23, Any pronouns. i reblog spencer fics and sometimes write them. I take requests! //english is not my first language// You can find me on Ao3: @/convolvolo ♡
Germs: you cancel a date with Spencer because of a cold and he shows up at your doorsteps to take care of you.
Preghiera: (in italiano, explicit) phone sex and masturbation.
Prayer: (translation in English of fic above, explicit)
Dumb: Spencer comforts reader because she's failing her exams.
blurb n^1: the team finds out reader is only 21. (reader is not present, Spencer gets teased)
blurb n^2: heated kisses
Angst: Your relationship with Spencer is crumbling, and then JJ's confession happens
Angst pt.2: alternate happy(*happier) ending
Prescription kisses: You ask Spencer to "make the pain go away" and he's eager to help
Don't leave, please: Spencer receives a warm welcome home after a long case, but his angel's kisses taste like tears.
Useless: reader is insecure, and Spencer comforts her
Robin's heart series (she's a manic-pixie-dream-girl wannabe and he needs to learn how to live a little. Need i make it any more obvious?)
Like the best things in life: Being a profiler means being able to read people, unfortunately for Spencer, that means the new agent knows exactly how touch starved he is.
Spencer Reid & reader (platonic, friendship)
Vulnerability: Being best friends with Spencer Reid means learning how to be vulnerable and trust each other.
sugaring series (Spencer Reid gets involved with an older woman, becoming her sugar baby)
Other
assigning the bau members other jobs
Blind!Spencer blurb
assigning the bau members italian sweets
Just a quick disclaimer: I'm italian, English is not my first language! I'm gonna mess up (inevitably), if you notice something is off you can totally dm me (or send an anonymous ask, if you're shy).
Edit: I quickly realised how vague this post is on specifics about what happened. I'm just posting the facts as I understand them.
What Happened:
In this recent ScreenRant article, "Paramount+'s Criminal Minds Format Change Finally Backfires", the reporter criticised the new format of CME only having 10-episodes per season. They mostly discussed how Evolution keeps falling flat in terms of plot, because it keeps introducing too many characters and subplots without actually having the time to wrap everything up nicely.
Paget saw this article, then, completely unprovoked she got on Twitter to publicly belittle and insult the reporter who wrote the article. [She later deleted the tweet, but here's a screenshot]
This immediately caused an outrage from a lot of people who follow her. Yet, not everyone was upset by her comments. She's always had absolutely unhinged stans (who think she can do no wrong), and those people not only backed her up, some of them allegedly started sending the reporter hate mail & threats. (If people have sources for this, let me know and I'll add them)
The controversy ultimately led to Paget posting an apology on Twitter [X]
Following this incident, multiple entertainment news outlets picked it up and began publishing articles about it. Which, only added more fuel to the fire, by spreading the incident and it's controversy beyond the containment of Twitter.
Reports: [Variety], [Deadline], [The Wrap], [TMZ] (there are so many more than this)
My Thoughts:
Paget's mean-tweet and the subsequent fallout are just another reminder of why I still believe in drawing a line between fandom and the powers that be.
With the rise of social media over the past 20 years, it's now become the norm for actors, writers, showrunners, etc. to publicly interact with (and in this case, lash out at) fans. Call me old school, but I miss when those interactions were extremely frowned upon by both the fandom and the PTB.
While fandoms have never been able to prevent the PTB from seeking out our creations, at least back then, the PTB didn't advertise/ comment on the fact they were lurking in our spaces. I miss being able to scream online with fellow fans, without the constant fear of the possibility of PTB entering the chat. 🫠
Spencer Reid x gn!reader (also race and physical attributes are not specified)
Summary: Being a profiler means being able to read people, unfortunately for Spencer, that means the new agent knows exactly how touch starved he actually is.
Tags: friends to lovers, crush, physical contact as a love language.
A.n: I've started writing this two years ago and kept coming back trying to finish it, and now it is! Pls enjoy! (Also this may have been taken from the vault of my self-indulgent fics and there may be more where this one comes from)
masterlist
Like the best things in life, it started casually. A brush of shoulders while walking side by side, the brief contact of fingertips as he handed you a file, the warmth of his palm, heated by the mug he had just placed down on your desk, as it pressed over your trembling hand, a soft smile on his lips to match the sweet gesture.
The first thing you learned about Spencer Reid, upon your very first meeting, was that he had an aversion to touch. In particular, to the touch of strangers. This clarification was of extreme importance, because, as opposed as he was to people outside his inner circle, that same rule didn’t apply to those he considered part of it.
You had no way of knowing that, however, when the two of you were first introduced. The young doctor had awkwardly avoided your offer for a handshake with a small wave and an even smaller smile. Your cheeks had burned with the painful realization of your first faux pas, made right on your first day in the BAU.
So there you stood, in the middle of the bullpen, the introductions weren’t even over yet, and you had already failed to make a good impression. SSA Derek Morgan, the first to introduce himself upon your arrival, chuckled and patted your back. His voice gently informed you of pretty boy’s mysophobia and you exhaled, relieved.
Doctor Spencer Reid’s cheeks tinted pink and he scurried off to fill his mug with sugar and coffee.
It took you less than a week to notice the way the tall, lanky genius seemed to always reach for the others. His hands stretched out in the direction of whatever casual connection they could find. He seemed to unconsciously relish every contact: he’d cling to each spot on his skin that had successfully found someone else's warmth as his pink lips curled in the sweetest of smiles.
You saw the way Spencer seemed to beam every time Derek patted his back, or how he blushed when someone on the team playfully ruffled his hair.
Spencer Reid craved touch. He was a deeply un-cuddled individual, and you wanted nothing more than to finally enter his graces and give him just that: lots and lots of touch.
