your elbows on the table, sliding forward. "i like it."
"woo! maybe it's time pretty boy and new girl slide on in their respective ways." morgan whistles, a grin stunning his face.
spencer instead, offers to drive you home. he's had a singular sip of his ale and claims he would feel much better about taking you, rather than you finding a taxi. he ignores the comments about his driving from the rest of the team, them wishing you luck in the car, and to strap in.
for once, he doesn't talk most of the drive. it's you, the alcohol clearly running your tongue, but he doesn't mind. by the time you're home, though, you're dozing off against the window, having expelled all your energy in the past 15 minutes.
"hey." he speaks softly, brushing your arm.
"hm?" you blink, your eyes heavy lidded with sleep.
he adjusts his glasses, putting the car in park. "oh, uh, we're here. you're apartment." he watches you close your eyes again, smiling.
"so soon? you sure we can't stay a little longer spencer?"
he sighs, ignoring the warmth in his chest. "i think sleep would be good for you. maybe some water first, because-" he stops when you hold a finger to his lips, eyes still closed.
"shhh. i'll let you tell me if you put me to bed." finally, your eyes open, watching him now fiddle with his watch. "tempting right?"
he takes his bottom lip between his teeth. "just to your door. just to make sure you get in safe. okay?"
Summary: Cozy routine you’ve adopted with your boyfriend.
CW: Fluff. NOT EDITED! Reader is LOVESICK!! LOVES HER MAN. Maybe ooc Spencer. Maybe autistic/autistic tendencies!Spencer. Im trying to to write him as accurate as i can. (First time writing a kissing scene sorry if it sucks) (could be read as an extension of ‘Breathe for yes, backflip for no’ and ‘Save The Date’)
The first rays of morning light filtered through the window, warming the blankets as you blinked awake. Rubbing the blur from your eyes, you turn over and squint at the clock at Spencer’s bedside table.
It blinked, 5:30 AM, in blocky red letters. Looking closer your eyes blearily find your boyfriend of 6 months, Spencer Reid. He’s laid on his back, His curls unruly against his pillowcase. an arm thrown over his stomach, as his breaths softly puff into the air.
Slowly you shuffle from beneath the sheets and comforter, trying your best to make as little noise as possible. Once free, you stalk over to his side of the bed. A traitorous panel creaks under your barefoot. You wince as he shuffles further into the bed. Waiting until he settled once more, you reached the alarm. With a few soft clicks Spence’s usual alarm for 6:00 am was canceled.
Minding the creaky floor, you shuffle into the bathroom. Getting ready for the day. After finishing your shower, choosing your outfit, brushing your teeth, and finishing your skin care routine it was 6:10. You sighed in relief. Spencer had been too tired last night to set a second alarm.
Smiling at your small victory, you shut the door softly, before releasing the handle. Putting the kettle on and turning on the stove, you turn towards your other task. Assembling lunch. After trial and error, you found a solid meal to keep your boyfriend healthy and fed.
You split your time between heating up the leftover soup, and beginning to assemble Reid’s sandwich. You had learned pretty quickly that making Spencer a sandwich the “normal” way was a waste of time.
The first time you had packed one, he’d thanked you, eaten it, and insisted everything was fine. But you’d notice. You always did. The lettuce was pushed to the side, tomatoes untouched, and little rips of soggy bread left out.
While he never complained, he’d also never looked particularly happy to eat it. So, you adapted. Every morning, as if you were a professional food scientist, you tried something new. Concocted a new formula to keep the food just as he liked it. Eventually you made what you’d jokingly called your “Make-it-your-own” sandwich.
The bread went into one sandwich bag, the turkey and provolone into another. Lettuce into a small container, tomatoes into their own small tub to keep them and their moisture away from everything else.
The strawberries’ tops cut off and washed along with blueberries, before being put into their own small section. Two small condiment packets of mayo and one of mustard. You’d wrapped the ice pack in paper towels before placing all your cold items into the small insulated box.
Finally you added your finishing touch, a small container of grape jello. Prepackaged because, apparently no matter how hard you tried, you’d never beat the original recipe.
With the sandwich done, soup steaming, and thermos prepped and ready. You ladled the soup into the thermos. It was slightly dented, but you knew Spencer would never trade it for the world. These little things and small work around others would find burdensome filled you with purpose.
Every day you continued to learn, and every time you fell in love as if putting pieces into a puzzle, one little bit of information at a time.
Tightening the lid to the thermos, you moved the kettle before it started to scream, the bubbling clue enough that it was finished. You grabbed his favorite mug, chipped on the lip, but his all the same. Pouring the liquid you allowed it to steep as you began to clean up.
Giving the tea enough time to bloom, the scent slowly unfurls throughout the apartment. Bergamot rises and swirled with the deep aroma of black tea leaves. Lavender a soft whisper, and beneath it all, the cedar of your shelves lining your apartment.
You focused on the table first. The case files he had been going over scattered around the small rounded surface. You gathered them up, careful to keep them coordinated to his notes. Grabbing both his lunch and the corrected and fixed files, you put them into his messenger bag sitting next to the door.
Milo, your Angora ferret, has decided that today’s mission is to jump around your feet as you begin taking care of cleaning up around. You only got to finish his litter box before you checked the time. Swiping the wriggling noodle of fluff up, you set him into a box filled with his favorite toys. It would keep him entertained for awhile, you smiled at Milo. You continued your journey, carrying the mug of tea into the bedroom.
Spencer had shifted while you were busy. Curling in on himself away from the sunlight. An arm out and reaching into where you had laid. Without a doubt the warmth had left, however it was still a cute sight to see.
A fond smile tugged at your lips. Setting the steaming tea carefully on the bedside table, you sat on the edge of the mattress. Spencer didn’t stir.
Whispering his name and when answered with nothing, you smiled. Suppressing a laugh, you leaned down. Pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead. Then against his temple. Then his cheek. The tip of his nose. His jaw. The last one got his eyes to scrunch and his jaw to clench. The tic in it announced his reluctance to wake up.
“Wake up honey,” you whispered. He sighed, a groan escaping him. He opened one bleary eye to look up at you. leaning down to plant a kiss to his closed one. His smile that greeted you was so sweet. It made you wanna punch him. But instead you stroked the darkness beneath his hazel eyes. They were your favorite even if they were closed.
Even if you knew it wasn't normal, or romantic, you couldn’t help yourself. Dipping your fingers into the corners of Spencer’s eyes, you swipe the crust and whispered a small, “eye boogies.”
which caused him to release a soft startled chuckle and softly push your arms away. He turned his head with a moan of, “Rheum.”
You smiled, you could listen to his voice after he woke up for hours. It didn’t matter what the subject was. You were always entranced. It was rough, a little scratchy. You began to settle back into the bed to stare at him, the alarm blinking 7:30. Your smile faded into a frown and you leaned into him. After a few moments of silence. Spencer’s arm suddenly snatched you and with a startled shriek you were violently pulled into his chest.
You groaned as you looked at his smug smirk and his still closed eyes.
“Spence.” You petulantly sighed. He had an eye open a moment ago. When had he closed it?
“I have to go. I wanna kiss before I leave” As much as you hated to admit it, you did have to leave in ten minutes if you wanted to be on time, and you haven’t even looked at traffic yet.
For a moment, silence. Then he opened his eyes and simply stared at you, still half asleep, one arm wrapped securely around his waist. “One kiss?” He asked.
”one kiss.” You confirmed. You smiled and leaned in. The second you did, his grip tightened. Something dangerous, mischievous flashed across his face. “Spencer—“
before you could even finish, he buried his face against your neck and blew a loud raspberry. You shrieked his name.
after wrestling free (he let you go) you started pressing sloppy, spit-slicked kisses all over his face, in retaliation. Laugh filled breaths intermingling. Shoulders shaking as you exact your revenge on the man who you adore but betrayed you just a moment prior.
Even when he let you go, dragging over his face dramatically, he couldn’t wipe the smile from his lips.
Before you could run even more late you leaned in. Lips slotting against his.
Spencer smiled into the kiss. A soft hum escaping and vibrating gently against your lips. There was something genuinely unfair about how quickly he could make you forget about everything as soon as your lips connected.
You felt his hand slide up your arm, gripping softly against your skin as it made its way to rest on your shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, chasing your lips as you started to pull away. You planted your hands against his jaw, and gave him a quick peck.
While his big hazel eyes looked so sad and wet from sleep, you couldn’t help but give him a few more while stroking his jaw. “I gotta go honey” you murmured into the last kiss before leaving his warmth. The smell of him clinging to your nose.
You wished you could bottle the smell and turn it into a candle. You love him. As you left the bedroom, you heard a sleepy, “Drive safe”
You signed ‘I love you’
and his tired face lit up.
“You’ve been practicing,” his voice chased you as you went to the door. Wistfully you looked back, wishing you could spend more time with Spencer and Milo, who currently jumping in his basket, and would without a doubt forget your existence when Spencer got up to start the day.
You wished you could stay, but work called. Grabbing your tote bag, filled with case files, PPE, and an assortment of necessities for your job at the forensics lab. You slung it over your shoulder before, stuffing your keys into your pocket.
Today would be a good day, because you got a cute man and a cute moment to replay over and over again. Playing behind your eyelids when they closed, and spinning in your head as you worked. You’re excited to see him after work. To get all of his attention and see his reaction to his favorite treat you deed to today’s lunch. You sure do love your boyfriend.
Summary: Spencer's been on the fence with his feelings for you. Due to his past traumas he’s decided to keep his feelings hidden. Until you’re caught in a dangerous situation at work
WC: 3.5 k
A/N: I am SO SORRY this took so long. I’ve been sitting on this for two months because I was being a perfectionist and had writer's block. Thank you so much to the person who requested this idea and I hope ya’ll like it! beta read by @whats-yesterday00
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Protective!spencer, Friends to lovers, age gap (25 and idk 33 or 34), during season 9 (sadly no post prison Reid, I refuse to watch the show after Derek & Hotch leave), Maeve is implied
Warnings!: mentions of murder, stalking, gunshot wounds, hostage situation and incorrect info about hostage situation cause Idk I'm not in the FBI
Everyone knew Spencer Reid had a soft spot for you. Well, everyone except for you.
Since the moment you met you’ve been on his mind.
“Do you know how old she is?”
“No, how old is she?”
“25!” Penelope squeaked before being shushed by Rossi.
“Wow, she’s gotta be the youngest person to ever be in the BAU. Well, second to genius over here,” JJ commented while pointing to Reid.
“That’s if she gets the job,” Morgan added.
They were all crowded around the desks in front of Hotch’s office. The blinds were cracked and they could just barely make out the woman seated across from their boss for an interview.
Due to the increase in caseload after Alex joined, Hotch made the request to add an additional member of the team. After interviewing a few people that didn’t pan out, he heard quite a bit about you from your supervisor saying how well you’ve done with the FBI and you’d be an exceptional fit for the team.
Then of course Penelope looked up everyone who was interviewing with Hotch. You being her most recent victim.
“How long has she been with the FBI?” Alex questioned.
“Three years,” Penelope answered
“What? Did she join right after college?”
“Not right away. She graduated early and got experience with law enforcement first.”
Spencer sat at his desk quietly while everyone was peering into Hotch’s office. Not to say he wasn’t nosy as well. You were already behind the blinds when he arrived for work.
“Oh they’re shaking hands! That has to be a good sign,” Penelope cheered.
Morgan turned to the window, “It’s definitely not a bad one.”
Her eyes widened before loudly whispering, “Oh no they’re leaving. Disperse.”
She scurried off in her heels towards Derek’s desk while he followed behind with a grin. JJ, and Rossi averted their eyes from Hotch’s office and found Alex’s desk far more interesting.
All while Spencer’s attention was brought to the woman led down the stairs by his boss. It felt like his heart stopped beating when he saw how beautiful you were. He was brought back to earth as Hotch introduced you to the rest of the team.
“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” he gestured to the man sitting at his desk.
You offered him a small wave and a kind smile, “Nice to meet you.”
It became quite obvious you two would get along very well. From very early on conversation flowed incredibly well between the two of you. There were very few people that he felt were easy to talk to because of his niche interests and the way he would ramble spitting facts left and right.
But he never had to worry about saying the wrong thing or talking too much with you. You often were a content listener or you would even match his passion on certain subjects. Most were topics Spencer already knew about.
When you first met Spencer you didn’t know the Dr in his name meant he held 3 PhD’s or that he was quite literally a genius.
So you were often telling stories or facts you found interesting that he already knew. In fact, almost every “fun fact” you brought up, he knew about already.
But he never interrupted you. He always was listening intently to what you had to say. Like he was hearing about it for the first time.
At some point you learned of his eidetic memory and how vast his knowledge was. It was during a case where you found out and mentioned it to him.
“Reid, remember when we were at the harbor and I mentioned that thing about sharks?” You hesitated, “did you know that already?”
“Yes,” he guiltily admitted.
You partially deflated suddenly feeling that the whole tangent you went on was pointless. “Why did you let me go on and on if you already knew?”
His eyes softened, “because I wanted to hear you talk about it.”
That was when his feelings started to peek through. As the months went on it only grew and grew. And you were none the wiser.
To the average person, it might not seem like much. Perhaps you were just good friends. But to a team of profilers (and best friends) it was painfully obvious.
It was almost painful the way he looked at you with a longing in his eyes. Or when his gaze immediately turned to you to catch your reaction or smile.
It was obvious by the way he found any excuse to bring you up in conversation. Or how in conversation with you he would mirror your mannerisms and lean closer to you.
As well as the things he remembered about you or the little things he did for you. Like the countless coffee cups he bought for you from his favorite coffee shop before work. And when he saw you struggling to find something or open something he was always right there to help.
Spencer Reid had feelings for you. Feelings so deep that he couldn’t pull the roots out even if he tried.
He didn’t know what to do with his feelings exactly. He hadn’t felt this strongly for someone since … well for a while. He was terrified of history repeating itself.
He couldn't lose you. He’d seen first hand what this job did to him, what it did to Hotch. Their loved ones ripped away from them too soon.
So for now at least, he kept his feelings to himself.
Well, until your last case.
The BAU was called in on a case that just turned serial. They found the unsub to be a man named Mark, who started killing because his girlfriend cheated on him. The first two victims reminded him of the man she cheated with. When that didn’t satisfy him, he hunted down and killed the other man.
Now the team and SWAT was stationed outside a bus that Mark was holding hostage. He stalked his ex-girlfriend and tracked down the new city bus she took.
The officers couldn’t get a clear shot of him because of where he was standing and he kept using the passengers as shields. Rossi was currently on the phone with him trying to make negotiation terms and get some of the people off the bus. Mark however was incredibly stubborn and didn’t want to let his leverage go.
So Rossi asked about the children on the bus and if Mark would be willing to let them off. They were met with silence on the other end of the phone, contrary to his previous behavior where he loved to hear himself talk.
After a short pause the phone spoke. “I’ll only send out the kids if you send in an agent.”
Rossi shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “Are there any other circumstances you’re willing to send out the children for?” he asked.
“Nope,” he said with a pop at the end of the word.
A look of concern was quickly exchanged between Rossi and Hotch. While their faces didn’t reveal much, their eyes spoke volumes.
“How about this,” the unsub continued. “I’ll send out their moms too.”
Rossi’s eyebrows furrowed slightly at the eagerness to comply from the criminal. “You’ll send out the children and their mothers if we send in one of our agents?”
“I promise.”
Rossi returned his eyes to Hotch who stood rigid and tall with his arms folded. He was met with an approving nod before returning to the call.
“Alright, we can agree to those terms.”
“Oh and agent Rossi?” Mark perked.
“Yes?”
“Send in a girl.”
There was a tension that quietly branched out between the agents listening to the phone call.
“Why do you want a woman?” Rossi asked, clearly changing the dialogue used.
“I’m losing too many ladies sending out these moms. I want one back,” he replied with a cockiness to his voice.
Ross confirmed they could send in a female agent. Almost immediately after the unsub hung up, you volunteered to be the agent going on the bus.
“I’ll do it.”
Spencer’s head shot in your direction. “No you're not.” His voice was laced with concern and a hint of demand.
“Reid-”
“He specifically asked for a woman. We don’t know what he’s planning, he’s devolving.”
“And I’m willing to take that risk to make sure those kids are safe,” You defended yourself.
You turned to your boss waiting for his thoughts. Hotch knew you’d been exposed to enough high tension scenarios to know what you were doing. But just like any member of his team, he silently hesitated, worrying for your safety.
He took a breath before meeting your eyes again. “Send her in.”
Right before you were led to the bus, Hotch took off the holster on his ankle and handed it to you. “Some extra protection in case something happens.” You couldn’t hear the concern in his voice, but you saw it clear as day in his eyes.
You made your way to the bus and saw through the window Mark holding a gun to the driver and telling him to open the door. You stepped on and the doors closed quickly behind you. The unsub took a long look at you, panning up and down.
“Well how about that. Aren’t you a beauty? He said with a cheeky grin.
You tried your hardest not to look disgusted with him. Instead you kept your composure and spoke with courage and a confident demeanor.
“You this flirty with all your hostages?” you asked plainly.