There was something both wonderful and daunting about being a profiler in a team of profilers. By the time you had realized he was severely touch-starved, he recognized in you an eagerness to please. You wanted to be a part of the team so badly, he could read it in each of your sweet smiles and sharp glances.
It started right on your first day: you were a little too friendly, your smile a little too open, trying to make up for the nervous fidgeting of your hands and the lack of familiarity for the team. Your eyes had lingered just a moment too long on him, choosing him as the one you’d focus the majority of your efforts on.
After all, who else was there? Hotch liked you enough to hire you, so there was no need to butter him up any further. Rossi had soon followed, accepting you with a kiss on the cheek and an invite for dinner. Garcia loved you the second she laid eyes on you, JJ soon following suit. It had taken just a couple of jokes and some playful banter to win over Derek and Emily.
Yet you still felt out of the group, a distant cousin coming into a close family’s gathering.
Spencer had been the most logical option. If you had Spencer, you were in. Officially in.
Like the best things in life, it started out slowly.
First things first: you infiltrated his morning rituals. Every day, Dr. Spencer Reid entered the bullpen at the same time, a book in his hands and a weary look in his eyes.
He put down his satchel by his desk and made his way to the coffee pot, moving completely on autopilot until the sugary concoction reached his parted lips.
You started making sure to always be present when he entered the bullpen. You waited for him in the kitchenette, slowly pouring yourself coffee, only to casually -very casually- offer to pour some in his empty mug as well.
He accepted -of course he did!- with a sheepish smile on his lips. His walls were slightly off in the morning, more bendy and pliable, and slowly but surely, they allowed you to successfully squeeze yourself into his everyday routine.
It took just a small push, from there, to take it a step further.
One day, Spencer arrived later than usual, a little worse for wear than usual.
He was standing in the kitchenette and rubbing his eyes, trying to wake himself up, when a cup of fresh coffee appeared right in front of him. Like magic, was the only thought his weary brain could form.
He looked up and found your warm smile greeting him. Your lips curled and opened to showcase your teeth, in the way he had found himself starting to grow so fond of in the past month. He had never noticed how your lips parted when you smiled before. Nor the way it made your eyes sparkle.
He spent far too much time just silently looking at your face, too sleepy to realize he hadn’t even thanked you yet. For a moment, it felt as though you two were trapped in a game of gazes, but then Penelope made her way into the office with an energetic “Happy Friday, my beautiful doves!” and the moment was suddenly lost.
He shook himself out of it and grabbed his cup, murmuring an embarrassed “Thank you”. It was merely a matter of milliseconds, but your fingers brushed against his and he felt his heart rate skyrocket. He quickly made his way back to the safety of his desk, his mind filling with flashes of that first, magical touch.
It wasn't until several hours later that Spencer realized something that stuck with him for the rest of the day: you remembered how he liked his coffee.
Like the best things in life, you knew it wouldn’t come cheap. If you wanted to get access to the list of people he allowed close, you had to put something of equal value on the line. You had to show vulnerability and prove yourself harmless. You had to act as if you were approaching a startled deer, rather than a seasoned profiler. Your hands had to be kept open and held high, palms in perfect view to show you weren’t holding any weapons.
Your movements were, inevitably, slow and intentional. Nothing was left to fate. After all, you couldn’t afford to let such a fickle force mess up with your plans.
You moved without haste.
It took months to gather up the courage to do more than the casual brushing of fingers as you handed him his mug in the mornings. Months of deliberately entering his personal space as if it were your own and, soon enough, Spencer stopped fighting it. He no longer shifted back whenever you passed by and his shoulder brushed with yours.
He accepted when your gentle fingers clung to his sweater as the two of you walked towards the jet after a particularly brutal case. It was such a small action you didn’t even realize that, in Spencer’s mind, the gesture registered as touch.
But it did.
His pulse rate picked up as his heart filled with warmth threatening to spill out of him. It felt electrifying to have someone so new openly seek him out in such a vulnerable condition. To actually have someone rely on him that way. He justified himself for enjoying your moment of weakness by painting himself as your rock. He had always thought of himself as kind, so how could he abandon you when you were in such a state?
He appreciated whenever you’d lean your head on his shoulder as he pretended to read on the jet. He was always too engrossed with the way the warmth emanating from your body infiltrated the layers of his clothes, to actually focus on the book in his hands. Too preoccupied with the weight of the trust you were putting in him, to actually make sense of the series of letters on each page. It felt familiar, in a way. Like it was meant to be. Like you and Spencer were always meant for these perfect little moments.
But above all these small gestures, above all the little things you did to gently nestle your way into his life, he welcomed one in specific: when you gently lathered his hands in lotion.
It was silly, really. After your first meeting, you had dutifully taken note of Spencer’s mysophobia, filing that information away to keep when it would’ve become useful again.
It took a few months into the job, when the autumn days got colder and the weather less forgiving.
Like the best things in life, it was a stroke of luck, and it took a while to adjust.
When you walked into the bullpen that morning, you were shivering in your duster coat, mentally cursing yourself for forgoing your warm scarf. As usual, you prepared Spencer’s coffee cup alongside yours, making sure to use the heat emanating from the mug to restore feeling in your fingers.
As usual, Spencer strode in a minute later, perfectly on time. It was just as you were handing him his coffee that you finally noticed it. You brushed against his knuckles to find cold, chapped skin underneath your fingertips. You snuck a glance and saw pretty boy’s hands being not-so-very-pretty.
Small cuts littered his skin, along his fingers. The mere sight made your heart shudder.
This wouldn’t do. You smiled, the way you did every morning, and got back to your desk, a plan already forming in your head.
The occasion arrived a few days later, as the team was called on a case. Sometime between the meeting in the office and the boarding on the plane, you had managed to snatch a seat near Spencer, on the couch. You made it look casual, careful not to be too obvious, and pulled out a tube of hand cream from your bag.
Your movements briefly attracted the attention of the genius by your side, but you pretended not to notice. Instead, you gestured towards the rest of the team. “Anyone want some?”
And as your eyes scanned the group, Spencer’s eyes hastily went back to his book, fingers trailing down the pages. After JJ and Emily accepted, you turned your focus towards him, internally smirking for what you thought was the most nonchalant performance you’ve ever given in front of an audience.
“Spencer?” You called for his attention, tube still in your hands.
He looked up and pursed his lips. Technically, sharing lotion would also mean spreading unnecessary germs, however his hands suddenly felt dry and chapped. Surely, exchanging bacteria one time couldn’t hurt that much… right?
After a moment of hesitation, he nodded and settled down his book to offer you his opened-up palm. You resisted the urge to just pull his hands in your lap and take care of them for him, and simply smiled softly.
One step at the time, you reminded yourself.
Taking it slow turned out to be a little harder than you expected. Spencer had some kind of gravitational pull that tugged right at your heartstrings. Your eyes followed his every movement, your mind kept track of his every shift in mood and expression.
You knew that, with time, he’d grow fonder of you, but you were sick with longing. You wanted him to get accustomed to your presence, but there was no telling how long it would take.
That’s how you found out you weren’t all that patient after all.
“You're doing it wrong!” You exclaimed, looking at the genius who was definitely not doing it wrong.
“How could I do it wrong? This is the optimal way to use hand cream to get most of the promised benefits.” He rebuked, turning up his nose.
“Nope,” you pulled his hands closer and he got startled for a second. “Let me show you, Spence, I promise I'll be fast.”
He sighed, seemingly resigned, but let you finish the job. It was an odd sensation, having someone caress his hands so tenderly. It felt almost… intimate.
He tried not to think about it too much. You were just being your friendly, slightly overbearing, self. You looked up at him and smiled. He relaxed a little. It was fine, surely you didn’t mean anything by it.
The next time it happened, he wasn’t all that startled, but he still pretended to be annoyed. He didn’t like how comforting it felt, how much of an impact you were starting to have on him.
Slowly, he started expecting it. He turned his head to look at you with his big doe eyes whenever you took your lotion out of your bag. It was starting to feel like routine, for the both of you.
You were presented with the next occasion shortly after: Spencer was sipping his third coffee of the day and you were about to take out your hand cream- when Hotch dragged you out of the police station to help with getting food for the team.
You didn’t mind hanging out with Hotch -even though he had temporarily interrupted your evil plan. Hotch had been the first person from the BAU to give you his stamp of approval, which, in his specific case, had consisted of a nod, a handshake and a simple “How do you feel about starting on Monday?”
He was driving back to the station while you were triple-checking the order to make sure you got everything.
“I know what you’re doing.” He stated simply, his voice pulled you right out of your thoughts. You just looked at him, confusion written in your features. He sighed half-heartedly and kept his gaze fixated on the road. “With Reid. I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” You replied, trying to continue playing dumb. He shot you a glance. Clearly, you had to work on your acting skills.
“Right.”
Silence filled the car once again, the only noise came from the outside traffic. You nervously tapped your fingers on your thigh. “I care about the team, Hotch.”
He could definitely read between the lines. The team leader moved his focus on parking the car. “Just fill out the forms if it becomes more than simple caring.”
If you had been on friendlier terms, you’d have probably stamped a kiss on his cheek. Alas, you went for a more appropriate approach and smiled brightly. “Of course! You won’t regret it, trust me!” And with that, you got out of the car.
As you stepped into the building, you were delighted to find Spencer, still exactly where you left him. He was staring at the map he had been working on the whole morning, coffee getting cold in his hands. The rest of the team noticed you coming in first and they merrily gathered around the table as you started passing the food around. The noise caught his attention and his eyes searched for yours.
You grabbed his lunch and made your way to his seat, a bright smile on your lips. “Here’s your food, pretty boy.”
A light pink made its way onto his cheeks, and he averted your gaze, grabbing the plate off of your hands. There was a brief contact, a brush of fingers. It was enough to make your skin tingle.
You shrugged the feeling off, not wanting to attract too much attention on your unrequited little crush. You forced yourself to just stop looking at him, and, thankfully, his empty cup caught your attention.
Within a couple of seconds, it was in your hands and you were on your way to the coffee machine. An officer greeted you, asking about the case with a smile that did not match the seriousness of the crimes, and before you knew it, you were trapped in small talk. Spencer’s cup was abandoned on the counter, right in front of the coffee machine.
Spencer’s eyes never left you. You could feel the burning of his gaze as it lingered on the back of your head, but you didn’t pay it any mind.
You smiled at the officer, at first, purely out of courtesy -as an FBI agent you were instructed to be amicable and polite in these circumstances- but then, as the small talk turned more to a more friendly chat, you found yourself genuinely smiling, parting your lips to flash your teeth.
Spencer felt a pang of pain in his chest as he watched you interact with the officer. The man made you laugh, but he could tell it wasn't the polite chuckle you used when talking with strangers. It was your special laugh, the real one, the one Spencer had wrongly assumed belonged to him, and him only. He didn’t fully understand what was happening inside of him, but he hated it. He felt weird.
It didn’t help that the rest of the team seemed to have caught on his feelings before him. Derek looked at him, then at you and the officer, and turned right back to Spencer, his light chuckle ringing in the air. “I see you got some competition, lover boy.”
Spencer stood up all of a sudden, tissues crumbled in his hands, and hurried out. He passed right by you, but didn’t even glance your way. You shot a confused look at his back and excused yourself from the officer.