As he gazed down at your legs his eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. He bent down and with the gun in his hand, pushed away the bottom of your pants leg. When he saw the gun in the holster, he tsked.
“You always carry this much dead weight on you?”
He stood back up and put his hand out, “hand it over, I told them no weapons.”
You reluctantly took off Hotch’s holster and placed it in the unsubs hand. Your one line of defense was gone.
The longer you were on the bus, the more anxious Spencer got. He knew you were an exceptional profiler, and you had enough experience and skill to handle yourself in situations like this.
But that couldn’t stop the ache in his stomach or the fact that his heart rate could power a car by now.
He stood closer to the bus now to get a clearer view of the windows. They managed to successfully get the children and moms off and to safety, but you weren’t safe. Spencer figured you were trying to negotiate with the unsub, but that was going nowhere. This was confirmed when Rossi tried calling him again but every call was ignored.
This unsub was stubborn as hell. He knows he trapped himself, but didn’t want to back down. At least he didn’t want to go quietly.
Spencer was talking with the rest of the team trying to devise a plan when the gunshots were fired. The team immediately ran back to the cacophony on the bus.
More shots were fired, he didn’t know where from. He didn’t care.
He just needed to get to you.
When he got a decent view through one of the windows that hadn’t shattered he saw you. Your hand over arm in pain but still standing in front of the civilians to protect them. The unsub stalking over to you, gun in hand and smacking you over the head with it. You slammed against the chairs and fell to the floor.
Spencer's face paled. He swore he was going to throw up.
Through the fog of his mind Spencer saw Morgan escorting Mark off the bus, his hands now behind his back in cuffs.
He rushed past them, clambering through the door and up the stairs to get to you, calling your name.
“Reid?” he heard your small tired voice through the crowd.
He followed it to you, laying on the ground struggling to open your eyes and clutching your left arm.
He crouched down to your level with a gentle hand on your uninjured arm.
“Hey, I’m here. I’m right here,” he comforted.
“My head hurts,” you mumbled.
His eyes softened, “I know. I think you might have a concussion, you need to go to the hospital.”
You slowly started to fade out of consciousness. Spencer’s heart dropped and his hand moved from your arm to your face.
“No no no no stay with me okay?” he caressed your cheek with his thumb.
“Stay with me sweetheart,” he consoled.
Your eyes stopped struggling to stay open and finally made their close. His other hand rushed to your pulse point as he called for a medic.
Time seemed to stand still while Spencer sat next to your hospital bed waiting for you to wake up. He couldn’t leave your side. He didn’t want to.
You were okay. You were laying in the bed in front of him. But of course in his mind he ran through all the possible scenarios of how things could’ve gone worse, how things could’ve gone better. What would’ve happened if you didn’t have your gun taken away, or if the unsub got angry that you tried to bring a gun in. What if he didn’t lose his cool and start firing. What if you never went inside in the first place.
And with all of those possible scenarios, the same thought plagued him.
He was wrong.
Before he was too scarred from past traumas to reveal just how much you meant to him. Not wanting to repeat the past and lose yet another person he loved cared for.
But now, after seeing you in danger right in front of him, now he was terrified at the thought of you never knowing. He was now more scared you would never know how much he loved the way your nose crinkled when you smiled. How he thought the sound of your voice could cure any ailment he had. How he admired your strength and desire to protect others. How you could light up anyone's mood by just being you. How he could listen to you for hours, even if you were lecturing him on things he’d known like the back of his hand.
To him it was a whole new experience hearing it from you.
Spencer was pulled from his thoughts as you stirred awake. He saw your eyes adjust to the bright fluorescent lights ahead. He quickly got up to dim the lights for you.
When he returned to his seat you smiled at him, “hi.”
“Hi,” he smiled back.
“How are you feeling?”
You sighed. “Like shit,” you complained with a hint of humor.
“The doctor said you have a minor head injury, bruised ribs, and the shot to your arm thankfully didn’t break any bones.”
“Fun,” you said sarcastically.
A moment of silence passes between you two. He doesn’t exactly know what to say. How do you casually tell your friend and coworker you have a crush on them?
There is no casual way.
“You called me sweetheart,” you broke the silence.
He furrowed his eyebrows, “What?”
You fidget with the blanket, “earlier, when I passed out on the bus. You called me sweetheart.”
He searches his mind for the memories of the day. When he finds the memory he realizes in the heat of the moment the term of endearment slipped out.
He wasn’t aware you heard it.
“I did,” he confirmed as his ears flushed.
“Why?” you asked curiously.
He didn’t know how to tell you that he’s wanted to call you that for weeks now. So instead he settled with-
“It just … felt right.”
“Oh,” you replied quietly.
Spencer tensed up at your response.
“If I crossed the line-“
“No. Of course not,” you interrupted with a comforting voice.
The corners of your mouth lifted and cheeks dusted pink. “I thought it was sweet. You don’t normally say stuff like that.”
His heart warmed at your confession and a smile spread on his face.
“You thought me calling you sweetheart was sweet?” he lightly teased.
“Shut up,” you chuckled, rolling your eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Your laughter was cut short by a sharp pain in your abdomen. You bit down on your lip and gripped the side of the bed in pain.
The reality that you were injured on the job was rushing back to him.
He licked his lips, his nervous unconscious habit.
“I was really worried about you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t,” he interjected.
“The entire time you were on that bus I was sick to my stomach. Terrified that something bad was gonna happen and it did,” he started to ramble.
You leaned closer to him. ”But I’m okay Reid.”
“You still got hurt. He shot you for christ sake!” his voice raising in pitch and volume.
“Reid-”
“He lashed out at you! You could’ve died!”
“Spencer,” you said firmly, pulling his attention towards you.
He never heard you say his name before. No matter how many times he said you could call him Spencer, you still called him Reid. Hearing his name fall from your lips was like the consistency of honey.
You placed your hands on his face caressing his cheek. His golden eyes meet yours.
“I’m alright. I’m still here,” you consoled.
“But if-“
“Spencer.”
“Please,” he pleaded. “It’s important.”
You nodded your head, signaling for him to continue. He gently grabbed your wrists and brought your hands in his. He took a deep breath before he decided to spill the thing that had been eating away at his heart.
“I have feelings for you. I have for a long time. Almost as long as you’ve been at the BAU,” he started.
With your hands in his he started tracing his thumb over your knuckles.
“If we don’t have work I count down the days until I can see you again. When I do see you I desperately want to see you smile, see you happy. And if I’m the one that causes that smile, it makes my whole day. That’s why I never interrupted when you talked about something I already knew. The way your face lit up when you talked with such passion was the highlight of my day.”
“For months I was scared of my feelings and I kept them to myself. I was too scared to admit how much I liked you because I-” his hold on your hands tightened.
“I know what it feels like to lose someone. This job takes so much from us; I never wanted it to take you.”
Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.
“Today I realized it would be more painful if I went the rest of my life not telling you, than having even a fraction of a moment with you.”
A moment of silence danced between you two. Your head reeling from his confession, heart beating so hard you could feel it in your bones. Your palms sweaty from holding onto Spencers, but still neither of you let go.
The silence was deafening, plaguing him.
“Please … say something,” he begged.
Your lash line was collecting tears that you simultaneously tried blinking away. Your eyes found his tie less intimidating than his gaze.
“I never thought you would like me back,” you said with a soft tone.
Spencer's cheeks turned red as his heart started melting. “I do.”
You brought your eyes back to his. That precious smile on his face was infectious.
“Listen,” you squeezed his hands. “I’m not going anywhere. So you have as much time with me as you want.”
Spencer's eyes softened at your words. He raised your hands and placed a loving kiss on your knuckles.
The two of you were too lost in eachother to notice the footsteps towards the room.
“Hey, I found some Jello for her if she-” Alex abruptly stopped once she noticed what she walked into.
You both awkwardly pulled your hands away from each other; you fiddling with the hospital blanket, him rubbing his palms on his slacks.
“So, feeling better?” she asked hesitantly.
“Much,” you answered, still a bit flustered.
“Good, good to hear,” She tried not to sound too smug, but the small smile on her face said otherwise.
She raised and shook the jello container in her hand.
“I’m gonna leave this here,” she placed it on the table. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Thanks Blake,” you thanked as she left.
Once she was gone you quietly giggled and mumbled “oh my god,” under your breath.
“You know, she kept teasing me asking when I was going to ask you out. And don’t even get me started on Morgan,” he chuckled, shaking his head.
Your jaw dropped and eyes furrowed. “Did everyone else know but me?”
He pressed his lips in a thin line, “pretty much.”
“I must be a shitty profiler,” you half joked.
“Absolutely not,” he said in the most comforting voice. He brushed the hair that had fallen in front of your face behind your ear.
“You’re an amazing profiler.”
You smiled that smile he loved so much. The one where you couldn’t hide your joy and your nose crinkled.
“So, how do you think you’ll spend all those moments with me?” you inquired with a bit of a teasing tone.
“Doing anything sweetheart,” he answered seriously. He looked at you with awe written all over your face. “I'm ready for anything with you.”
spencer reid who doesn't know how to handle affection when you first start dating. he's awkward, clumsy, skittish. he misses your lips when he tries to kiss you, fumbles with the buttons and zippers on your clothes, laughs when you go to kiss his neck because it sort of tickles.
he's so not used to all the physical affection, to being touched at all, and sometimes he finds himself flinching away from you—not because he doesn't want it, because he absolutely does—but because he's always in that fight-or-flight mode, his mind racing, his body hyperactive.
as your relationship with him grows, he learns to accept your touch without his instincts, germaphobia, or inexperience getting the better of him. he gets bolder, nibbling your bottom lip when he kisses you, manhandles you into his lap, sucks hickeys into your skin.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: early seasons spencer, a lot of data that might or might not be true, spencer rambling, talk about sex but honestly just pure fluff
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In which Derek Morgan's teasing backfires spectacularly, and Spencer Reid accidentally reveals he's been keeping a very important secret.
𝐚/𝐧: I've been rewatching criminal minds and i can't stop thinking about him
The bullpen is winding down for the evening. The usual frantic hum of phones and keyboards has faded into a low, comfortable murmur—the sound of exhaustion finally winning the long war against urgency. Desk lamps cast small pools of amber light across scattered case files, illuminating coffee rings and margin scrawls in warm, fleeting gold. Somewhere across the floor, the ancient breakroom coffee maker hisses its last, bitter brew of the night, a sound almost like a sigh.
Derek Morgan leans back in his chair, the old springs groaning in protest. He tosses a pen idly between his fingers, a familiar, teasing smirk curving his mouth. “You know, Reid,” he says, loud enough for half the unit to hear, “for a genius, you really don’t know how to prioritize. All those encyclopaedic facts rattling around in your head, and you still haven’t figured out that Saturday nights are for living. Not for whatever obscure Russian novel you’re dissecting this week.”
Across the bullpen, Emily Prentiss looks up with the patient expression of someone who has witnessed this exact argument forty-seven times before. She doesn’t intervene. She’s learned.
Reid doesn’t look up from his case file, though his pen pauses for just a fraction of a second—a tell so small only someone watching closely would catch it. “Dostoevsky is hardly obscure,” he says, tone perfectly even. “And for the record, my Saturday nights are perfectly fulfilling, thank you.”
“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”
But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.
“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.
Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”
“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.
“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”
Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”
Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”
Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”
Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia.
“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”
JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”
Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”
Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”
“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.
He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.
"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."
Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.
"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."
Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"
He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath.
"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."
He pauses. Swallows.
"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."
For a beat, no one speaks.
Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."
The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."
"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much.
Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."
Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.
Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"
"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."
"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time.
JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"
Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.
Genuine, quiet vulnerability.
"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.
The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.
No one pushes. Not yet.
But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.
"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."
Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.
"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."
"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."
JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."
Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.
His words die in his throat.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.
And there you are.
Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.
You're not looking at them yet.
Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus.
Reid forgets how to breathe.
It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.
You look tired.
He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.
But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.
He loves that smile.
He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.
He loves you.
And now everyone is about to know it.
Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.
Instead, that small, proud smile stays.
Grows, even.
Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.
His eyes land on you.
His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.
"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."
Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.
She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.
But her silence is louder than words.
The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.
Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.
"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"
Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.
"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."
"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.
Reid's eyes don't leave yours.
The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.
"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort, I think, either that or fluff, mid-ish seasons Spencer, some very mild violence, mentions of blood and injury, protective Spence
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer Reid has never moved that fast. Not in the field. Not in training. Not ever. But when a grieving father shoves you into a kitchen cabinet during an interview, Spencer is across the room before anyone can blink—hand on the man's chest, voice like steel, all that quiet intensity finally aimed at someone who deserves it. The team is stunned. Morgan is asking questions. And the secret you and Spencer have been keeping for months is about to come crashing down.
You’d been bracing for this the second you stepped through the door.
The victim’s mother had the same wild, searching look you’d seen a hundred times before—the desperate need to blame anyone, anyone, other than the abstract monster who took her daughter. Grief curdling into rage at the nearest warm body. You’d taken point instinctively, not because you were the senior agent, but because Hotch’s gaze had already flicked to you in silent question. Can you handle this? You gave a single nod. I’ve got it.
“Mrs. Hartwell, I know this is unbearable. But every piece of information you can give us—her schedule, anyone new she mentioned—”
“You don’t know anything.”
Her composure shatters on the word. Her hands claw at the air between you, fingernails catching the kitchen’s fluorescent light like small, dull blades. “You stand there with your fancy credentials and your clinical words. My Maggie is gone.”
You hold your ground, even as your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. Don’t flinch. Don’t feed the spiral. You’ve seen grief turn feral before—watched it coil and strike like a cornered animal. You’ve also seen what happens when you back away: it tells them their rage is justified, that you’re afraid of the very pain you’re asking them to relive. So you stay. Soften your voice, but not your stance. “I understand. And I’m so sorry. But the small details—her routine, anyone new in her life—those could be the thing that brings her home.”
That’s when the father snaps.
He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth.
There’s no room to dodge.
His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.
White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.
The room tilts.
Your knees buckle.
You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.
Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.
Spencer.
Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.
This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.
He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room.
His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.
"Keep your hands off her."
Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.
It isn't a plea or a warning.
It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.
"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.
Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.
Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.
"That was an assault on a federal agent."
His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.
"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."
His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.
Spencer cuts him off.
"Don't."
The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room.
"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."
The man sits.
It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.
The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.
But you're not watching any of that.
You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.
He's shaking.
Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
Only then does Spencer turn.
His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.
His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.
Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.
His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.
"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.
It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.
You nod. Just once. Small.
His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.
Then he blinks.
And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.
You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.
But you've never seen him do it this fast.
His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.
Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.
"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"
The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.
A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.
"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."
She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.
Curious, her expression says. Very curious.
JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.
She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in.
Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.
"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"
But Morgan isn't done.
"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."
Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.
He clears his throat.
"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."
Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.
"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"
Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path.
His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.
You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.
It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.
She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in.
“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.
That's personal.
Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.
But he's not going to make it easy, either.
"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."
Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."
"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"
The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.
Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.
No—well. No would be even worse.
Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.
Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."
"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.
"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."
Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.
"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"
He can't finish the sentence.
He can't say it's not what you think because it is what Morgan thinks. It's exactly what Morgan thinks, and maybe more, and maybe worse, and maybe the most terrifying thing Spencer has ever had to name out loud.
spencer reid can't help but hold your hand while he eats you out
spencer reid has never felt a touch quite as sanctifying as yours. his hands on you, yours on him, it set his core ablaze and sent his mind spiraling into the clouds.
he'd never been this close with anyone, this raw—intimate in a way that felt as though he allowed the sparks of your finger tips to slip behind his supple flesh and eviscerate his soul.
spencer was touch starved, so to speak, prior to you. he was foolish, harbouring a paralyzing aversion to something he was now ravenous for. if past him only knew that touch was something far, far more than a transfer of pathogens, simply transactional.
touch had become something that could never truly fill him, something that made his stomach swarm in a gluttonous guilt, something that he would always crawl back to.
he'd lay behind you tracing lazy shapes onto the fabric of your sweater, letting his hungry digits snag on the warmth of the texture, the warmth of you below it.
he'd slide his hands under the cloth, not to tease, just to feel. your breath inhaling and exhaling in his palm, examining the rise of your ribs with the percision of a physician, not allowing a single expansion to slip past his inspection.
spencer would absorb you through your flesh, as if your light reset him in some way, rejuvenating his spirit via skin to skin contact—mending him in that curative way only you were capable of.
and now here he lay, beneath you, where he knew he should be—your soft thighs caging his cheeks in a comforting pressure only you could create. his heaven on earth.
he watched as you writhed against pale sheets, the sheen of your skin illuminating in the natural light, an ethereal glow that starkly contrasted the dull air surronding you, a permanent halo.
he analyzed every twitch of your torso, his ears perked at every groan that bellowed in the pit of your core, he smelt the primal heat of your essence before him. how easy it was for spencer to lose himself in you.
he gripped onto the fat of your flesh, as if you were a dream that would vanish the second he dared to think of letting go. his touch burned so perfectly, boring deep into your skin in practiced familiarity, you would revert back to this moment each time you saw the evidence, spencer's signature branded to his muse.
you threw your head back, hips rolling to an uneven rhythm, as spencer felt the irregular beat of your heart on his tongue, the slick of your adoration nourishing him in a way nothing else could. it was too much, overwhelming in a way that threw your soul out of orbit, spencer saw stars in your eyes.
it struck you then, his palm raised, flat against yours, slotting perfectly where it belonged. warmth radiated up your spine, grounding you on the cusp of your high, pulling your mind back into your body so you could feel, really feel, every slip of a figure eight spencer curated, poetry receited on your most sensitive cluster of nerves.