“What was that about?” Before you could actually stop and think about it, you got dragged into a conversation by Emily and Derek. Both profilers were far too busy teasing and joking around to notice the slight slump in your shoulders the minute the object of your interest had left the room.
When Spencer finally came back, his fingertips and knuckles were red, skin tight and chapped. You briefly wondered how long he had been scrubbing his hands, but quickly shooed those thoughts away. You didn’t want to inconvenience him too much, or put him on the spot by bringing up the poor state of his hands.
However, this was the perfect opportunity to advance your mission.
As soon as Spencer sat down, you got back to your seat with a big smile on your face. You started rummaging through your bag again, pulling out the cream and reaching out to grab his hands. He pulled back, making you frown. “Spencer, your hands are- just let me-”
He interrupted you right away. “Stop! Stop fussing over me like I’m a kid. I don’t need a babysitter.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he had fucked up but it was too late. Your eyes widened and you closed your mouth. “Sorry,” you whispered quickly. You turned your head away, silently gathered your things, and moved to the other side of the room. Spencer felt his heart drop at your reaction, but it was too late to take it back now.
For the rest of the case, you made a conscious effort not to bug Spencer in any way, shape or form. Instead, you focused your energies on catching the unsub and strengthening your bond with the rest of the team.
You caught him looking at you multiple times, his eyes looked sad, but you didn't pay it any mind. You still felt guilty about pushing his boundaries to the point of making him snap. How could you act like nothing had happened?
On the jet, on the way back, instead of settling next to him as you usually did, you followed Derek to the side table, where he and Emily were about to play cards. Spencer could only watch in horror as you hugged Prentiss, smashing your cheek against hers and laughing at one of Derek's flirty jabs. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the happy scene. Had you always been so close to the rest of the team? Was your attention something you gave freely, without second thought? Was he not as important to you as he thought he was?
The realization stung.
A few days later, Spencer came to work and found a hand cream sitting on his desk. He looked around the bullpen, eyes scanning the space to find the culprit. Of course, he found you. “What's this?”
He nervously glanced back at the foreign object, eyebrows raised in suspicion.
You shrugged. “I didn't want to bother you with my continuous fussing, and I know how you are about germs. This way, everyone's happy.”
Spencer felt his heart drop. This would not make him happy. It was a disaster!
His mouth opened to object. Nothing came out.
He was too embarrassed to admit to the pain your gift was subjecting him to. Before he could properly sit down and overanalyze his grief over the loss of yet another form of casual contact, a whirlwind of worries started taking over his line of thoughts: did you no longer want to lend him your own lotion? Did you think him a cheapskate, always mooching off your kindness? Were you tired of motioning for him to hand you his hands? Were you done with caressing his skin the way you did, so caringly and so tenderly? But, most important of all, were you done with him?
He looked at you with his big, sad eyes, pupils blown out of proportion and lips curled into the saddest of pouts. He resembled a puppy who had just been benignly reprimanded by its owner. The dog couldn’t understand that he wasn’t being punished. In his mind, this was a step closer to getting abandoned. Distress was written in capital letters all over his features.
His body language took you by surprise. You were sure, after all, that the sweet doctor was done with letting you push him around. You had poked and prodded his limits, and thought you had finally defined them.
Spencer -sweet, kind Spencer- would let you cling to him after a case and rest your head on his shoulder on the jet, but he couldn’t get accustomed to regular contact. Sure, your fingers brushed on the daily, but that was completely different to what you had been doing recently.
Grabbing his hands and pulling them close, only to gently spread cold lotion on his dry skin was too much, too intimate.
Or at least that's what you thought.
He cleared his voice, trying to string together enough words to make a sentence. What came out of his parted lips, however, sounded much more pitiful than intended. “I-... I won’t be happy this way.” Your name fell out of his lips, spoken with such immense and unexpected tenderness, it shot an arrow right through your heart.
“Oh,” was all you managed to say, mind still reeling from the unexpected confession. “I guess, I’ll just, uhm- we’ll just continue doing what we were doing before?” You fumbled through your words, even letting your sentence turn into an hesitating question. You looked up at the man, who simply nodded. A small smile decorated his lips, a gentle blush heated up his cheeks.
Like the best things in life, it came in a set of three.
While many believe it’s misfortune the one who always comes in threes, you had found out that, with Spencer, it was luck that required company.
Garcia invited everyone over for movie night. Her cheerful attitude was a healing salve after all the gruesome cases and you were more than happy to accept your first official invite to one of the team’s infamous hangouts.
You showed up right on time, and with a batch of freshly-made cookies. Garcia beamed as she opened the door. “Oh dearest, you’re here!” She quickly invited you inside. Her eyes fell on the box in your hands and she squealed. “And you brought cookies!”
Her excitement was contagious, and you found yourself shedding the last remains of your nerves and leaving them outside her door.
Turns out, your gut feeling was correct and something did go wrong, but in the best way possible. Once everyone showed up and started settling down in Garcia’s living room, a terrible realization came to pass: there weren’t enough seats for everyone. You were the odd one out.
You looked around, your body stiffening. Everybody was seated, busy chatting and joking around, completely absorbed by their conversations. Only Spencer was looking at you, warm, sweet, kind Spencer seemed like he was trying to decide how to intervene without making it too awkward for you.
He stood up from his armchair and moved aside to let you sit. The team eyed the both of you, ready to tease the boy for his kindness. He tried to wave it off, shrinking a bit into himself, but it was too late.
“Look at you, pretty boy, being such a gentleman!" Derek sneered, getting a light swat on the arm by Penelope. “Oh, c’mon. Spencer was just being kind!” She glared at Derek for a moment, a silent conversation in the exchange of a few glances. Derek raised his hand in defeat, a big smirk on his face. “Now sit down, the movie is starting!”
Spencer had no choice but to settle down on the carpet, his back against your legs. You could feel his warmth, the material of his dress shirt against your skin. It felt exhilarating and terrifying all at once. You tried to shift your focus to the movie, with little success.
How could you not pay attention to the man next to you? His soft curls tickled your knees with every slight movement.
At some point -and you were ready to swear it under oath- your hands accidentally came in contact with that glorious head of curls of his, and, since he didn’t seem to mind, your hands -not you! Your hands- started to gently brush his hair. Your finger played with it until the movie came to an end.
You were almost annoyed by how quickly time flew by, but you hastily retreated your hands in the hopes of avoiding getting caught.
Surprisingly, no one mentioned it that night.
Even more surprisingly, you didn’t pursue this until he explicitly asked you to, cornering you in the kitchen area of the bullpen, in a hushed tone. He purposefully looked at you with his eyes filled with all the silent sadness he could muster. Oh, he knew your weak spots: he truly resembled a sad puppy, and you just had to agree.
It was startling, at first, for Spencer, to find himself seeking out that kind of attention from you. See, he had always been on the fence about opening up and asking for help when he needed it, even more so after he convinced himself he could live life as it was, with those casual touches and rare hugs that the team dragged him into every now and then.
So, when he finally came to terms with the fact that his eyes set on you after he did a good job, with a specific kind of expectation in mind, he stopped pretending to be above it and started to actually play into it.
Spencer had known from the beginning why you had a soft spot for him, specifically. It was obvious, to the young genius, why you had chosen him among your coworkers to befriend. After all, he knew he’d be the easiest to latch onto. Or at least that was what he thought was the reason you chose him above everyone else.
After a while, he had stopped fighting it; instead, he started accepting- appreciating- craving it. And that’s when he decided to tell you.
You shook your head, you couldn’t believe what Spencer was saying. “Is that why you thought I did this?” You looked so hurt, so offended.
Confusion and distress crumpled your face and Spencer took a step back. Had he been wrong after all? All this time… had he been misinterpreting you?
“That's what you thought I was doing?” The disappointment in your voice was crystal clear. You frowned, your words started coming out jumbled up, your voice breaking. “Then why- why would you let me? You thought I was using you, Spencer? I-”
You pressed your lips closed in a straight line.
You were upset with him. That was not his intention. He had imagined telling you he knew why you were so nice to him countless times, and, each time, in his mind, you seemed relieved. You wouldn't have to work on buttering him up any longer. He'd freed you with the truth. You'd smile and pat his shoulder -one last, glorious touch- and thank him for freeing you, for not forcing this any longer.
Clearly, he had been wrong. Dead wrong, looking at the way you were refusing to even look at him. He knew your eyes were filled with tears. He could tell from the way your shoulder slouched over and your head hung low. So why was his heart shattering, not for your tears, but for the fact you were robbing him of the chance to see them?
He knew he could survive well enough without your touch, but without your eyes on him? Certain death. He could not bear it.
You had managed to do it: you spoiled Dr. Spencer Reid so rotten, he could not live in a world where you refused to look at him.
He gathered up all the courage he could muster and took a step in your direction.
The first time he actively sought your affection felt exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time. The logical part of him knew there was no risk of rejection. He knew you liked physical contact, even going as far as seeking it out from the other profilers in the team.
However, the possibility you’d pull away was driving him insane, lacing his nerves with anxious electricity.
You hugged him back right away.
Spencer was too stunned to speak at first, frozen in the embrace. A light turned on in his brain: he craved touch. Your touch, to be specific. He leaned over, his arms engulfing you in the sweetest of hugs. There was an underlying, muted desperation in the way the man was clinging to you. It was as if the mere possibility of you pulling away was painful. His head soon found its place in the spot where neck and shoulder connect. Spencer burrowed his face right there. You could feel his warm breath brushing against your skin. You held onto him tighter, as he melted into the embrace.
You let out a relieved gasp: finally, Spencer Reid trusted you. He trusted you to be near him at his most vulnerable.
After a while, he pulled back.
Spencer’s pretty face was scrunched up in a little frown. “This is all new to me.”
Your fingers faltered for a moment as they brushed aside his hair, messing up his soft curls. You tilted your head down, to look at him properly, curiosity painting your cheeks pink and making your eyes sparkle. “What is?”
“Being happy,” he answered simply. His features relaxed, he sank further into your touch, abandoning any past weariness under your gentle hands.
Like the best things in life, victory tastes sweeter with him by your side.
I desperately need a cheesy, romantic, multi chapter fic set in early 2000s, with shy office worker reader and THE ideal man Spencer. Without any drama or a “crux”, just a little simple romance so sweet that’ll make my teeth rot.
✩ summary : a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
✩ caution : age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, stalking, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger, mentions of medication implying mental illness or strain; yes, leon is on medication at his age. and! I named the reader and leon’s son, so.. just a heads up! (╥﹏╥)
✩ word count : 5,000.
the car feels small and intimate once the house disappears behind you.
leon keeps both hands on the wheel as he guides the car slowly down the quiet street, the headlights sweeping over familiar driveways and darkened windows. most of the houses are asleep at this hour. porch lights glow softly here and there, casting warm yellow circles onto neatly trimmed lawns.
everything looks exactly the same as it always has and probably always will for them. that’s the part that gets you—these families who get to live their normal day to day as life goes on: with the same sidewalks. the same green lawns and white fences. the same maple trees that drop leaves all over the road every fall.