"i love you" spoken wordlessly with his eyes as he watched your dazed expression return back to earth. you, his very own angel blessing him with your presence. the greatest honour bestowed upon him was to hold your hand in his.
written in the app so plz ignore any like formatting or grammatical errors its 1:35am and im sleepy turned on (dangerous combo) anyway spencer’s love is 150% this disgustingly devout. im so stupidly horny and in love with him i need to order 14 more of these right now. help! my pussy is sobbing!!!!
also i saw this exact like concept in a porn clip like a year ago and was foolish enough to LOSE IT? i genuinely have not been the same since that day. if someone can find a link i will genuinely kiss you on the mouth please do not be afraid to send me any similar video links im so deadass i need this. i think about it all the time. its all i want. please. thank you love you bye !!
Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・
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s1!reid who despite being constantly picked on for seeming like he has no experience, indeed knows how to make you fall apart.
s2!reid who’s glasses fog up as you kiss, but he doesn’t want to take them off because he wants to see every detail of you ! his glasses are sliding down his nose bridge and his pupils are blown wide, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.
s3!reid who’s gaining more and more confidence that he starts to initiate things on his own rather frequently.. he loves it when you both loose yourself in making out that it leads to the precise motion, a dance you know the steps to perfectly, desperate for any kind of friction, for him to be as close as possible.
s4!reid who’s an absolute munch. he goes from giving you the most passionate kisses to the way his tongue ropes around you in every direction possible, in zero to sixty seconds. he has grown his hair to the point where it’s just meant for you to tug on, losing yourself in his ever so soft curls as you gradually reach your breaking point.
s5!reid who’s as upset as ever that his movements are restricted due to his knee. he walks around with his cane,hair longer than before, you just can’t help but pounce on him. riding him so carefully,slowly that you both feel each movement like a wave crashing at the most precise angle. the sounds he makes intensify the pleasure, whimpering at your every move, so filthy it drives you perfectly over the edge.
s6!reid suffers at the hands of his migraines. day by day it feels as if lasers are piercing through his forehead. you spread soft,warm kisses all over his beautiful face and genius head in hopes it might make him feel a bit at ease. missionary is your go to during such a difficult time for spencer. he’s so afraid that as he thrusts so gently, his head is buried in the crook of your neck, you’re holding him and kissing everywhere as to hopefully have the universe let you heal his pain.
hey hey everyone! i can finally lean to more consistent posting (hopefully it will stick this time lmao)
should i do a part 2 with the rest of the seasons? i hope you guys like this idea it was so fun to make
summary: spencer hasn’t been sleeping well lately. thankfully, you’re a great roommate, who’s more than eager to help him relax. genre: smut, fluff tags/cw: MDNI, smut, subby!spencer (a little), soft dom!reader (kind of), blowjob, handjob, kissing, making out, begging, boobs, spit, an offensive amount of ’i don’t know’s, whiny spencer, mention of condoms, insomnia, no use of y/n w/c: 4.3k. a/n: first part of a roommate!spencer mini series is here! it’s my first time writing smut so let me know what you think and i am very open to advice. gif by @reidgif !!
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Living with Spencer proves, day by day, to be better than you could have ever expected. You didn’t expect much, to be honest – initially just hoping for some peace and quiet. Ideally, for him not to be a creep.
After meeting with him, your worries started slowly fading away. It was hard not to take notice of his, rather timid, nature. Spencer Reid – agent of the FBI, as you later found out – did not seem like a guy who likes throwing parties late at night or spying on you while you’re naked in the shower.
Actually moving in with him ended any doubts you could’ve had. In fact, you learned pretty early on that you probably couldn’t have found a better person to share your living space with. Well, his living space.
Spencer turned out to be perfectly respectful. He always takes your opinion into account, which is honestly more than you’d ever expect from a guy. He’s neat, though not as quiet as you thought in the beginning.
It was in no way bad, though. The exact opposite, actually. The longer you lived together, the more comfortable you got with each other, which encouraged both of you to open up – share facts and stories about your lives until you got to know one another so well, you could say with confidence that you’ve never been closer with a person than you have with Spencer. Not even the friend you lived with all throughout college, the one who kicked you out of her apartment – the very reason you found Spencer at all. A blessing in disguise, as they call it. (Though you’re pretty sure They don’t understand the meaning of this saying as well as you do. Not when they never had the courtesy of experiencing him.)
So, overall, living with Spencer ended up being nearly perfect. With the small exception of his very demanding, very time-consuming job. While it made you feel safer at first, with time, the feeling turned more into one of frustration. You’d gotten so used to his presence that whenever he’d have to leave for a case – which you initially considered a free-of-charge bonus – you’d end up missing him like crazy, all while worrying for his life until he’d send you an occasional text – even more rarely, a call – or let you know he’d be coming back.
Thankfully, Spencer isn’t away right now. He’s as close as he can be – in your shared kitchen, where you can hear him moving around as you wake, probably preparing his morning coffee. And normally, you wouldn’t think anything of it, but last night he sent you a text, letting you know he’d be going out for drinks with his team. And you have no idea when he got back, because before you could even realise, you passed out after a busy week of work.
So, while you got your – approximately – ten hours of sleep, you’re sure Spencer came back much later into the night, waking earlier than you, considering he’s already up and… doing things people usually do when they’re awake.
Still, you don’t want to seem neurotic – though you discovered pretty early on that Spencer understands such behaviour better than anyone – or overbearing, confronting him about his sleeping habits first thing in the morning, so you head to the bathroom first, making sure you look presentable.
And then it’s on.
—
“Morning, Spence,” you say, as cheerfully as you can at 8:30 in the morning, walking into the kitchen where Spencer sits at the table – still in his pajamas, a cup of coffee in one hand, a rich fountain pen in the other. Most likely to do the crossword from the morning paper, another one of his day-off rituals. He doesn’t bother using a pencil like other mortals, his genius brain never makes any mistakes.
“Hi. Good morning,” he replies, a soft smile on his tired, pretty face. “Did you sleep well?”
“Oh, yeah. Went, like, straight to bed last night.”
“Yeah, I figured. It was all dark and quiet when I got back,” His chuckle forces a smile of your own. It’s impossible to keep a straight face, even in the most tiresome of mornings, when the person you’re pretty sure is your best friend in the world greets you like this.
“What about you?” you ask, subtly concealing concern in this overall normal question. “Did you sleep well?”
“Uh– Not really. That’s my second cup,” He lifts his coffee up for you to see, emphasizing his point, a flat, almost-smile decorating his face.
“No!” you gasp. “Spencer! Get back to bed right now– What are you doing?”
“N-no! I won’t be able to sleep anyway, I’d just be wasting my day.”
“If you keep drinking the coffee, then maybe, but I’m sure if you just lie down–”
“Honey…” he replies, the smile on his face almost condescending. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“Well… I mean, can’t you just try?” you ask as you, not so subtly, grab his hands and urge him out of the chair, slowly walking backwards in the direction of his bedroom. Leading him right back to bed. “Please?”
For all that it’s worth, he actually entertains your whining. He follows you obediently until you’re on his bed – knees navigating over the nicely made covers – and he stands in front of it, waiting for further instructions. His hands still in your grasp.
“Okay, now you’re in my bed. What’s the plan?” he asks, sarcastically but now cruelly. Never cruelly. Pretty boy’s got jokes now.
“I’m not in your bed, I’m on it,” Your reply comes with a playful frown. “And the plan is that you get on it with me. Not even with me, actually, by yourself would do just fine. But since I have to lead you by the hand now…”
“Whoa, okay! No need to get all– hostile with me,” he says, but still sits on the bed, facing you. “But, you know, since you’re basically forcing me to do this, the least you could do is stay here with me. Entertain me a little.”
The laugh escapes your lips before you could even think about stopping it – quick, disbelieving, probably a little louder and more honest than what you’d usually feel comfortable sharing with a guy. That never stops Spencer's gaze from trailing down, down, down your face with a soft smirk of his own, until it reaches the source.
“You, my dear, do not get to demand any entertainment from me. You’re supposed to be sleeping, remember? Lie down.”
He rolls his eyes but settles his back against the pillow anyway – not really lying, more like… sitting back.
“I’m serious, Spence,” you say as you lean over his body, resting on your elbow by his side – not bothering to hide the concern anymore. “I’m worried about you. You’re already not getting enough sleep as it is, and you know how important it is, and it’s Saturday! You’re allowed to sleep in a little! Instead, you’re getting up earlier than the birds. How are they gonna get their worms, huh, genius?”
“I–” He can’t help but laugh at how, even when worried, playful you are. “I know that, and I appreciate your concern – I really do – but I just can’t. I would have slept in if I felt like I had it in me, but it’s just… not working.”
You let out an annoyed huff, throwing yourself back against the pillow and staring at the ceiling of genius Spencer Reid’s bedroom. You hate how he always has a good point.
“You seriously need to relax more. Maybe you should start doing yoga? Or get laid.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Oh yeah? And how would I do that, oh mastermind plan maker?”
“I don’t know – go to a bar, talk to a pretty lady. I don’t know how you pick up girls.”
“I don’t,” he replies, looking at you partially as if you just said the silliest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth, partially in a way he usually does when he starts doubting himself. “Besides, I’m not really… into that.”
“What, you’re not into sex?”
“I’m not into casual sex. You know,” he starts, his eyes locked onto yours before they drift away slowly, making their way over the entirety of the space he can see without pulling his head from the pillow. “Sex is a powerful ritual. It’s intimate and vulnerable, and it’s not something I feel comfortable sharing with a stranger. Even for just one night. Or especially for just one night. I can’t imagine doing it all and then just leaving as if nothing happened when it’s done. Not without a connection.”
You look at him in silence for a minute, staring at his profile as his eyes bore into the ceiling.
“And it’s not like I can just form the connection. I’ve never been good at talking to women, and with the job and everything… I don’t know, I just don’t really see myself getting into a relationship anytime soon.”
You take a deep breath, gathering words that will seem smart, since he’s always smart, and the least he deserves from you is good advice. After all, you’re the one who forced him into bed. And into this conversation.
“I understand what you mean. But it’s not like you can’t talk to women – you’re doing just fine with me! You just… don’t think of yourself as highly as you should. But I get it, I’m not going to try to convince you to get into a relationship. It’s just… you could if you tried.”
You stay silent for a minute more. He lets out a hum, you know he doesn’t believe your words. You’re both stubborn when it comes to it, both hellbent on holding your ground. Neither of you really feels like arguing about whether or not Spencer Reid is capable of picking up a woman.
“At least a little self-care, then. Or, you know, I’m always here if you need me,” Your words are playful, though not completely unserious. Beneath the joke lies a very real proposition that feels entirely too heavy to just say outright.
“Wow, such a good roommate I have.”
“Oh, you know it,” You hold eye contact for a while, each of you sporting a teasing smile. “But, I mean, why not? We have a connection, right? Some kind of connection, at least. If you, I don’t know, don’t feel like it’s too weird or something, I wouldn’t mind.”
You shrug, playing it off as if you were completely nonchalant and friendly about it, even though the thought of his rejection is suddenly making you feel more and more like an idiot by each passing second.
He stays silent. Thinks about it.
“I don’t know– don’t you think it would be weird? Or something?”
“I don’t think so? We already live together, it’s kinda like we can’t get much closer than that. And if it means I could help you finally relax… Sounds like a win-win situation to me.”
Your heart is beating faster as the possibility of hooking up with Spencer gets more real. He’s chill about it. Be chill about it.
He lets out a resigned half-laugh. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You wouldn’t be asking,” You shrug. “I offered.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Mhmm. Are you sure?”
Spencer’s mind miraculously turns slower at your proposition. It’s not something he would usually do – probably not ever – especially with someone as close and dear to him as you. But the truth is, even though he discards your concern, he can feel the tiredness in his body. He’s pent up, tense, obviously not getting enough sleep – as you so wisely pointed out – and it’s been a while since he felt truly relaxed. Also, it’s not every day that your gorgeous flatmate offers to help you take care of it. So it’s kind of a no-brainer in his book.
“Yeah. I am.”
You lean over his body, face nearing his own, while your gazes stay locked on one another. You love it when his eyes get all dark, but right now, courtesy of the sunlight falling through the window, they resemble liquid honey more than the usual milk chocolate. You think, very briefly, that you might actually prefer this sight.
And then you kiss.
His lips feel softer than you thought they would, considering he often bites them, and he tastes faintly of the coffee he drank not so long ago. Which reminds you he was drinking coffee to stay awake instead of trying to fall back asleep like he should have been–
The thought doesn’t dwell in your mind for much longer, as he brings his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deeper, the way his tongue is inside your mouth.
You didn’t really imagine what it would feel like to kiss Spencer much – maybe once or twice in passing – but it’s safe to say you’re surprised at how good he is. The way he talks about his inability to get women to notice him – in a positive light at least – would make you think he’s completely inexperienced or just very lousy. And here he is, making you forget you were ever even the slightest bit annoyed at him. Making you forget anything that isn’t him, touching you, kissing, pulling you closer until your chests touch.
You move, hand drifting slowly – starting from his shoulder, resting there just for a little while, before it starts trailing down, lower, until it reaches his abdomen and the waistband of his pajamas.
“Is this okay?”
“Y-yeah.”
He nods quickly, cheeks flushed, lips pink – raw from the kissing. You have a feeling you’re not looking much better. Certainly not any more put together, as your hand finally reaches him, still over his clothes.
He’s half hard already – quick, you think – the makeout clearly taking its effect. You start rubbing your hand over his cock, and it takes barely a few seconds before Spencer's head falls back against the pillow, soft puffs of air and quiet noises escaping his parted lips. So plump. So pretty…
He looks so pretty like this. His hair has been getting longer, and even though it’s not as messy as it usually is right after he gets out of bed, something tells you it will need some work after you’re done with him – the way he just can’t keep still.
“Feels– that feels good.”
He says and tilts his head up to chase your lips. The kisses are dizzying, and he’s not really sure how much more he can take before snapping like a cheap rubber band – quickly, pathetically.
“Yeah? Can I touch it now?”
“You are. T-touching it,” His mind is a little hazy with pleasure and, oh look! Seems like you finally found a way to dumb down the genius.
“You know what I mean.”
“Uh-huh,” Spencer nods eagerly, a few strands of hair falling over his face. “Yeah. Please.”
You run your nails gently over his stomach, dripping low. He shudders at the touch. It feels good – he's as hard as can be now, but it’s not nearly enough.
He laughs weakly – it’s more of a breath than a laugh – but it catches your attention. As if he didn't already have all of it.
“You said you were going to touch me now,”
“And you said that I am touching you.”
You smirk down at him, but you’re not cruel. He looks like he needs it – you know he needs it – so you decide not to deprive him of your touch any longer.
Your hand finds its way into his pajamas, then into his boxers, until it finally reaches the smooth skin of his cock. You run over it a few times, rub it just a little, before taking him into your hand. He feels heavy, and you’re not entirely sure you’re ready to see it just yet, but you lower his clothes and– Oh.
To say Spencer is pretty all over would be an understatement.
Soft sounds escape his lips, bordering on needy and ruined, when you pull your hand away. He looks as if he’s about to protest until he notices you bring the hand up to your lips, and then his eyes are fixed on your spit as it drips from them, your own gaze never leaving his face.
The drop lands on your open palm like a prophecy of what he’s about to experience. He can barely form a thought other than you and how good it feels when you finally start stroking his cock, your lips running over his jaw, then down his neck.
“Thank you. Ngh– Thank you.”
“It’s okay, baby,” You press a single kiss to his lips. He chases them for more. “Does it feel good?”
“God, yes,” The whines would sound pathetic even to his own ears if he were capable of caring about anything other than his pleasure right now. To you, they’re dizzyingly beautiful. Enough to make arousal drip between your legs.
Your hand starts moving faster, gripping him tighter until he can barely breathe. And, if there’s any thought in his head, it’s that:
“I don’t… I don’t have any condoms.”
You take a moment to think about his words, not stopping the movement of your hand. You couldn’t, not when he looks so pretty, falling apart for you.
“That’s fine. We won’t need them today.”
Normally, if Spencer’s mind was working the way it usually does (which it is not), he’d think about your words, make sense of them. However, that doesn’t happen so quickly. Not while you’re kissing his lips, glossy with spit, not when your kisses start moving down his jaw and neck. Not until he feels you pull away and push his shirt up, lowering your face to reach low on his abdomen and start pressing kisses there, dangerously close to his needy cock, which throbs for attention.
“Wan’ me to use my mouth on you?” Kiss. Deliciously messy. “Gonna let me do that?”
Spencer’s head jumps from the pillow to look down at you before dropping back again with a moan. He doesn’t think he can handle the sight. Not unless he’s ready to finish right now. (He’s not. Please, let him keep his composure just a bit longer. Forever, ideally.)