it truly makes the tight feeling in your chest worse. you’re jealous, but of course you’d never admit that out loud. jealous of their mundane, boring lives. you love leon, you’re in love with him deeply. and you knew what you were signing up for when you read your vows and married him. but sometimes you do wonder.. wonder how life would be if he was still just a regular police officer like he was back then. you’ve heard the stories and seen photos—you love them. he looks so innocent and excited about life all babyfaced and bright-eyed. you think about other but similar career paths too.. like what it he was a firefighter? but even that feels too high risk. a doctor, perhaps. then maybe he’d take his own health a little more seriously.
the engine hums steadily beneath you as leon turns onto the next street, the tires rolling over the shallow dip where the pavement meets the intersection. the gentle bump rocks the car just enough for you to feel it through the seat. cool air spills from the vents and brushes across your legs. leon always keeps the air conditioning colder than it needs to be when he’s tense. you noticed that about him a long time ago—how the colder air seems to ground him, give him something small and physical to focus on while everything else sits quietly under the surface.
that’s when you glance over your shoulder toward the back seat, searching through the dim shape of the duffle bag wedged behind matteo’s car seat. you lean back just enough to pull it closer, unzipping it halfway and feeling around until your fingers brush the small orange bottles inside. you learned a while ago to keep his prescriptions close when you’re with him. because otherwise he doesn’t. sertraline is something his doctor put him on years ago to let up on the chronic stress his body never quite learned to turn off, not like it ever would. prazosin is meant to keep nightmares at bay—highly related to his ptsd. there’s trazodone, a low dose to improve and aid his sleep. and the smallest bottle tucked along the side—alprazolam— something he almost never uses unless things get bad.
you turn one of the bottles in your hand briefly before looking back at him. leon’s eyes stay on the road, one hand resting loosely at the top of the steering wheel, the other draped over the center console on your knee. the streetlights slide across his face in passing bands of pale light.
“did you take your medicine yesterday?”
“no.”
his answer comes easy. too easy— he knows if he even attempts to lie, it won’t end well. clearly, you run a strict program around here you study him for a second, the quiet filling the car again except for the steady rush of tires over asphalt.
“when was the last time you did..?” you ask, your voice is light. you don’t want him to think he’s in trouble or like you’re angry with him—you’re not, at least not yet.
leon doesn’t answer, because he knows you probably already know the answer. his jaw shifts slightly, the muscle there tightening as he exhales through his nose. “….”
you glance down at the bottle again before speaking, softer now but still firm. “at least two weeks, yeah?” you say. “because you left them in the cabinet before you left for work.”
another second passes before he nods faintly, “i know.” you wait for him to finish. “i told you i’d get better at it.”
“when?” the word slips out before you can soften it. leon finally glances at you, something tired flickering behind his eyes before he looks back at the road.
“soon,” he mutters. “i just—”
you reach over and rest your hand over his on the console, squeezing lightly before he can finish the thought he’s clearly trying not to say out loud. “we can talk about it later, okay?” you say gently.
he nods once and you give his hand another small squeeze. “but don’t think you’re off the hook.”
for a while, neither of you says anything.
the quiet stretches long enough that you can hear the faint rhythm of your son’s breathing from the backseat and you glance over your shoulder. he’s still asleep, curled into the padded sides of his car seat. his curls are messy from where they’ve been pressed against the fabric, one small hand wrapped loosely around a plushie leon ran back inside to grab for him.
he’s completely unaware.. an innocent little soul who doesn't deserve whatever is currently happening to him. you hope your little family makes it through the night without any issues..
when you turn back around, leon’s eyes are fixed on the road ahead and his posture is slightly forward the way it gets when he’s concentrating too hard.
your gaze drops to his hand on your knee and you reach over and slide your fingers gently into his. his hand tightens around yours almost immediately and he doesn’t look at you but his thumb shifts slightly against the back of your hand as you lean back into your seat, watching the dark street pass by outside the window.
“..i missed you, you know..” you say quietly.
leon exhales through his nose.. it’s soft, almost like a laugh that didn’t quite make it out. still finding a way to be sweet on him despite the current situation—ever his sweet girl. pretty but tired eyes flick toward you for a brief second before returning to the road.
“yeah?” he murmurs and you give a small nod.
“mhm..” the silence settles again, but this time it feels a little different. warmer.
“i missed you too, bug.” he says.
the car rolls slowly past the last few houses on the street, porch lights fading behind you one by one as leon turns onto the main road out of the neighborhood. his hand is still wrapped around yours; every now and then his thumb moves across the back of your hand without him really thinking about it. one of his little habits.
you shift a little in your seat, adjusting where the seatbelt sits across your stomach. at seven months there’s no ignoring the curve of it anymore, round and heavy against your lap. the baby moves faintly, a slow roll that makes you press your hand there for a second.
“matteo asked me something earlier,” you say.
leon hums quietly. “yeah?”
you glance over at him.“he asked if his little brother was a watermelon.”
leon’s eyes flick toward you, then back to the road. “..a watermelon.”
“yeah.” you rub your tummy. “he said my belly doesn’t look like a baby.”
for a second leon doesn’t say anything but then a quiet breath of a laugh slips out of him. “my kid’s trying to figure it out.”
“i tried explaining,” you say. “but he just kept staring at me.”
leon smiles a little. “think he’s a bigger skeptic than his old man.”
you look down at your stomach again. “he asked if we’re ’really sure’ it’s a baby.”
another small laugh escapes him. “’s a fair question— you do look like a..” he trying to figure it out, glancing back over at you. “like a— snoball. you know. the hostess cakes.”
you turn your head toward him. “you’re supposed to help me defend myself here!”
“i am,” he says chuckles a little. “but it’s true.”
you shake your head a little, smiling to yourself and for a moment the car settles back into quiet.. the road stretches darker ahead as the neighborhood falls behind. leon’s thumb drags slowly across the back of your hand again.
“..he’s excited though?” he asks.
you glance back toward the backseat then look forward again. “yeah,” you say softly. “he talks to my tummy all day.”
leon’s mouth lifts slightly. “yeah?”
“told the baby yesterday that he’s gonna teach him about dinosaurs and how daddy is the best.” you giggled and leon brings your hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on your skin.
you almost forget the situation at hand—but leon always makes things feel better.
. . . . . . . . . . <𝟑 .ᐟ
at some point during the drive, you drift off. leon notices it a few minutes after it happens and he’s a little relieved. your head tips slowly toward the window, breath evening out, fingers loosening where they’d been resting in leon’s on the center console. the streetlights that pass overhead every so often spill soft flashes of light across your face, but you don’t stir.
he lets you sleep. you need it.
the road out of the city stretches quiet and mostly empty at this hour, the steady rhythm of the tires on the pavement fill the car with a low, constant hum. matteo is still asleep in the backseat, the occasional small shift of fabric the only sign he’s there.
for a while, things are simple for leon; drive, check mirrors, watch the road, look over you and his son. he follows the route he knows automatically, guiding the car toward the highway entrance that should take them out of the county. but then.. then he slows. the ramp ahead is blocked and cones stretch across the entrance in a bright orange line, reflective strips catching in the headlights. a temporary metal barricade sits behind them with a folding sign propped up in front.
road closed.
leon’s brow tightens slightly. weird.
he eases past it, eyes briefly scanning the empty stretch of highway beyond the barrier. no cars, no construction equipment. nothing.
“…great,” he mutters under his breath.
he keeps driving. the next access point isn’t far. a smaller highway that reconnects with the interstate farther down the county line. and normally it wouldn’t matter which one he took. but when he turns toward that ramp—
it’s blocked too.
more cones.
another barricade.
the fuck?
this one has a paper detour sign taped to it, the arrow pointing down a side road leon rarely ever uses. he slows the car again, studying the sign for a second.. something about it doesn’t sit right. but still, the road behind him is empty and turning around would just waste time.
so against his better judgement, he turns the wheel and the tires crunch briefly over gravel as the car follows the detour onto the smaller road, the trees closing in quickly on both sides as the headlights sweep across the pavement.
the turn is sharper than the highway curve, that’s what seems to wake you.
your eyes blink open slowly as the car shifts direction again, the movement just enough to pull you out of sleep. you just stare ahead, disoriented.
“…lee?” your voice is soft, thick with sleep.
leon glances over briefly. “hey, sleeping beauty.” he smiles a bit.
you rub your eyes a little, sitting up straighter as the unfamiliar road stretches out in front of the car. “where are we?”
he looks back at the road. “detour.”
you blink toward the dark tree line sliding past the windows.
“did he wake up at all..?”
“no, he’s out.” another slow turn approaches ahead and leon eases the wheel again, the car following the narrow road deeper into the trees.
“main ramps were blocked,” he says after a second.
you’re fully awake now. “blocked?”
“yeah.” he keeps his tone casual, his eyes flick briefly to the rearview mirror again before settling back on the road. “had to take the scenic route.” that earns a little giggle from you, not picking up on his skepticism at all.
leon keeps the car moving slowly along the narrow detour road, the beam of the headlights cutting through long tunnels of trees that crowd closer to the asphalt the farther they drive. the road isn’t one he recognizes, and that bothers him more than he says out loud. but he knows this county. after everything that happened years ago in raccoon city, he made it a point to know the surrounding highways and service roads like the back of his hand. but this route bends in ways it shouldn’t, curling farther east than any detour from the interstate should logically take them. his hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel as another faded green road sign flashes past the passenger side window, half swallowed by weeds and leaning at a tired angle. the reflective paint catches the headlights just long enough for him to read it.
raccoon county line — 2 miles.
that isn’t right. no detour around here should be bringing them this close to.. no. his hands shift on the steering wheel as he slows a little, eyes scanning the road ahead and then flicking briefly to the dashboard map.. the route line has bent farther east than it should have. why?
“…damn,” he mutters quietly.
you glance over. “what’s wrong, honey?”
“nothing, just..” he trails off.
up ahead, the road bends again and this time the headlights spill across something large blocking part of the lane. leon’s foot eases onto the brake, the car slowing as the shape resolves into the wreckage of a transport truck that looks like it lost control at high speed. the cab is smashed violently into the treeline at an angle that shouldn’t be.. survivable, the front grille crumpled inward like paper and the windshield blown completely out. one of the truck’s rear container doors hangs open several feet, twisted enough that it scrapes the pavement every time it sways in the faint breeze,
and making a long metallic groan that echoes down the empty road. the vehicle itself is unmarked except for a set of faded hazard symbols stenciled along the container’s side—biohazard warnings that make leon’s stomach drop with cold familiarity. he brings the car to a slow stop roughly twenty yards away? just about. his headlights illuminatd the center of the road where something dark lies sprawled across the asphalt.
“oh my god—” you choke out.
at first it almost looks like a discarded coat or bundle of cloth, but as leon leans slightly forward in his seat the shape resolves into a human body lying facedown across the lane. the limbs are bent at angles that suggest the person was thrown there by the crash, one arm twisted beneath the torso while the other stretches limply toward the shoulder of the road. a wide smear of something black and wet trails away from the body toward the truck, thick enough that it reflects the headlights in dull, sticky streaks. leon doesn’t say anything right away. the silence inside the car feels unbearable now, the engine idling quietly while his eyes move across the scene in quick sweeps—truck, open container door, tree line, body, road blocks, racoon city a couple miles over. there are no other vehicles, no hazard flares, no emergency response lights in the distance. just the ruined truck, the open container and the body lying exactly where someone would have stumbled if they had managed to crawl away from the wreck before collapsing.