“You don’t have to do that, honey.”
“I didn’t say that I have to, I asked, nicely, if I could,” you say and lean back, sitting on your knees, as your hands grasp the very bottom of your shirt, tugging it up, and off, until it ends up at the end of his bed. “So?”
“Yes. I need it, angel, please.”
That’s what you are to him. With your lips wrapped around his cock, you’re the closest thing to a deity he’s ever known. The only one he wants to believe in.
His eyes travel between your mouth – so warm against him – and your bare breasts. He feels like the world's biggest asshole at the thought of never being able to forget the sight. Damn his stupid eidetic memory.
“Fuck– that’s it,” He begins, but the words are interrupted by a loud whine as you suck, then slowly lower your head until you’re ready to go back to his head. “Please, don’t stop.”
Spencer can feel you hum around his length, most likely meant as reassurance – It’s okay, I’m not stopping – but the vibration only serves to give him more pleasure. It’s hot and overwhelming, and he’s not sure how his hand is ever supposed to live up to this.
And he’s trying – really trying – not to ruin this, but it’s impossible to focus on anything other than the feeling of you, touching him, you all over him– Fuck. He’s getting really close.
He takes a second longer, desperately fighting with his mind to wait until he’s ready for it to be over, but it’s getting harder each time you suck, run your tongue over him, hum – do the things that you do that drive him positively crazy – and he doesn’t even notice when his hands tangle in your hair. Then in his sheets, then your hair again, because, fuck, he truly doesn’t know what to do with his body.
What he does notice is your own hand, joining your soft, wet mouth on his cock, following after your head, up and down.
It’s then that Spencer realises his end is painfully near.
“Wait– stop! Mgh– honey, stop.”
“What is it?” you ask, pulling away in concern, though your hand stays on him.
“I’m getting close. I don’t wanna finish yet. Don’t wan’ it to be over…”
You don’t want him to think you’re laughing at him, but it sure is hard to keep it from slipping out.
“Spence, you’re supposed to enjoy yourself. Relax. You can cum, baby.”
He’s almost ready to protest, beg you to wait – just a second – until he can think straight again, but then he sees you take him back into your mouth. And it’s over before it really begins.
He gets loud, just seconds before the coil inside him snaps, and he tries to warn you, but you stay near, and soon, hot cum floods your mouth.
And it all goes quiet. Only in his head, though Spencer could swear it’s a feeling he’s never felt before. He moans and whines, hands tighten in your hair – his attempt to keep himself grounded as his hips lift from the bed and his head turns deliriously empty.
Only when he settles back down do you finally pull away, pressing one last kiss onto the head of his cock, before tucking him back into his pants.
“Wow, doctor. Seems like you really needed this,” You say with a playful smile, your eyes now at the same level as his.
“Yeah, I… I’m sorry, I don’t… finish this fast, usually. It’s just been a while…”
“Don’t worry, I’m glad I could help,” You look at his flushed face, tender hands brushing strands of hair from his sweaty forehead. Then, you press a kiss against his jaw.
“That was– perfect. You’re incredible. Thank you,” Spencer pulls you into a kiss, his hands once again in your hair. There was a moment when he was worried it might be too much – too intimate – but thoughts as mundane as this one meant nothing to his soft, mushy brain, possessed by post-release hormones.
You, in turn, were cautious of kissing him in case he found it gross, considering you’ve just had him in your mouth. Spencer, however, continues to prove that he’s different from any other guy you’ve ever known.
“How about you get some sleep now, hm?” you ask, petting his cheek gently.
Truth is, your attempt of tiring him out seemed to work, as his glassy eyes keep growing heavier by the second.
“Mmm… Could you stay?” He grasps your wrist and looks at you in a way that makes you believe you could never refuse anything he asks of you.
“Okay.”
And when you get under the covers next to him, his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest. Though soon, as he drifts further into sleep, they begin to loosen, only sometimes tightening involuntarily.
You can’t help but think – you’re not sure whether this is a sleep or a sex thing – that Spencer Reid is a cuddler.
—
When you wake, the sun is high and bright, signalling that you’ve slept far longer than appropriate, and you’ll most likely regret it later.
Still, you try to keep your movements as subtle as possible so as not to disturb Spencer. He deserves this, you think, for all that he does for you, and the whole country, for that matter.
It’s hard not to stare a little as you pull away from his body. You never get to see him like this. He naps on the couch sometimes, though very rarely, since he tries to keep the common spaces available to you at all times. But even when it happens, he’s usually facing the couch, or his face is scrunched up in this really cute way that tells you he’s actually somewhat conscious and will likely wake up if you’re not careful enough.
You’ve never seen him like this, though. So soft and relaxed, gentle in the sweetest way possible. It makes something warm and fuzzy settle deep in your chest.
So you get up from the bed. Debate pressing one last gentle kiss somewhere on his skin – his forehead, maybe – then decide against it.
Even the thought alone feels far too intimate despite the fact that you can still faintly taste him at the back of your throat. You find it leaving you all giddy instead of disgusted. That’s something to worry about another time, though. Right now, you need to start functioning – even if normal people have probably already been up for hours – and leave your sweet, exhausted roommate to get his rest.
You wish him sweet dreams in your head. Scold yourself for it because it’s stupid and he can’t even hear it – and giving him a blowjob was probably more than enough for sweet dreams – but for a reason unknown to you, you don’t actually despise yourself for thinking it.
Maybe you’re just a little embarrassed by your mind.
likes, reblogs and interactions of any kind are greatly appreciated!!!
a/n pt2: i did the thing. gradient title and dividers, i feel all fancy and professional
summary: spencer hasn’t been the same since getting kidnapped by hankel and he doesn’t seem to be getting any better. you decide to do something about it. genre: angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort tags/cw: coworkers to lovers(ish), addiction, mentioned use of drugs, arguing, no use of y/n w/c: 2.5k. a/n: not really sure about my angst writing abilities so this is very much experimental… gif by @reidgif !!
masterlist
You hadn’t been with the BAU for long yet – it’s only been a few months since Elle decided to disappear and never show up again. That’s when you came in – hired and approved of by Gideon and Hotch just a couple of weeks before Prentiss mysteriously appeared, sent into the team on a secret spy mission to ruin the career of Agent Aaron Hotchner. Thank you, Strauss.
You were still new, then. Not as unwelcome as Emily has been so far and not nearly as suspicious, but new nonetheless.
It felt like you’ve been doing a good job getting to know the team, though. Until Tobias Hankel.
Nobody could’ve predicted then the horror that would be caused by something as simple and routine as sending two agents to a possible witness’s house. The moment when JJ was found in the barn, terrified. And the one when Spencer wasn’t.
The realisation that he must have been abducted by a deeply unstable unsub, possibly injured, disoriented, scared – most definitely alone, completely away from his team – hit like a ton of bricks. And even though you weren’t nearly as close with him as everyone else was, it still left you feeling dizzy. Confused, unable to fully focus on the case, knowing that the one person who could solve it was currently in danger. You felt as if you were about to puke at any given moment until he was finally found – weak, hurt, traumatised, but alive.
—
That was all that mattered then, but time proved that the adjustment period wouldn't be easy. After being discharged from the hospital, Spencer got mandated time off and counseling. And it was perfectly understandable that after experiencing what he’s experienced, he’d need time to feel normal again. You just foolishly didn’t think it would take this long.
It’s been strange, walking into the bullpen every morning and not hearing his voice right off, chattering to Morgan or JJ or anyone in the vicinity about whatever book he’d just finished or fact he knows, because he just does. Instead, he’d come just minutes before nine, set up at his desk and go to get his coffee – stronger, more sugar than usual – with a mumbled morning.
On cases he’d get snappy at any offer of help, paranoically thinking that the team knows he’s more distracted, disoriented, not as efficient as he used to be. You’d try to convince him otherwise, even if it’s the truth.
It hurts to see him like this, more and more every day, especially when you know he isn’t talking to anyone. His reports from the case mention the torture and the drugs. Not in detail, and he never said anything about it after handing them in, but you all know it happened. That’s what makes it worse – the knowledge that he went through something so traumatic, and keeps going through it over and over again, all alone. Never reaching out past the mandated psych evaluation.
But he keeps brushing the people who actually know him off, and you still feel like you’re too new to all of this to try to bring it up to him. Which seems like a wise decision, since he keeps snapping at Emily and any of her attempts to help.
And everyone notices. Except this once, Spencer isn’t listening to anyone. Not to Morgan, not to Hotch, not even Gideon. Surely, your words wouldn’t mean anything to him either. Not in the state he’s currently in, anyway.
But what makes it all hurt even more is that you really like him. And, before Georgia, you thought that he liked you, too. Now it feels like he couldn’t wait to get away from you, and everyone else, for that matter.
That’s why, when Penelope suggested drinks at O’Keefes one evening after work, no one was actually surprised when Spencer muttered Think I’ll pass this time and went to grab his things.
“But… That’s what you said last time!”
“Yeah, well, I’m not really feeling up to it. Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all, as he moves away from the team without a single look back. A small callout like this is now enough to annoy him and make him harsh the way he never used to be before.
“That’s what you said last time…”
You could see that Garcia is seriously worried about him. Everyone is, but Penelope isn’t like your team of profilers. She wears her heart on her sleeve, always open about her emotions, and, when it comes to it, she has trouble covering it up. Like right now, as she silently watches Reid walk into the elevator with nothing but a pouty frown on her face.
“I’m sorry, but I think I’ll pass too,” You say, not pulling your eyes from the doors that just closed, taking Spencer with them. “Hey, Pen? Could you give me Reid’s address?”
—
That’s how you got to Spencer’s building, arriving only minutes after he has. It took a few more to get the courage to get out of the car and walk up the stairs, and now, you’re standing in front of his door, waiting for the courage to knock.
Something inside you says that he’s probably not going to be very happy to see you – hell, you wouldn’t be if one of your coworkers, who you barely know, showed up to your place after work for their shitty version of an intervention that you didn’t ask for.
But it’s like an impulse you couldn’t really control anymore. If no one’s here to help him, I am.
“What are you doing here?” Spencer asks as he opens the door with a frown, standing straight and alert, like a cat that just sensed danger on its way.
“Can I come in?” It’s a bit rude, you’re aware, but you walk into his apartment, not waiting for an answer.
“No point in asking if you’re gonna do it anyway. So,” he says with an eyeroll, following you. It’s then that you realise you don’t really have much of a plan. And that you’re standing in his hall like an idiot who invited herself in and now doesn’t know what to do with her own body. “Are you going to tell me what you're doing in my house or not?”
“I came to talk.”
“And that couldn’t wait until Monday? You couldn’t have done it, like, an hour ago, at work? You had to follow me home like a stalker?”
“Well, excuse me, but I don’t think this is the kind of conversation you would want to have in public,” It’s hard to keep your composure when he’s acting like a tween who thinks the highest form of rebellion is slamming the door in their parents’ face and then screaming into a pillow. Staying gentle with this version of Spencer always proves to be a challenge when he constantly tries his best to be insufferable at everything said his way. “Something’s wrong with you, Spencer. And I just want you to be okay again.”
“I am okay.”
“Are you serious? You’ve been snapping at anyone who tries to talk to you, you don’t work like how you used to, and you’re mean. The way you’ve been treating Emily is insane, and if you were really okay, then you’d be able to see that!”
“Well,” he replies, turning his head away from you and looking at a blank wall. It’s getting harder to swallow around the weird lump that rests somewhere between his throat and chest. Created on that small-town cemetery in Georgia, brought up by you standing in front of him. “I’m sorry for being such an inconvenience, but you don’t really know anything about me. So it’s not your call to make.”
“I may not have known you for long, but I can see that something is wrong! You’ve changed after Hankel, and if you think the rest of the team doesn’t notice, then you must be dumber than anyone would suspect of you,” You look at him, still not looking at you, jaw clenched, but expression otherwise blank. His words cut deep, and he looks like he’s only about to get meaner the more you open your mouth. “I’m giving you a chance here. Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” His reply is dismissive, wanting nothing more than for you to leave him alone.
“Oh, no? So if I asked you to lift up your sleeves and show me your arms, you’d do it?”
Not moving past the hall had been a deliberate choice, you’re aware of that. He keeps standing here in a way to show you you’re not welcome. Not into his apartment and certainly not into his mind. But being called out like this, about something nobody’s tried to talk to him about, something so vulnerable, stings worse than salt poured into an open wound. Suddenly, deflecting doesn’t come as easily to him anymore.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant in any way.”
“You do,” It’s hard to stay harsh with him when you know that, even if he’s trying not to show it, you’ve touched something inside him that hurts more than he’d willingly admit. When you know he used to be gentle. “Please, Spencer. Talk to me. I… thought we were getting along. Before. And I really hate seeing you like this.”
As if your pleading finally reached the part of him that recognises you as more than just a new coworker, he grimaces. Taking a deep breath, he finally moves farther into the living room, standing in front of his couch. Not sitting, but leaning against it, his head facing the ceiling.
“It’s… I don’t take it anymore.”
“Do you still have it?” you ask as you stand in front of him, trying not to get too close in case he gets scared and runs off like a deer seeing a human for the first time. He looks an awful lot like one right now. A human.
“What?”
“Do you still have the drugs?”
“Yeah, but I don’t take them anymore.” He’s dismissive. Not anymore deflecting, but it’s obvious he’d much prefer if this conversation weren’t happening at all.
“Give them to me.”
“I’m not gonna give you the– What?”
“Come on, Spencer, I’m not gonna let a drug addict keep his drugs because he claims he doesn’t take them anymore,” You take a tentative step toward him, trying to force eye contact out of him. “A moment of weakness is all it takes. Just one. I’m sure you know that better than I do.”
He knows that he has a problem. Knows what he is, but hearing it said out loud, falling from your lips felt… Unimaginable. Out of the things he thought you’d say to him, ones that would make his heart drop, this was at the very bottom of the list.
But, with a deep sigh, he disappears down the hall and comes back with two small bottles and three syringes. Brand new, unpacked. Unused.
“Is this all?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jesus– Yes, that’s all!” He looks away again, hands flailing around helplessly as he snaps at you, again. “How many more times am I gonna have to say that?”
“Well, I’m sorry for looking out for you!”
“No, I’m sorry. You’re right, sorry,” he replies, and for the first time in a while, he actually looks like he means it. “This is everything, I promise.”
“Good,” you say, putting the bottles into a pocket deep in your bag. “Do you have any tea?”
“Uh– Yeah, I’ll make it.”
He moves into the kitchen, and you follow after him, thinking about the coat you’re still wearing – which, combined with the tension caused by The Talk, is making you hot – as well as the shoes you should have probably definitely taken off. Oh well.
Spencer puts the kettle on, gets two mugs out of a cupboard and leans against the counter in silence, sometimes looking at you, looking away when your presence in his kitchen becomes too real to handle.
You let him do that – let him keep his space after obnoxiously taking it away.
Until he can’t stand it anymore and finally speaks.
“It’s just– I don’t know how to feel,” he begins, busying his hands with the teabags, wrapping the string around his finger and ripping away at the paper label. “On one hand, I can’t help but blame him. I mean… he kidnapped and tortured me. Almost killed me. But also… it wasn’t really him. His body, sure, but it was only a manifestation of years’ worth of trauma and abuse. The real Tobias made sure I ate and… tried to relieve my pain,” He blinks away the tears, wanting to seem strong when talking about the day he almost died. And if seeing him in the aftermath of it was breaking your heart, hearing him finally open about what he feels crushed it into pieces so little, only seeing him be happy forever could put it back together. “And it worked. For a while at least, it really worked. That’s why it was so hard to stop, but… I need this job. I need to know that people need me and that I can help them.”
You stay silent for a minute. To be fair, it’s hard to process. The whole conversation has been harder than you anticipated, maybe because you didn’t really believe you’d ever get past his front door. But you did, and now you’ll have to live with the fact that he’s been alone with something so heavy and dark weighing over his heart far longer than appropriate. Still, you chose to do this, and you’re not going to ruin your chance to help him.
So you step closer, standing at his side and, oh so cautiously, putting your hand over his, where it lies on the counter.
“Spencer… There are people you can talk to. Places you can go to. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re not. And you don’t have to be alone in this.”
“I guess it’s just… hard to acknowledge. And to hear someone else acknowledge it.”
“I know,” you say with a soft smile and squeeze his hand tighter. He’s not pulling away, which is a good sign, probably. You don’t actually know. You could only begin to imagine how he’s feeling, but you try to be something he can hold onto. Something stable among the chaos in his head. “You’ve already made the first step, it’ll only get easier now. And, if it helps, I’m here for you.”
“Thank you,” he chokes out as a tear runs down his face. The first one he hasn’t tried to blink away.
You hug in the middle of his kitchen until your shoulder is wet and your legs hurt from standing so long. Until Spencer asks you to stay the night.
And as you sit on his couch, watching shitty reality TV until your brains turn to mush and eating mediocre pizza from the only place that’s still open, Spencer decides that when all of this is over, and he starts feeling like himself again, he’ll take you on the best date of your life.
summary : when you're taken by an unsub who holds a peculiar grudge against your father, seven minutes make a hell of a difference between life and death.
warnings : angst with maybe -45% comfort, kidnapping, torture, mentions of harm being done to other people, completely made up plot btw so no spoilers for the actual show, spencer losing his shit, established relationship
word count : 9.5 k
a/n : as usual, not proofread ! probably about season 10-11!reid as in looks reference but the plotline is all over the place so uhm sorry abt that i was legit js pulling shit from my criminal minds memory bank and shoved them all together... so yeah defo not season-wise accuracy. (the crash is based on s13 so lil spoilers on that... and i also looked up every technical term i could think of to make spencer sound accurate so uh) enjoy !
Spencer's hands are careful as he fastens your bulletproof vest over your chest, his brows furrowed. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen wash him pale, catching the faint shadows under his eyes from too many nights spent buried in files.
“You tightened it too much,” you mumble, wincing as he tugs the straps.
“It’s supposed to be tight,” he says automatically, not looking up.
“Pretty sure breathing is also supposed to happen.” That finally earns you a glance. Not amused. Just worried.
“You joke when you’re nervous.”
“And you lecture when you are.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. My lungs would like to file a formal complaint.” His mouth twitches despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately. Spencer smooths his hand over the front of the vest one last time, checking for gaps like he doesn’t trust the fabric to do its job properly. You study him for a second.
“You know,” you say quietly, “most people just say ‘be careful.’”
“I did say that.”
“Three times.”
“Because you ignored me the first two.” A snort escapes you, but it fades when you notice the way his fingers linger near your ribs. Restless. Anxious.The case had gotten ugly fast.Three victims in four days. All connected to the Bureau in some way. Retired agents. Informants. One federal prosecutor. And now the unsub had escalated from taunting the BAU to targeting your father directly. Aaron Hotchner had made enemies before. Plenty of them. But this one felt different.
Personal.
The unsub had been sending photographs for weeks now. Grainy shots of Hotch entering Quantico. Jack at soccer practice. You grabbing coffee outside the bullpen with Spencer. Watching. Waiting. The latest message had arrived that morning.
Tick tock, Hotchner.
And underneath it:
What hurts worse? Losing your team… or your daughter?
Hotch had gone frighteningly still when Garcia read it aloud. You’d watched the muscle in his jaw tick once before he started assigning teams like the world wasn’t tilting beneath his feet. Now the bullpen buzzes around you—agents moving quickly, radios crackling, Emily and JJ arguing quietly over routes—but Spencer still hasn’t stepped back.
“Spence,” you say softly. His eyes flick to yours immediately. “I’ll be okay.” The problem is he doesn’t answer. Because Spencer Reid has seen too many people promise that before bleeding out anyway. Behind you, your father emerges from his office already shrugging into his jacket.
“We hit the road in two,” Hotch says. The entire room shifts instantly into motion. Spencer finally lets go of your vest, though reluctantly, like peeling his hands away from something important.
“You stay with Luke,” he says firmly. “Don’t split up. Don’t go anywhere alone." You blink at him.
“Wow. You and my dad should start a podcast.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious.”
“That’s statistically inaccurate.” That almost gets a real smile out of you.Almost. Then Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen again.
“Let’s move.” You reach up and pull Spencer down towards you, catching his lips in a quick kiss as your dad, Luke, Walker and Emily all walk towards the black SUV's waiting for you downstairs.
The kiss barely lasts two seconds.
Still, Spencer chases it for half a heartbeat when you pull away, his hand catching briefly at your wrist like he’s fighting the urge to keep you there.
“Be careful,” he says quietly. You soften a little at the look on his face.
“Spence, we’re literally just surveilling a warehouse.”
“That statement significantly increases the statistical likelihood something catastrophic is about to happen.” Luke snorts from beside the elevators.
“He’s got a point.” You roll your eyes, backing toward the bullpen doors.
“You’re all dramatic.” Hotch appears behind you, expression unreadable but tired in the way only your father can manage.
“Move.”And just like that, the moment’s over. Everyone scatters into motion.
The unsub’s name is Daniel Kessler.
Former paramedic. Former military. Smart enough to stay ahead of the BAU for six weeks and angry enough to make mistakes.
More specifically: angry at Aaron Hotchner.
Three years ago, Hotch testified in a corruption case involving Kessler’s brother. The brother went to prison. Died there eleven months later.
Kessler blamed Hotch.
And now bodies were piling up across Virginia with surgical precision and handwritten messages left behind at each scene.
The latest lead had come fast—a possible location tied to one of Kessler’s shell companies just outside Quantico. Which was why the team was mobilizing so quickly. Three SUVs. Hotch and Rossi in the first. JJ and Tara in the second. You, Luke, Emily, and Walker in the third. Spencer stayed behind with Garcia to monitor incoming intel. He looked miserable about it.
At first, the drive is almost painfully normal. Walker’s driving. Emily sits shotgun flipping through case notes while Luke scrolls through updates on his phone beside you in the backseat. Rain taps softly against the windows. The highway stretches dark and endless ahead of you. Your phone buzzes.
SPENCE
You forgot your scarf.
You smile despite yourself.
YOU
Tragic. I’ll hold a funeral later.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then:
SPENCE
Funny people are statistically more likely to survive traumatic situations.
You bark out a laugh. Luke glances over.
“Pretty Boy?”
“Unfortunately.” Emily sighs dramatically from the front seat.
“You two are disgusting.”
“You say that like you haven’t watched them stare at each other for ten straight minutes in briefing rooms,” Walker says.
“I have,” Emily replies. “That’s why I said it. I've also watched them pine for each other for years. This sudden shift in dynamics is weird. I honestly liked it better when Reid was all stuttery and shy around her."
"We didn't pine." You grumble, shifting in your seat. Four separate looks immediately get directed at you. Luke actually lowers his phone.
“Be serious.”
“He wrote you a six-page apology because he accidentally snapped at you once,” Emily says to absolutely no one’s surprise.
Walker snorts from the driver’s seat.
“Reid used to look like he was being held hostage every time she touched him.”
“He still does sometimes,” Luke says.
“Okay, wow,” you mutter. Emily twists slightly in her seat to look back at you.
“Sweetheart, he once walked into the glass conference room wall because you smiled at him.”
“That happened one time.”
“Twice,” Luke corrects. Walker laughs.
“Nah, my favorite was the coffee thing.” You narrow your eyes.
“What coffee thing?”
“You brought him coffee every morning for like eight months,” Walker says.
“Because he forgets to eat when he’s working.”
“And Reid started memorizing your coffee order after day two,” Emily adds smugly. Luke points between all of you.
“See, this is why none of us were shocked when they finally got together.”
“You were all shocked,” you argue.
“We were shocked it took this long,” Emily corrects. Emily cackles. “You're dating a textbook.”
“A very pretty textbook,” you mumble before thinking better of it. Unfortunately the entire car hears you. Walker makes a wounded sound.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Emily clutches her chest dramatically.
“No, let her continue. This is healing me.” You flip her off from the backseat. Rain continues tapping softly against the windshield as the SUV speeds down the dark stretch of highway. The radio crackles quietly every few seconds with updates from the other cars. Somewhere ahead, Hotch and Rossi are already discussing entry routes. JJ’s voice cuts in briefly over comms before fading back out. For a moment, everything feels strangely normal.
Easy.
Luke elbows you lightly.
“You know Reid almost called Hotch Sr when he asked permission to ask you out.” Your head whips toward him.
“What?” Emily bursts into delighted laughter.
“He did.” Walker nearly misses the curve in the road because he’s laughing too hard now.
“No he did not.”
“Oh, he absolutely did,” Emily says. “Hotch just stared at him for like ten full seconds while Reid visibly aged.” Luke deepens his voice badly in imitation. “‘Agent Hotchner, respectfully, I was wondering if—’”
“Stop talking,” you groan.
“—if your daughter would potentially—’”
“You’re all dead to me.” Emily wipes tears from under her eyes.
“Your father looked so uncomfortable.” Walker grins into the rearview mirror.
“Honestly brave of Reid. I’d rather fistfight a bear than ask Hotch for dating permission.”
“He didn’t ask permission,” you defend automatically. Luke raises an eyebrow.
“He absolutely did.” Luke laughs. And for one perfect, stupid second, everything feels fine.
Then you see it. Up ahead. Small. Sharp. Metal glinting beneath the headlights. Your stomach drops instantly.
“Walker—” Too late. The SUV hits the spike strips hard. The sound is explosive. All four tires blow at once.
"Shit !" Walker jerks the wheel violently as the vehicle fishtails across the slick highway. Emily shouts something.
"Everybody hold on !" Luke grabs for the handle above the door. Your seatbelt locks brutally across your chest as the world spins sideways.
Then— Headlights. Blinding. A truck horn screaming— And impact. Metal shrieks. Glass detonates. Your body whips sideways so hard your vision whites out completely. Something slams into your ribs.
When you wake up, you can’t breathe. Pain hits first. Not sharp. Everywhere. Burning agony flooding through every inch of your body like someone poured gasoline into your veins. A broken sound leaves your throat. Smoke curls through the crushed SUV. Your head lolls sideways. Everything looks wrong. The windshield is gone. The dashboard is crumpled inward. Blood streaks the windows. Your seatbelt digs painfully into your chest. For a second you can’t understand why your left arm won’t move properly. Then feeling rushes back all at once and you nearly black out again.
“Fuck—” Your voice comes out shredded. You force your head up. Emily’s slumped against the passenger door, unmoving, blood running down the side of her face. Luke’s crumpled awkwardly beside you.
Walker— Walker’s head hangs at an angle that makes your stomach twist violently. Too still. Far too still.
“Walker,” you croak. No response. You try again, panic climbing your throat. You reach forward, wincing at the pull of your seat belt, shaking him. “Walker!” His entire body slumps forward, head landing on the steering wheel with a deafening thud. You bite back the bile threatening to spew out of you, your vision tunneling as you jerk back. Your chest caves inward.
Oh God. Smoke thickens around you. The car groans. Somewhere outside, people are shouting. You fumble clumsily for the seatbelt release with trembling fingers. It finally clicks. The second it unlatches, your body pitches forward violently and agony tears through your side hard enough to make you scream. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong. You look down. Blood. So much blood. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from beneath your ribs. Your vision flickers.
“No no no—” The driver-side door suddenly jerks open. Cold rain floods in. A man appears beside the wreckage wearing EMT gear. Reflective jacket. Medical gloves. Calm eyes. Relief crashes through you so hard you almost cry.
“Ma'am,” he says firmly. “Stay still.” You nod weakly.
“My-My friends - Please you have to-” Your eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of the other cars. You can see smoke and fire from somewhere behind you, and panic claws up your throat. "Oh, god- my-my dad is in- please, you have to-"
“We’ll get them,” he says quickly. “I need to move you first.” Your brain feels slow. Foggy. He cuts through your vest with terrifying efficiency. Strong hands slide beneath your arms. Pain explodes through your abdomen as he pulls you free from the wreckage. You scream.
“I know,” he says soothingly. “I know. I got you.” Rain pours down around you. Lights flash red and blue across the highway. Your head lolls weakly against his shoulder as he carries you toward the ambulance. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body feels heavy.
Wrong.
“Dad,” you mumble. “Need my dad—”
“We already got the two other cars evacuated. We have extra RA's en route to escort your friends to the hospital. Your father is waiting for you there.” the EMT says. You nod, rain soaking your clothes. He loads you onto the stretcher. The ambulance doors stand open behind you.
Then— Movement. Across the wreckage. Another SUV. Crushed against the guardrail. And stumbling out of it— Hotch.
Your father can barely stand. Blood runs down the side of his face. One arm hangs limp. But the second his eyes land on you— Pure horror floods his expression.
“Sweetheart !” Your breath catches.
What ?
Your breath catches. The EMT had said Hotch was already at the hospital. Your stomach drops so violently it almost makes you vomit.
No.
No, no—
Hotch stumbles forward through the rain, slipping against the soaked pavement as he tries to run toward the ambulance. Rossi is behind him shouting for medics, for backup, for somebody to stop the vehicle, but your father’s eyes are locked entirely on you. On the man beside you. And suddenly you understand. The EMT’s hand tightens on the stretcher rail.
“Wait,” you whisper. Hotch sees your expression change.
“No!” he roars. The ambulance doors slam shut. The sound nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Panic detonates through your body. You jerk upright instantly despite the agony ripping through your abdomen.
“Stop the fucking ambulance!” you scream, scrambling backward across the stretcher. Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out, but adrenaline keeps you moving. “Stop—” The EMT grabs for you. You swing first. Your fist cracks against his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. For one glorious second, he actually looks surprised.
“Bitch,” he mutters. You lunge for the door handles. Your blood-slick fingers almost catch them before he hauls you backward violently. Agony explodes through your side and a scream rips out of your throat. Outside the tiny rear windows, you can still see your father. Hotch is running after the ambulance. Actually running. Broken. Bleeding. Desperate.
“Dad!” you sob, slamming your palm against the doors. “Dad!” The ambulance swerves sharply.
The EMT hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him with brutal force. You fight instantly, elbows flying despite the pain.
“Get the fuck off me!” you choke out.
“Jesus Christ,” the man snarls, struggling to keep hold of you. “You really are his kid.” Something cold presses suddenly against your neck. A syringe. Your blood runs cold.
“No—” The needle plunges into your skin. You gasp sharply and shove at him harder, but your limbs already feel wrong. Heavy. Slow. “No no no—” The man restrains you easily now, forcing you back onto the stretcher as the sedative floods your bloodstream. Your vision starts swimming almost immediately. Outside, through the blurred back windows, you see Hotch reach the ambulance for half a second— His hand slams against the rear doors as he screams your name.
“No !” The sound breaks something inside you. Then the ambulance surges forward. And your father disappears into rain and flashing lights. Your body stops cooperating.
Your arms feel numb.
Your heartbeat echoes strangely in your ears.
The EMT pulls off his mask calmly while you struggle weakly beneath him.
Not an EMT.
Kessler.
You recognize him now. The eyes. Cold. Empty. Patient.
“You should’ve stayed still,” he says, almost disappointed. Your mouth won’t work properly anymore.
“You…” you slur weakly. Kessler sighs, pushing you flat against the stretcher as your body goes limp beneath his hands.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re bleeding internally. This is keeping you alive.” You try to fight him again anyway. Your hand barely lifts. Kessler watches you with detached fascination.
"Let's see if Aaron Hotchner's precious daughter is more important than putting me behind bars." He grabs another needle and grabs you arm.
You try to fight back- God, you try.
But your body feels like it's been filled with concrete, like your veins are hardening with every passing second, weighing you down.
Kessler grins.
"Sweet dreams."
-----------------
"Aaron- Aaron, listen to me-" Rossi is waving his arms in front of Hotch as real sirens flood the space. Emily crawls out of the car, coughing and bleeding from her temple, her hand pressed to her side as she limps her way over to Luke's side of the car and tugs him out. JJ stumbles from another wreckage, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs, a large gash running down the side of her arm. Tara doesn't look badly hurt, just concussed as she stumbles down the stretch of highway, her hand pressed to her head in confusion as Derek helps her forward.
And Aaron Hotchner can't fucking breathe.
"N-No, we- we have to go after her." He rasps, shaking his head. "The ambulance didn't have a license plate but-but it was him. It was him, Dave." Rossi grabs Hotch hard by the shoulders.
“Aaron!” Hotch’s chest heaves violently. Rain pours down his face, mixing with blood from the cut at his hairline. His eyes are locked on the empty stretch of highway where the ambulance disappeared into the storm.
“The ambulance didn’t have plates,” he says again, voice shredded raw. “It was him. Dave, it was fucking him.” Behind them, chaos erupts across the crash site. Actual EMTs flood the highway now, shouting over each other as they move between the wrecked SUVs. Red and blue lights flash violently across twisted metal and shattered glass. Somebody yells for extraction tools. Another medic shouts about fuel leakage. Walker’s body is finally pulled from the front seat. Emily sees the tarp being unfolded and stops dead.
“No,” she whispers. Luke catches her arm before she can stumble forward. JJ presses a trembling hand over her mouth, blood still running down her forearm. Tara stands dazed beside Derek, one hand against her temple as she tries to process the devastation around her. For one horrible moment, nobody speaks. Then the highway explodes back into noise.
“Aaron,” Rossi says again, more firmly this time. “Talk to me.” Hotch looks like he can barely breathe.
“She saw me,” he rasps. “She looked right at me.” His voice breaks on the last word. Dave’s stomach twists. Because Aaron Hotchner does not break. Not like this. “She realized it wasn’t real,” Hotch says, staring blankly down the road. “She started fighting him.” Emily looks up sharply.
“What?” Hotch drags a hand over his bloodied face.
“He was dressed like an EMT.” His breathing turns uneven. “I thought she was being transported until I saw—” He cuts himself off hard. Too late. Rossi catches it immediately.
“What did you see?” Aaron closes his eyes for one second too long. When he opens them again, there’s something almost haunted sitting behind them.
“She was hurt.” The team goes still.
“How bad?” JJ asks quietly. Hotch swallows.
“I don’t know.” Lie. Everybody hears it. Aaron’s jaw tightens violently. “There was blood,” he says carefully, like each word physically hurts. “A lot of blood.” Emily’s face drains of color. Luke curses under his breath.
“She couldn’t move properly,” Hotch continues hollowly. “He had to carry her." Nobody says anything after that. Because they all know what that means. Then headlights tear onto the highway. A black SUV brakes hard across the shoulder. Spencer is out of the vehicle before it fully stops moving. Garcia barely gets the car in park before he’s sprinting after him.
“Hotch!” Spencer shouts, panic already threading through his voice as he takes in the wreckage. “What happened?” Garcia steps out behind him—and freezes completely.
“Oh my God.” The highway looks apocalyptic. Smoke. Rain. Crushed SUVs. Flashing lights reflecting off blood-slick pavement. Spencer eyes scan frantically across the scene.
JJ.
Emily.
Luke.
Tara.
Derek.
Rossi.
Hotch.
His stomach drops. Because you’re not there. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.
“Where is she?” Nobody answers quickly enough. And terror detonates behind his ribs. “Where is she?” Emily looks away. Garcia starts crying immediately. Spencer stares at them.
“No.” Luke steps forward carefully.
“Reid—”
“No.” The word cracks out of him violently. “What happened?” Hotch finally steps toward him, rain dripping from his ruined suit.
“Kessler staged the crash,” he says hoarsely. “He took her.” Spencer just stares at him. Like the sentence physically does not make sense.
“Took her?” he repeats faintly.
“The ambulance was fake,” Rossi says grimly. “He disguised himself as an EMT.” Garcia lets out a broken sob behind them. Spencer’s face goes completely white.
“When?” he asks.
“Less than four minutes ago,” Luke says. “Local units are already searching—” Spencer looks immediately at Hotch. Not Rossi. Not Emily. Hotch. Because Hotch saw her last. And Aaron realizes Spencer already knows that too. Their eye contact lasts half a second. It’s enough. Spencer’s expression changes instantly.
“How bad was she hurt?” Hotch doesn’t answer quickly enough. Spencer takes a step forward. “How bad?” Aaron looks wrecked. Actually wrecked.
“She was conscious,” he says carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Aaron,” Rossi warns quietly. But Spencer doesn’t look away from Hotch. Hotch exhales shakily through his nose.
“There was blood.” Spencer’s breathing stutters.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” Another lie. Spencer hears that one too. And suddenly he looks furious. Terrified, grieving, furious. “She couldn’t move on her own,” Hotch admits quietly. “He carried her into the ambulance.” Garcia breaks down harder behind them and Derek crosses the space immediately to grab onto her. Spencer physically sways where he stands. For a second it looks like he might actually collapse. Then his face hardens into something sharp enough to cut glass.
“What direction?” Hotch blinks.
“Reid—”
“What direction did he go?”
“Eastbound,” Hotch answers carefully. Spencer immediately turns toward Garcia’s SUV. Hotch grabs his arm before he gets two steps. “You are not going alone.” Spencer jerks free instantly. His eyes are glassy with panic now.
“You let her get in that ambulance.” The words hit like a gunshot. Silence crashes down around the wreckage. Spencer looks horrified the second he says it. Because he knows exactly who he just said it to. A father who watched his daughter get kidnapped while injured and bleeding. Hotch recoils anyway. Not angry. Just devastated.
“I know,” he says quietly. That destroys Spencer more effectively than shouting ever could. His face crumples. Rain pours around all of you in endless sheets as sirens scream across the highway.
And somewhere out there— You’re alone with Kessler.
--------
When you come to, the first thing you feel is that the pain at your abdomen has lessened.
It’s still there.
Deep. Burning. Wrong.
But dulled somehow, like your body’s been wrapped in cotton. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force them open. Darkness swims above you for a second before dim industrial lights sharpen into focus overhead. Concrete ceiling. Rusted pipes. Water dripping somewhere nearby in slow, echoing intervals. Your wrists jerk instinctively.
Metal rattles. Cold panic slams into you. You're strapped upright to some kind of steel chair bolted into the floor. Thick restraints pin your wrists and chest in place. Your injured side throbs violently when you struggle, making black spots burst across your vision.
“Easy. I bandaged you up but you're still actively bleeding out.” The voice comes from somewhere ahead of you. Kessler steps into view calmly, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s in the middle of an ordinary workday instead of holding an FBI agent hostage. Your breathing quickens immediately.
“Fuck you,” you rasp. He actually smiles faintly.
“That’s usually the morphine talking." Morphine. That explains the floating feeling in your limbs. You look down quickly. Your vest is gone. Soaked bandages are wrapped tightly around your abdomen beneath a gray thermal shirt that definitely isn’t yours. There’s dried blood everywhere. Along your arms. Beneath your fingernails. Across the floor near the chair. Your stomach twists hard.
“How long—”
“Thirty-six minutes since the crash,” Kessler answers smoothly. Ice floods your bloodstream. The team. Your dad.
“Where are they?” you demand. Kessler ignores the question entirely. Instead, he walks toward a camera mounted on a tripod across the room. And your blood runs cold all over again. “No.” Kessler adjusts the lens casually. “No no no—”
“You know,” he says conversationally, “your father’s reputation in the Bureau is fascinating. Aaron Hotchner. Untouchable. Unshakeable. Men like him always think they understand sacrifice until it becomes personal.” Your restraints clatter violently as you fight them.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t even blink. Then he reaches beside the camera and wheels something large into frame. A timer. Digital.
Bright red numbers glaring through the darkness.
00:59:48
Your stomach drops.
“What is that?” Your voice cracks. Kessler finally looks at you directly.
“The amount of time your team has left.” He grabs your arm, sighing as he squeezes and IV bag and mounts it onto the stand beside you.
“Kessler—”
The dosage is regulated electronically.” He taps the pump beside the bag. “Small increments over time. Once the drip reaches completion…” He shrugs lightly. “Multi-organ failure. Cardiac arrest shortly after.”
Your mouth goes dry instantly.
“No.”
“The fascinating thing about poison,” he continues conversationally, “is how personal it feels. Bullets are loud. Explosions are chaotic. But poison?” He tilts his head. “Poison makes people wait.”
Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag. You stare at him in horror. Then fury detonates through you.
“You’re a fucking coward.” Kessler hums softly.
“And yet your father still can’t catch me.” He presses a button. The camera light turns red.
LIVE.
—————————
The BAU bullpen is chaos. Medics move between injured agents while tech analysts flood every available screen searching traffic cams, road footage, satellite hits—anything. Nobody’s winning. Hotch stands in the center of it all like a ghost. Still covered in blood. Still soaking wet from the rain. Spencer sits at Garcia’s station beside her, fingers flying across the keyboard so fast they blur. His hands are shaking violently.
“Nothing,” Garcia whispers tearfully. “No ambulance hits, no hospital pings, no traffic cams—he scrubbed everything.” Emily presses gauze harder against the cut on her temple.
“He planned this for months.”
“No,” Spencer says instantly. Everyone looks at him. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “Longer.” Before anyone can respond— Every monitor in the bullpen flickers. Static crackles. Garcia startles violently., fingers flying over her keyboard, trying to figure out how this is happening. Then your face appears onscreen.
Bruised. Bloodied. Restrained.
The room stops breathing.
“No,” Hotch says faintly. Your head lifts weakly toward the camera, disoriented and terrified and alive. Spencer goes white beside Garcia.
“No…” The digital timer flashes beside you.
00:58:03
“What the hell is that?” Luke breathes. Then Kessler steps into frame. And the entire room explodes into motion.
“Trace it now!” Emily shouts. Garcia is already typing frantically.
“I’m trying!” Kessler looks directly into the camera.
“Good evening, Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Kessler smiles like he’s hosting a lecture instead of a hostage broadcast. Garcia’s hands fly across the keyboard.
“I can’t get a lock—he’s bouncing the signal through multiple servers—oh my God, oh my God—”
“Penelope,” Emily snaps, though her own voice shakes. “Focus.”
“I am focused!” Onscreen, Kessler slowly circles your chair. The camera quality is grainy but clear enough to show the blood staining the bandages around your abdomen. Clear enough to show the IV line running into your arm. And the transparent liquid steadily dripping through the tube. Spencer goes completely still beside Garcia.
Not calm.
Worse.
The kind of stillness that means he’s trying very hard not to completely lose his mind. Your head hangs weakly forward before lifting slightly at the sound of Kessler speaking. Your eyes look unfocused. Drugged. Terrified. The bullpen falls silent. Even the analysts nearby stop moving. Because this isn’t just being streamed to the BAU.
This is public.
News stations are already picking it up. Social media feeds explode in real time across nearby monitors. Millions of people watching an FBI agent tied to a chair with a countdown beside her.
“Aaron Hotchner,” Kessler says smoothly, looking directly into the camera. “You know, I expected someone taller.” Hotch doesn’t react outwardly. But Rossi sees his fist tighten. Sees the blood dripping from where Aaron’s fingernails cut into his own palm.
“You built your career profiling monsters,” Kessler continues. “You taught agents how to think like predators. How to anticipate violence.” He tilts his head slightly toward you. “But you never considered what happens when someone decides to study you instead.” Your breathing trembles onscreen.
“Kessler—” you rasp weakly.
“Shh.” He adjusts the IV line almost tenderly. “You don’t need to talk right now.” Spencer physically flinches. Luke swears violently under his breath.
“The poison entering Agent Hotchner’s daughter’s bloodstream,” Kessler says calmly, “is administered incrementally through an automated pump system. By the time the timer reaches zero…” He smiles faintly. “Well. I imagine your Dr. Reid can explain organ failure better than I can.” All eyes snap toward Spencer automatically. Spencer’s face has gone corpse pale. But his voice still works. Barely.
“It depends on the toxin,” he says mechanically, eyes glued to the screen. “If it’s ricin-based or synthetic colchicine compounds, systemic collapse would begin gradually. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiovascular instability. Seizures. Multi-organ failure—”
“Spencer,” JJ says softly. He cuts himself off instantly. Onscreen, your eyes flutter shut for a second too long.
“Hey,” Kessler says sharply, gripping your jaw hard enough to force your head back up. “Stay awake. It's not fun for our viewers if you die right now." You whimper, trying to inch away from him. He chuckles, low and mean. A broken sound leaves your throat as your body jerks weakly against the restraints. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.
“What just happened?” Emily demands. Spencer stares at the screen.
“The poison’s already active,” he says quietly. Garcia looks horrified.
“But there’s still fifty-seven minutes left—”
“The timer isn’t for symptom onset.” Spencer swallows hard. “It’s for fatal dosage completion.” Nobody speaks. Onscreen, Kessler steps back toward the camera.
“You have one hour,” he says conversationally. “Find me before the drip finishes…” He shrugs. “And maybe she lives. But I should warn you,” he continues. “Removing the IV incorrectly triggers the failsafe.” He taps the side of the electronic pump. “And if the line stops prematurely…” Another small shrug. “The dosage accelerates.” Garcia lets out a strangled noise.
“That’s impossible,” Luke snaps.
“No,” Spencer says faintly. Everyone looks at him again. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “It’s not.” Hotch spins around, his chest heaving.
"Garcia, get me a list of Kessler's known adressesses, a list of his spending info- maybe he rented out a place- i want everything you have on him, now !"
Garcia is already moving before Hotch finishes the sentence.
“I’m on it, I’m on it - okay- okay - ” Her voice is high and strained, fingers slamming across the keyboard like she’s trying to outrun panic itself. Multiple windows open and collapse across her monitors. “Known addresses are mostly burned, he went dark after his brother's death but - there’s financial ghosting here, offshore shells, prepaid infrastructure - he’s not staying anywhere with a paper trail -he’s not staying anywhere period -”
“Focus,” Rossi says sharply, but even he sounds strained now. Emily is already leaning over her shoulder.
“What about municipal access points? Abandoned government facilities?” Luke shakes his head.
“We’re checking transit grids already. He’s not static - he’s moving through infrastructure, not occupying it.” Spencer doesn’t blink.
His eyes are locked on the screen. On you.
00:53:18.
Your head droops again, just slightly, and Spencer’s breath catches so hard it sounds like it hurts.
“Hey,” JJ says quietly, noticing him. “Reid, stay with us.” But he doesn’t answer. Because his brain is already somewhere else. Already rebuilding everything Kessler just showed them.
The IV pump. The feed latency. The lack of metadata. The stabilization pattern. Spencer swallows hard.
“He’s not in a building,” he says suddenly. Garcia looks up.
“What?” Spencer’s voice tightens.
“The signal stability - there’s too little fluctuation for a fixed structure. No HVAC interference, no power grid variance, no reflective bounce patterns consistent with concrete reinforcement -” Emily frowns.
“Then where is he?” Spencer doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Mobile containment unit,” he says. “Or a retrofitted transport shell. Something insulated enough to mask environmental noise.” Luke curses under his breath.
“Like a van.” Spencer shakes his head once.
“Bigger.” Silence. Hotch turns slowly.
“Bus?” Rossi suggests grimly. Spencer finally looks at them.
“No,” he says. “Something that can support medical-grade equipment, power draw for a stabilized livestream, and internal temperature control without drawing attention.” Garcia’s hands freeze mid-type.
“Ambulance.” Spencer nods once. But it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels worse. Because that still leaves too many possibilities. Too many jurisdictions. Too many vehicles. Too much ground to cover while the clock keeps bleeding out.
00:53:04.
Onscreen, Kessler steps back into frame briefly—just enough to adjust something near the IV stand. You flinch sharply. Harder this time. Hotch makes a sound low in his throat—barely audible, but it cuts through the room anyway. Spencer’s hands curl into fists at Garcia’s station.
“Garcia,” he says quickly, voice suddenly urgent. “Cross-reference registered medical transport units within a fifty-mile radius of the crash corridor. Anything that went off-route in the last hour.”
“I’m already - ” Her screen updates rapidly. “Got it, got it - Okay, there’s twelve possible matches - ”
“Twelve,” Luke repeats sharply.
“We don’t have time for twelve,” Emily snaps. Hotch steps forward again.
“Cut it to three,” he orders. “Now.” Garcia swallows hard.
“I can filter by signal - give me thirty seconds - ”
“Twenty,” Hotch says. Nobody argues. Because on the screen— You shift again. Barely conscious. Barely holding on. And Spencer Reid, who has spent his entire life turning chaos into patterns, suddenly looks like he’s staring directly into something he cannot solve fast enough.
Garcia’s screen updates again. Once. Twice. Then locks. Her breath catches so hard it hurts.
“I’ve got him,” she says. Nobody speaks. Hotch turns instantly.
“Where.” Garcia swallows.
“Abandoned agricultural zone outside Leesburg—old county service land. There’s a decommissioned livestock processing facility on the property. Signal’s cleanest there—he’s stationary.” Spencer is already there before she finishes the sentence.
“How far?” he asks immediately. Garcia glances at the route mapping.
“Forty-six minutes,” she says quietly. The number lands like a gunshot. Silence. Emily shakes her head once.
“We don’t have forty-six minutes.” Rossi is already moving toward the SUV.
“Then we don’t waste a second.” Hotch stares at the map like he can force the distance to shrink through sheer will. Spencer’s voice breaks through again, sharper now.
“How long—how long until completion?” Garcia’s fingers tremble over the timer feed.
“Fifty-three minutes,” she whispers.That finally shifts the math in the room. Because everyone understands it at the same time. Forty-six minutes to reach you.Fifty-three minutes until the drip completes.
Seven minutes.
That’s all they’ll have once they get there. Seven minutes to find you. Seven minutes to neutralize Kessler. Seven minutes to keep you alive. Hotch exhales once, slow and controlled—but his eyes are shattered.
“Let's move,” he says. The SUVs tear down the highway in formation, sirens splitting the night open. Inside Hotch’s vehicle, no one speaks anymore unless they have to. The countdown is on every screen.
Every phone. Every live feed Garcia refuses to close.
00:52:41.
Spencer stares at the map overlay like he can bend it into something faster. Luke grips the seat hard enough to go white-knuckled. Emily keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, blood still drying at her temple. Rossi drives like a man refusing to accept physics as final. Hotch doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from the road even once.
“Forty-six minutes,” Luke says quietly, almost to himself. Spencer’s voice is barely audible.
“That’s if nothing goes wrong.” Nobody responds to that. Because they all know what it means.
------------------
00:07:00.
Your body feels like lead.
Your veins are on fire.
Your mouth has gone dry, and you can barely breathe- every breath sounds like a rusty rattle of child's mobile. Your vision flickers in and out like a broken signal. Your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s heavy in the wrong places, light in others. Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, but there’s no strength left behind it.
The IV pump beeps steadily beside you. Too steady. Too calm. Like it doesn’t care that you’re dying.
You groan, trying hard to stay awake, to stay concsious.
They're coming for you. They have to be.
The room hums with fluorescent light and something worse underneath it—your heartbeat, irregular now, stumbling against the poison like it’s losing the argument. Kessler circles you slowly, hands behind his back like he’s inspecting something he built.
“Do you know what your father hates most?” he asks lightly. Your head lolls a fraction toward him. It takes effort just to keep your eyes open.
“People like you,” he continues. “Not weak. Not careless. Just… loved.” Your throat tightens. Spencer’s name tries to form in your mind and doesn’t quite make it. Kessler steps closer, studying your face like he’s waiting for something interesting to happen.
“You’re very difficult to break,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s what makes this worth watching.” The IV pump beeps again. Too steady. Too final.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints. Kessler leans in just slightly.
“I wonder how long it takes,” he murmurs, almost curious. “For Aaron Hotchner to choose between duty and family.” Your stomach drops hard.
“Don’t,” you rasp, but it’s barely sound. He smiles faintly.
“Oh, he already has.” And then— The doors behind him explode inward. Not an opening. An impact.
Wood and metal snap as tactical force hits the room like a wave.
“FBI! DOWN!” The shout is immediate chaos. Hotch is first through, weapon up, eyes scanning—locking instantly on you like everything else in the room ceases to exist.
“Aaron!” Rossi calls, sweeping left. Emily and Luke split right. Derek comes in hard behind them, already moving. Kessler barely has time to turn before Hotch has him pinned against the nearest surface, gun pressed high, voice ice-cold.
“Don’t move.” Kessler actually laughs once. Spencer doesn’t even look at him. He’s already across the room. Everything else collapses into noise and motion behind him—Hotch securing Kessler, Rossi shouting commands, Emily cuffing him down—but Spencer doesn’t register any of it. He reaches you like gravity finally remembered him.
“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, hands shaking as they go to your face immediately. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Your eyelids flutter.
"Spence ?" He nods, hands working at your restraints atfer he softly tears the IV out of your arm.
"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, alright, i'm here." Your body falls forward, exhausted, the second those restraints stop holding you up, your body folding like it’s been waiting for permission to collapse. Spencer catches you before you hit the ground. Immediately. Completely.
“No - no, no, no - hey, hey, hey - stay with me,” he says, voice cracking violently as he pulls you into him. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me-look at me.” Your head lolls against his chest. He’s on the floor now without even realizing it. One arm under your shoulders. One hand pressed hard against the bandages on your abdomen like he can physically stop what’s happening inside you. He looks up, his eyes frantic.
"Derek ! Derek !" He calls as Hotch and the others disappear outside, pushing a cuffed Kessler with them. Derek's head snaps over and his face drains of color.
"Holy shit." He gasps, his chest heaving. Spencer chokes on a sob, pushing your hair away from your face.
"We-We need an ambulance. She-She's losing blood, she-" He gasps in a breath, shaking his head. "He’s got to have—he’s not carrying something like this without a reversal agent.” Spencer doesn’t look away from you. “Shelves,” he says instantly, voice raw but focused only on survival. “Look—look everywhere. Cabinets. Lockboxes. He wouldn’t leave it unbalanced.” Derek moves immediately. The timer ticks down like a taunt.
00:04:53.
Derek rummages through shelves, cabinets, drawers, cursing under his breath as he throws things on the ground. You clutch weakly at Spencer's vest, your hands shaking.
"Spence.." He shushes you, pressing his lips to your forehead.
"Hey, hey, don't talk, okay ? You're going to be fine. Just fine, okay ?"
"I-I'm so cold." You manage, shivers coursing through your body. Spencer grimaces.
"I know, baby, i know." He looks up. "Derek, where the fuck is that antidote !" Derek rips open another metal cabinet so hard the hinge screams in protest.
“I’m looking, I’m looking!” he snaps back, breathless, scanning shelves packed with medical bags, vials, and sealed containers that absolutely should not be here. “This guy is insane—”
Spencer hears none of it anymore. All of it narrows down to you. To the way your fingers are trembling against his vest. To the shallow, uneven rise of your chest. To the way your skin feels wrong beneath his hands—too cold, too fast to lose heat.
“I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s breaking apart at the edges. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—just stay with me, okay? Just—just stay with me.” Your head tips slightly against him. And for a second, his entire body goes rigid.
“No,” he whispers immediately, like he can undo it with the word alone. “No, no—hey—look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes barely open. Barely there. But they do. And it ruins him.
“Got something!” Derek suddenly shouts from the far side of the room. Spencer’s head snaps up so fast it hurts. Derek holds up a small locked case - medical-grade, reinforced, labeled in a way that makes Spencer’s stomach drop immediately. “Is this it?” Derek demands. Spencer doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yes. Yes, that’s it - bring it here, now!” Derek slams it down beside them and Spencer’s hands are shaking so badly he almost fumbles the latch. The lock clicks open.
Inside: syringes. A sealed ampoule. A vial clearly marked in clinical print- ANTIDOTE.
He’s already drawing it up.
“Where do I—”
“Her arm,” Spencer says instantly, tearing his own focus into something sharp and functional because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart completely. “Right arm - no, no - left - there, there - ” Derek moves in, steady hands taking over what Spencer can’t control anymore.
“I’ve got it,” Derek says low. Spencer nods too quickly, not letting go of you for even a second. His other hand stays pressed to your shoulder like an anchor. “Okay,” Derek says. “Injecting now.” The syringe depresses. For half a second, nothing happens. Then your body jerks—just slightly. Spencer makes a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.
“Hey - hey, hey,” he says immediately, hand cupping your cheek. "You're gonna be okay." But you're still slipping somewhere he can’t follow fast enough. “I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but now it’s desperate. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you - please - please don’t do this - ” Derek looks up sharply at the doorway, where JJ stands frozen.
"We need medical backup now!” JJ nods, rushing away.
Spencer sobs, then immediately chokes on it, pressing your hand tighter against his chest like he can force you to stay by sheer will alone. Footsteps thunder back in—Hotch, Rossi, Emily. Hotch sees you on the floor. And something in his face breaks cleanly. But Spencer can’t look at him. Can’t look at anyone. Because you’re right there in his arms and still not safe.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice collapsing completely now, tears spilling down without permission as he holds you closer. “Hey, hey- don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, okay? Please - please don’t leave me.” Your fingers twitch once.
Weak. Barely there. But it’s enough. Spencer grabs your hand immediately like it’s a lifeline.
“Yeah,” he chokes out, crying openly now, forehead pressing to yours. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it. Come back to me. Come back—please, just come back to me.” Your shiver, a soft whimper drawing from your lips.
"I-I'm tired." You manage, shaking your head. Blood from your abdomen is still soaking your shirt, your pants, and Spencer is shaking.
"You-You can't sleep, baby. You have to- You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open." The antidote has taken effect. The colour that had drained from your skin over the hour is coming back, and your breathing has returned to a normal pace. And the pain flooding back into your body is unbearable. You can feel the blood pumping out of you from your abdomen, and you groan weakly as you try to press your hand over the wound, only to find Spencer's hand already lodged there. You gulp, bringing your hand up to softly touch Spencer's cheek.
"Yo-You came for me." You rasp. Spencer chokes on a laugh, a desperate, wet thing.
"Of course I did." He mumbles. "How could I not ? God.." He gulps, shaking his head. "I love you." You smile, holding back tears as you cough. Your body trembles with shivers, and you groan.
"I-I'm sorry." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer's heart drops. He shakes his head.
"Hey, hey- no. Don't apologise, you're going to be just fine, okay ? Y-You're going to be fine." You nod, smiling through the pain. You want to believe him.
You really do.
The antidote is working.
Derek said it is. Spencer knows it is. But you’re still so cold. Still shaking in his arms like your body can’t decide whether to stay or let go.
Spencer sniffles, brushing your hair away from your face.
"The ambulance is gonna be here any minute. They're going to make you all better. Okay ?" You nod.
"Okay." You say, forcing a smile, choking on the blood that creeps its way up your throat. "I love you, Spence." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of denial. He tightens his grip on your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your cold knuckles.
“Don’t you dare say that like it’s a goodbye,” he orders, his voice a raw, broken thing. “It’s not a goodbye. You hear me? It’s an ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’ We’re going to have so much to talk about. Y-You're gonna rub this in my face, yeah ? Brag about how you-you survived this and i panicked for nothing.” He’s rambling, his brilliant mind reduced to a single, primal function: keep you here. Keep you with him. Your eyes are still on him, but they’re starting to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a draft. The smile on your lips is a ghost, beautiful and terrifying.
“Spence…” you whisper, and it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard, thin and reedy, threaded with the liquid rattle of fluid in your lungs. “It’s… so quiet.” He doesn’t understand what you mean. The room is chaos-Hotch’s clipped commands, Derek’s frantic pacing, the sound of JJ’s voice on the phone with dispatch. But then he realizes. For you, the world is collapsing. The sounds are fading, the pain is receding, and all that’s left is this.
Him.
“No, no, it’s not quiet,” he argues, his voice rising in panic. “It’s not. Just listen. Listen to me. I’m right here. I’m so loud, remember? You say I never shut up. So just… listen to me. Stay with me.” He’s pressing harder against the wound in your abdomen, a futile, desperate attempt to physically hold your life inside you. His hand is slick, warm, and the smell of copper fills the air, thick and suffocating. It’s the smell of his failure. Your breath hitches, a shallow, wet gasp.
"Tell… tell my dad… I’m sorry.” The words hit Spencer like a physical blow. Dad. Hotch, who is standing just feet away, right behind that door, pacing and shouting orders. Spencer can’t call for him. He can’t give him that. He can’t acknowledge the world beyond the circle of his arms.
“You’ll tell him yourself,” Spencer chokes out, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto your cheeks. “You’ll tell him tonight. When we get home. We’ll order Chinese food and you’ll tell him you’re sorry for worrying him, and he’ll pretend to be mad but he won’t be, and we’ll all be fine. We’ll be fine.” Your fingers, the ones he’s holding, twitch weakly. Your grip loosens. The pressure is gone. “No,” he whimpers, a sound so pathetic and full of pain it doesn’t even sound like him. “No, hold on. Hold my hand. Don’t let go. Don’t you let go of me.” Your eyes open again and you nod. He smiles, kissing your forehead. And then, through the cacophony of his own despair, he hears it. Faint at first, then growing stronger, clearer. A high, insistent wail that cuts through everything else.
Sirens.
Relief so profound it’s dizzying crashes over him. It’s the cavalry. It’s the answer. It’s another chance.
His head snaps up, his tear-blurred vision finding the window ahead.
“Did you hear that? They’re here. They’re almost here.” He looks back down at you, his face breaking into a wild, desperate grin. “You hear that, baby? You hear that? The ambulance is here. They’re here. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” He’s laughing now, a wet, hysterical sound of pure relief, staring at the window as the red and blue lights start to show.
“We did it. We made it. Just hold on. Just a few more seconds. Please, just a few more seconds for me.” He looks back at the doorway, expecting to see the paramedics burst through with their bags and their machines and their magic. But the sirens are still distant, screaming down a street that’s too far away.
He looks back down at you. And the world stops. Your eyes are still open, but they’re not seeing him anymore. They’re fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder, glassy and vacant. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has stilled. The hand he’s clutching is limp and cool in his.
The silence in the room is absolute.
“No,” he whispers. The smile is gone from his face, wiped clean away. “No… no, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion of denial. “Hey… hey, look at me. Look at me. They’re here. The ambulance is here.” He shakes you gently, then a little harder. “Hey.. hey, look at me. You’re not allowed to do this. You’re not allowed to leave me. You hear me? C'mon, this isn't funny." He shakes you."Come on! Look at me.” But you don’t. You can’t. The sirens are closer now, screaming, a piercing, torturous sound. They’re the sound of hope arriving seven minutes too late. The door bursts open. Emily is the first one in, her face flushed and triumphant.
“Spencer! The ambulance is here, they’re coming, they’re—” She stops. Her eyes find Spencer, cradling your still body on the floor, and she sees everything. The blood. The stillness. The absolute, soul-crushing devastation on his face. Her triumphant shout dies in her throat, replaced by a small, choked gasp. Hotch is right behind her. He takes in the scene with one sweeping, all-seeing glance. He sees Kessler’s handiwork, he sees the discarded antidote, he sees Spencer on the floor. And then he sees you. He doesn’t make a sound. The unit chief, the man who faces monsters for a living, simply breaks. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack, and all the color drains from his skin. He stumbles forward a half-step, his hand reaching out, then falling back to his side. He knows. Emily rushes to Spencer’s side, her hand hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch.
“Spencer…?” He doesn’t answer. He’s lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body wracked with huge, silent, violent sobs that shake him to his core. He holds you tighter, rocking you back and forth, a desperate, rhythmic motion.
And Spencer Reid - who has spent his entire life understanding loss in theory before he ever had to survive it in practice - lets out a sound that is not human.
It rips out of him.
Raw.
Shattered.
“No - no, no, no, please - please, please - ” He pulls you closer instantly, like he can reverse it if he just holds you tighter.
"Reid." Derek's voice echoes around the small space. Spencer shakes his head. Spencer doesn’t hear him anymore.
Doesn’t hear Emily crying.
Doesn’t hear the radio chatter suddenly erupting outside as the medics arrive too late.
He just holds you. Like if he stops, even for a second, the truth will finish settling. Sirens flood the building outside. Red and blue light strobing through the broken doorway.
And still -Spencer is whispering your name into your hair like it’s a spell.
Like it’s the only thing left that still makes sense.
The paramedics finally burst through the doorway, their practiced efficiency grinding to a halt as they take in the scene. No one moves. No one breathes. The paramedics slowly back out of the room, hushed whispers echoing in the small space.
Spencer looks up, devastated.
"No.. No, where are they going ? They-They have to save her, they-"
"Reid." Derek rasps again, wiping at the tears falling down his face. He looks back down at you like it’s instinct, like he can anchor himself in you. But you don’t move. Not even a tremor. Not even the smallest betrayal of life returning. Just stillness. Heavy and final.
Spencer’s breath stutters.
Once. Twice.
Then completely stops behaving like it belongs to him.
His hand shakes as it smooths over your hair. So careful. So tender. Like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of what happens if he presses too hard.
Emily makes a sound behind him—small, broken, human.
“Spencer…” she tries again, stepping closer like she might physically pull him out of it. But he flinches at her voice like it burns.
“No,” he snaps instantly, sharper than he means it. Then it collapses immediately into desperation. “No, no—don’t—” Hotch is still at the doorway. Still completely still. Like something inside him shut off in self-defense the second he understood. But his eyes don’t leave you. Not once. Not even when Rossi puts a hand on his arm and squeezes like he’s trying to hold him together by force. Spencer presses his forehead to yours again.
Harder this time. Like proximity alone can reverse biology.
“I got you,” he whispers, voice breaking into pieces now. “I got you, I got you, I got you—” His sentences stop making sense. They turn into fragments. Into breath. Into something raw and animal and terrified. “I didn’t—” he chokes, pulling you closer like he can physically shield you from the truth, “I didn’t get here fast enough. I didn’t—I didn’t—”
Derek steps forward again, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something sacred and shattered.
“Reid,” he says quietly. “Kid…” Spencer shakes his head violently again.
“No,” he says again, but weaker now. So much weaker. “No, no, no- Just - just help her. Just - just fix it. Fix it - please - ” His voice breaks completely on the last word. And then he tries again, because Spencer Reid has always believed that understanding something well enough means you can change it. “If I - if I give her CPR - if I - if we - ” His hands move like they don’t belong to him anymore as they lay you down on the ground, flat on your back.
One presses to your chest. Wrong. Desperate. Begging.
“No!” he shouts suddenly, panicked, frantic. “No, no, I can— I can do it. I can fix it. I can- I can-” His voice disintegrates mid-sentence. Because your body doesn’t respond. Because nothing changes. Because time doesn’t care how hard he tries. And that’s when it hits him all at once.
Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Spencer goes completely still.
His hands freeze where they are on you. His breath catches like it’s been hooked on something sharp. He falls backwards, his hands coated in blood coming up to press against his eyes as he sobs. Emily is by his side in an instant, pulling him into her, rocking him as Derek sniffles and gets to his feet, walking over to your and softly guiding your eyes shut. Hotch swears under his breath, wrecked sobs escaping him, and he turns away from you, gasping for air as he rushes out into the night. Luke, Tara, JJ and Rossi have gathered in the doorway, watching as Derek grabs a folded sheet from one of the drawers and lays it down over you, clearing his throat.
"The- uh, the EMT's should come back in here. Take-" He clears his throat, "Take her to the morgue."
The timer beeps behind them like some sick alarm clock. They all look back and the flashing numbers.
spencer reid x fem!bau!reader ; est. relationship , fluff , kisses! , hidden relationship???
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ w. none! wc. 361
note ; i didn't know how to end it so it just cuts off 😭😭 (also haha please leave comments i love reading them 🥹)
you'd just finished a case, and your whole body felt like that relief after a huge sigh as you strolled down the hotel hallway, spencer by your side with one hand in his pocket, the other faintly brushing yours in a way that still made your stomach flutter every single time. your heart would beat louder and faster every time you passed one of your teammates' doors, spencer's quiet ramblings echoing loudly off the walls of the empty hall.
but his ramblings slowly faded into nothing as you stopped infront of your room, much to your disappointed; it was inevitable, no matter how slowly you'd walked. you turn to face him, keeping the silence for just a while longer, exchanging small, awkward but endearing smiles.
"well, guess this is good night." you say quietly, as if him not hearing meant you could stay in the dimly lit hall a little longer. he nods, eyes flicking to the ground before looking back up at you with those soft brown puppy eyes. "yup."
you flash him another small smile, "good night, spence," before placing your hands on his shoulders and leaning forward to pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. but as you pull back, his lips hastily chase yours, hands landing on your waist to keep you from moving away. he kisses you slowly, like always, devastatingly slowly. your body instantly melts into his, but only for a moment, because the hallway all your coworkers are sleeping in isn't the most covert makeout spots. especially if you're trying to keep all this a secret.
you finally manage to push him away—though it takes a bit more effort when his lips persistently stay attached to yours. "i have to go to bed," you kiss his cheek with a little "good night, spence", which he mutters back, staring at you like a kicked puppy.
you turn to put in your key, leaving him standing there with a (definitely exaggerated) pout and restless hands, itching to reach out to you again, but as you do so you hear from a few doors down, "can i get a good night kiss too, pretty boy?"
║ spencer reid seeing you cry for the first time and comforting you after a bad day.
˗ˏˋ │ ˎˊ˗ early season 1 spencer so hes around 23, made up university, readers kind of a genius.
w.c 2.3k
warnings: none just crying
fluff with comfort!
~~~~~
The soft click of the front door pulled you back to reality.
Spencer was home.
He’d been away on a case for five days now, and you hadn’t expected him back tonight. He’d texted earlier saying they probably wouldn’t land until tomorrow morning, which was exactly why your guard had been completely down as you sat crying in the bathroom.
You inhaled sharply through your nose, though it only resulted in another embarrassing stuffy sound instead of the breath you’d intended. Wincing, you quickly wiped at your cheeks, praying Spencer hadn’t heard you.
You glanced up at yourself in the mirror.
You didn’t look bad, necessarily.
Just… exhausted.
Your hair sat messily around your shoulders, slightly tangled from repeatedly running your hands through it. Your nose was flushed redder than the blush you usually wore, your eyes glossy, lashes damp enough that they clumped together when you blinked.
Still manageable, you decided.
Hopefully.
“Y/N?”
Spencer’s voice echoed from the kitchen.
Of course he knew you were awake. It wasn’t late enough for you to be asleep yet. Spencer had memorized your sleeping habits months ago — strictly for “practical reasons,” according to him. Apparently knowing when to enter quietly after cases was important.
You’d rolled your eyes the first time he admitted that.
The two of you had a tradition.
Whenever Spencer came home from a case and you were still awake, you’d eat something together and watch a movie — assuming neither of you passed out halfway through. It started around seven months ago after a particularly rough case left Spencer quieter than usual. You’d offered him leftover pasta over a random romcom, and somehow it became routine after that.
Funny enough, eight months ago, you’d been complete strangers.
—————-
His mother had suggested it.
After Spencer casually mentioned over the phone one night that his apartment always felt eerily quiet whenever he came home from a case, Diana immediately told him he should get a roommate. Someone to keep him company. Someone who could maybe help around the apartment.
She’d also made sure to comment that maybe having another person around would encourage him to gain some “much needed weight” if they cooked actual meals instead of him surviving off coffee and stale cereal.
Spencer had brushed the idea off immediately.
A roommate wasn’t really his thing.
He liked things organized a certain way. The dishes had their places. His spices were arranged alphabetically. Most drawers were organized using systems only he understood, all designed to help him find things faster.
Another person would disrupt that.
At least, that’s what made sense to him.
But a few weeks later, after a particularly brutal case, the idea didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore.
He unlocked the apartment door late that night and stepped inside, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders.
The silence hit him instantly.
No television in the background.
No movement.
No voice.
Just quiet. Too quiet.
And after spending days surrounded by death, grief, and his own thoughts, the silence suddenly felt unbearable.
So maybe, for once, his mother had been right.
The next morning — thankfully a Saturday — Spencer woke up unusually early with an actual plan in mind. He spent nearly an hour at the library carefully typing up a roommate flyer.
ROOMMATE WANTED
2 bed / 2 bath apartment
Ages 18–27 preferred, but flexible
Must be an adult
Rent: $$$/month
Call *** for details
Simple.
Straightforward.
He printed three copies and taped them around the neighborhood:
one near a bar down the street, another on a community board inside the library, and the last near a café students frequented.
Then all he could do was wait.
By that evening, he’d gotten five calls.
By the next morning, he already regretted everything.
The first potential roommate arrived at exactly 9:03 a.m.
“Mike Montgomery,” the man introduced himself confidently as Spencer opened the door. Twenty-three, recently graduated, worked at the bar down the street.
At first, Spencer thought he’d gotten lucky.Mike seemed relatively normal.
Then he opened his mouth.“And it’s cool if my girlfriend comes over, right?”Spencer nodded politely. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Perfect,” Mike grinned, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll tell her to start bringing her stuff over.”
Spencer blinked.
“I’m sorry— what?”
“My girlfriend. We’d both be moving in.”
Spencer stared at him for a moment.
“Both of you?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry,” Mike added quickly. “We’d share the room and bathroom.”
That was the end of that.
Spencer’s apartment was small enough with one extra person. Three would’ve been unbearable.
The other interviews somehow went worse.
One guy showed up smelling strongly of alcohol at eleven in the morning. Another talked nonstop for nearly forty minutes without taking a breath. One woman criticized Spencer’s furniture arrangement before even sitting down.
By Monday morning, Spencer was exhausted.
“Pretty boy,” Derek Morgan called as Spencer stepped off the elevator at the BAU, “what’s got your panties in a twist?”
“I didn’t sleep well,” Spencer muttered, already reaching for coffee.
And before Morgan could throw a comment on him,“Leave him alone,” Emily Prentiss called from across the room without even looking up from her paperwork.
Spencer had barely sat down when his phone rang.
He pulled out his phone from his satchel and looked at the caller ID.
Unknown number.
He answered quietly, stepping away from his desk.“Hi,” a girl’s voice said nervously. “I was calling about the apartment flyer? If the room’s still available and not taken yet.”
Spencer straightened slightly. “Yes— I mean, no, it’s not taken yet.”
Smooth Spencer, good going.
He grimaced at himself.
“Would tonight at seven work for you to come over?”“Seven’s perfect,” she replied. “I just have class beforehand.”
Class.
Interesting.
“I’ll see you then.”
The call ended before he could overthink it further.
By the time seven rolled around, Spencer had only been home for around fifteen minutes. He’d barely set his satchel down and took his shoes off when the doorbell rang.
He opened the door and immediately forgot the sentence he’d been about to say.
Standing in front of him was a girl around his age wearing an off-the-shoulder white top with a denim skirt and boots, several books balanced awkwardly against her chest alongside a laptop bag slipping down her shoulder.
She smiled warmly.
“Hi, I’m Y/N. I came about the apartment, and I’m really sorry if I’m late. My professor kept us after class.”
Spencer realized he’d been staring approximately two seconds too long.
“Right. Yes. Hi. I’m Spencer.” He stepped aside quickly. “You’re not late.”
“Thank you.”The first thing you noticed upon stepping inside was how clean everything was.Not normal clean.
Spencer clean.
Every book aligned perfectly. Shoes neatly arranged beside the door. Nothing out of place.
You glanced down instinctively at Spencer’s sock-covered feet before quietly slipping off your own boots beside the shoe rack.
Spencer noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He was a profiler.
Something about the gesture softened him a little.
He guided you toward the couch while he took the chair across from you.
You started talking before he could ask anything.“Okay, um— I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I just turned twenty, and I’m currently getting my master’s in psychology at State university. I graduated kinda early, so…” You laughed awkwardly.
“I also write part-time? Well, more like professionally, enough to get paid sometimes.”
Spencer listened carefully.
“I’m clean,” you continued quickly. “Like, very clean. I cannot live with unhygienic people, I actually think I’d die. I’m not nosy, I’m not loud, and I promise I won’t invite random people over constantly or anything. I don’t mind splitting chores or cooking sometimes, but I also don’t wanna be the only person doing everything.”
You paused finally to breathe.
“Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”
To Spencer’s surprise, he found himself smiling slightly.“It’s alright.”
And strangely enough, it was.“Will writing be enough to cover rent?” he asked gently
“Probably not entirely,” you admitted honestly. “But I got hired at this diner down the street. I start training on Wednesday.”
Responsible.
Honest.
Self-aware.
Promising.
“That’s good,” Spencer nodded. “Would you like some water?”
“Yes please.”
He stood, wiping slightly sweaty palms against his slacks before heading toward the kitchen.
Then—
“Woah.”
Spencer turned immediately.You were staring directly at the gun he’d stupidly left near the counter after getting home from work.He internally cursed himself.
“Uh…” You pointed carefully. “Do you just carry that around casually, or are you secretly in the mafia?”
Spencer blinked.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed quietly.
“No. Not the mafia.”You relaxed instantly at the sound.
“It’s for work.”
“What do you do?”
“I work for the FBI,” he answered carefully.
“Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
Your eyes widened.“Wait, seriously?”Spencer nodded, suddenly bracing himself for discomfort. Most people got nervous after hearing that.
Instead, your entire face lit up.“That’s so cool.”
That was not the response he expected.“You think so?”
“Are you kidding?” You sat forward excitedly. “That’s literally the kind of stuff I write about.”
Now Spencer was intrigued.“What exactly do you write?”
“The psychology behind violent behavior mostly,” you explained. “Why people do horrible things, what pushes someone to that point, how trauma affects behavior… stuff like that.
”Spencer found himself fully invested now.
“And you’re getting your master’s at twenty?”You nodded sheepishly.
“I graduated high school at sixteen. My teachers wanted me to skip more grades earlier, but my parents didn’t want me growing up too fast.”Spencer walked back over with your glass of water,
handing it to you carefully.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
For the first time in weeks, Spencer realized his apartment didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.
——————
Spencer didn’t notice it at first.
Not really.
He noticed the silence before anything else — how it felt heavier than usual, like the apartment itself was holding its breath.
Then he saw you.
And everything else stopped.
You were standing in the dim light of the bathroom doorway, shoulders slightly hunched inward like you were trying to take up less space in the world. Your face was turned down, but it didn’t matter — he could already see enough.
Red-rimmed eyes. Wet lashes. The uneven rise and fall of your chest like you were trying too hard to stay steady.
Spencer’s brain did what it always did first: observe.
And he realized, with a strange jolt in his chest, that he had never seen you like this before.
Not once.
You were always composed around him — talkative when nervous, a little chaotic, sometimes overly expressive, but never… this.
Never broken in front of him.
His feet moved before he consciously told them to.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Your head lifted slightly at the sound of his voice, like you hadn’t even realized he was there until that moment.
That made something in him tighten.
Because you always noticed him.
“Hey,” he repeated, slower this time, like lowering his voice could make the world less sharp around you. “What happened?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
Just a broken inhale that fell apart halfway through.
Spencer’s throat went dry.
This wasn’t like you.
His mind started filling in possibilities automatically — panic, emotional overload, exhaustion, maybe something said at school or work, maybe something building up for days that he hadn’t noticed—
No. Focus on her.
Not on analyzing her.
Not the patterns.
Her.
He stepped closer, carefully, like sudden movement might make everything worse.
Your hands were shaking now. You tried to wipe your face again, embarrassed, but your fingers hesitated halfway like even that small action was too much effort.
That did it.
Spencer stopped overthinking.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter, gentler. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
And then, like something finally gave way in you, your expression collapsed.
The first sound you made wasn’t even words — just a small, broken breath that turned into a sob you tried to swallow back.
Spencer felt it in his chest immediately.
Sharp. Unfamiliar. Uncomfortable in the way that meant it mattered.
Without thinking, he opened his arms slightly.
Not forcing. Just offering.
And after a second — like you were deciding whether you were allowed to fall apart — you stepped forward.
The moment you hit his chest, everything broke.
You grabbed onto his cardigan like it was the only stable thing in the room, and the sound that came out of you was quiet but devastating in its honesty.
Spencer froze for half a second.
Then he adjusted immediately, arms wrapping around you properly — one hand at the back of your head, the other securing your shoulders like he was anchoring you in place.
His mind was still trying to process it.
This is real.
I’ve never seen her cry before.
And then, softer:
Why does it feel like I failed to notice something important?
But he didn’t say any of that.
Instead, he just held you.
Letting you shake against him while your breathing came in uneven, broken waves.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into his chest, voice muffled and wrecked. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t want you to see me like this—”
Spencer shook his head immediately, even though you couldn’t see it.
“No,” he said firmly, but still gentle. “No. Don’t apologize.”
His hand moved slowly through your hair — grounding, repetitive, steady.
“You don’t have to be okay right now,” he added after a beat. “You just… don’t have to do this alone.”
That was the part that got you again.
A fresh wave of tears hit, and your grip tightened like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.
Spencer swallowed hard.
He wasn’t used to this.
Not the intensity. Not the closeness. Not the way your pain felt like it had weight he could physically feel.
But he stayed.
He didn’t move away.
Didn’t try to fix it immediately.
Just stayed there in the dim bathroom light, holding you like it was the only thing he was certain he could do right.
And for the first time in his life—
Spencer Reid didn’t feel like an observer.
He felt like someone who was needed.
————————
guys first post kinda nerv, this was lowks kinda rushed so bare with me for some mistakes!
also id love feedback positive negative all of them i want criticism so i can like better myself yk
Spencer is in constant awe of your beauty. Tonight, with you dancing in the middle of the bar, he is not the only one. But between the pulsing music and the neon lights, it's clear that you only have eyes for him, and you make sure he knows it.
BUD Chronicles | gif by @reidgif
Contents: 4.7k words, SMUT & FLUFF 18+, MDNI, fem!reader, established relationship, early seasons Spencer, alcohol mentions, Spencer is down bad for reader (no like it's actually sickening how much he loves you), misogynistic language (not from Spencer), protective Spencer, PDA, r wears a skirt, whiny Spencer, car sex, fingering, size kink, protected p in v, Spencer comes too soon poor guy.
A/n: return of BUD dedicated to @whisperedmeg belated happy birthday megara you are so creative and endlessly thoughtful and intentional in everything you do my love for you transcends oceans and timezones i am so so so grateful and happy to share this corner of the internet with you!!!!!
mostly proofread but it is 2am where i live, i'm sorry if i missed anything
Spencer avoids alcohol, as he always does. Nobody questions it anymore. Nobody pretends to pressure him, nobody teases. As is the norm of these nights out, Rossi generously offers to pay, and Morgan always makes sure Spencer has a glass of cider or iced tea so he doesn't go thirsty.
Said glass currently sits on the table, haloed by rings of condensation, completely untouched. He hasn't had anything to drink. Can't quite bring himself to do something as simple as bringing an object to his mouth, too distracted by you.
On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the opposite—he loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.
Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.
Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.
Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.
And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.
He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.
Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you like—swinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.
He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.
So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.
Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.
So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.
In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existed—Penelope probably would make one if prompted—simply because it's true.
And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.
He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore it—proudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.
But sometimes, they make it too obvious.
The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.
And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.
Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.
But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.
He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voice—snapping and testy—and the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.
"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"
The man sputters.
Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.
"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."
Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.
The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."
"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."
"Oh please, you're not even—"
"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."
"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.
The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.
He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.
"Hey."
"Hi, handsome."
All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding it—lightheaded and trippy and effervescent—all from the sight of your smile.
He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"
"I'm perfect. You came just in time."
"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."
"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."
There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.
At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.
He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.
"That was really hot, by the way."
He chuckles. "What was?"
"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."
"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."
"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."
"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as it–"
Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."
"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"
"You know how."
"Explain it to me, genius."
He huffs. "I hate you."
You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"
"Nothing."
"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"
Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."
"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."
"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."
You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"
"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.
"I've already forgiven you."
"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.
He won't ever get enough of this—the weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing him—neither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.
He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.
There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.
The bartender looks unamused.
Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.
Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.
He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.
"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"
Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.
His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.
The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.
You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."
Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.
It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptance—encouragement, even—of his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.
It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.
Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.
He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.
He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.
"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"
Oh. Right.
He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.
His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.
"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.
Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.
Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.
At least there's no one around.
He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.
He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.
You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong there—and you do.
He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.
You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.
"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.
A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.
Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."
He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortable–"
"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more… assertive."
"It-it's hot?"
"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.
He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.
"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to… just be… like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just… exist."
He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.
Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.
"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.
"It's true. It's true, you just… You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.
"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."
He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.
You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.
When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.
The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feeling—your body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.
Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.
Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.
Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.
So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from this—the exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.
But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.
He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you want—need—more.
"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."
You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painful—and it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.
Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.
"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.
"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.
"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."
"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.
"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.
"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."
He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.
You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.
You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.
He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.
After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.
You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.
He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.
"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always so–oh!"
Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.
"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, this—mhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.
Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.
He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.
Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.
For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.
And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.
"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."
He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.
"God, Spence, yes, just like that."
"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"
He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.
Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.
Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.
There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.
The car's rocking is obscene.
And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.
"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"
You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.
"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."
Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."
He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."
He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.
Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.
thank you to that one anon and @oorchidea for peer pressuring me into finishing this lol I missed this pairing a lot. Please reblog if you enjoyed!!! We fought to get that button back, we should utilize it.