“..stay in the car,” he says quietly.
your gaze shifts toward him. “leon—”
“stay in the car.” it’s final.
he shifts the car into park and reaches for the glove compartment without taking his eyes off the road ahead. the latch clicks softly when he opens it and he reaches for the familiar weight of his handgun, settling it into his palm. the unease creeping through his chest isn’t something training ever fully gets rid of but he’s prepared. the truck’s loose container door scrapes against the pavement again with a long, dragging shriek of metal that fades slowly into the trees and when leon opens the car door, the night air that spills inside carries the sharp scent of gasoline and something sour and rotting that clings to the back of his throat. he steps out onto the road and closes the door quietly behind him, the pistol resting low but ready in his right hand as he begins walking toward the body illuminated in the headlights.
the forest around the road feels unnaturally still. no insects, no distant wind through the leaves, none of the small nighttime sounds that should exist out here this far from town. leon’s boots scrape softly against the pavement as he approaches the figure on the ground, his gaze flicks repeatedly back toward the open truck container looming behind it. from this angle he can see the interior better, a dark metal chamber lined with restraints and heavy chains bolted along the walls. several of the restraints hang empty and loose, swaying slightly whenever the container door shifts with the breeze. the smell coming from that direction is stronger now, thick and rancid in a way leon recognizes immediately even though part of him wishes he didn’t. it’s the smell of decay that shouldn’t exist in something still capable of moving.
he stops a few feet from the body lying in the road and lowers his voice instinctively, the old reflex of addressing survivors kicking in before his mind fully catches up with what his eyes are telling him.
“sir?” he calls cautiously. the figure doesn’t respond and for several seconds nothing happens at all. then, with a slow wet sound against the asphalt, the fingers of the outstretched hand curl inward. the movement is subtle enough that leon almost thinks he imagined it—until the arm jerks again, this time more violently and the body begins to drag itself across the pavement in stiff, uneven motions. the head lifts just enough for the headlights to illuminate the face as it turns toward him, revealing skin pulled gray and tight across the skull, lips split back to expose teeth slick with dark blood. one of the eyes is missing entirely, leaving behind a hollow socket that glistens black in the light. when the thing opens its mouth, the sound that comes out isn’t a human voice. it’s a low, hungry rasp that echoes across the empty road and carries with it the unmistakable confirmation of leon’s worst suspicion: whatever was inside that transport truck did not stay contained.
“fuck me..” leon says in disbelief.
the thing on the road moves again, this time with a sudden violence that snaps leon fully out of the frozen moment of processing. the body jerks upright on stiff limbs that don’t seem to work together properly, joints hitching and locking as if the muscles beneath the skin have forgotten how to move in the right order. its head tilts at an unnatural angle while it drags one leg behind it, the torn shoe scraping loudly against the pavement as it lurches toward him. for half a second leon catches the reflection of his own headlights in the creature’s remaining eye and what stares back isn’t pain or confusion or even awareness. it’s blood lust—empty, relentless hunger that pushes the body forward despite the damage it’s taken.
leon’s grip tightens around the pistol. his instincts scream at him to raise the weapon immediately, to put the threat down before it gets closer, but another thought cuts through just as fast. the car is still behind him. you’re sitting in the passenger seat. his son is asleep in the back. if he fires now, if the shot echoes down this road, you’ll see it and it may wake up matteo.
the zombie staggers another step forward and suddenly surges with alarming speed, arms shooting out as it lunges across the short distance between them. leon reacts without hesitation, pivoting sideways as the creature crashes into him. the impact sends both of them stumbling, the dead weight of the body slamming against his shoulder with a nauseating wet thud. the smell hits him harder up close— thick rot and coppery blood that clings to the air like humidity. the creature’s mouth snaps open inches from his face, broken teeth gnashing as strings of dark saliva drip from its jaw. disgusting.
leon shoves it back with his forearm, trying to force space between them. “i’m flattered, but at least take me out to dinner first,” he mutters under his breath but of course the quip means nothing to it. the zombie claws at him again, fingers tearing clumsily at the fabric of his jacket while that guttural rasp pours from its throat. its strength is insane, jerking and desperate, like the body is being yanked forward by something inside it that refuses to stop moving.
behind him the headlights spill across the scene, illuminating everything in stark white light.
inside the car, you see it all.
at first your brain refuses to understand what you’re looking at. leon stepping out had already made your stomach knot with unease, but now the shape in the road is moving in a way that makes your entire body go cold. the thing staggering toward your husband doesn’t look like a person anymore. its skin is gray and split open in places, something dark soaking the front of its shirt and when it lunges at leon you feel a sound rising in your throat before you even realize it.
your hand slams over your mouth and the scream never escapes.
you clamp your palm so tightly against your lips it hurts, your other hand gripping the edge of the seat while your body locks in place. your chest starts heaving immediately, short, panicked breaths trapped behind your hand as tears spring to your eyes. matteo is still asleep in the backseat. You can hear his soft breathing if you listen hard enough, but completely unaware of what’s unfolding only a few yards in front of the car.
so you stay silent.
even when leon shoves the thing back and it comes at him again. even when the creature’s head jerks toward him and you catch a glimpse of its ruined face in the headlights.
your fingers press harder against your mouth, muffling the ragged sound of your breathing as your vision blurs. tears spill down your cheeks and disappear into the heel of your hand while your shoulders shake violently with the effort of staying quiet. every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run, to get out of the car, to do something—but you can’t move.
outside, leon finally realizes he’s out of options.
the body lunges again, claws scraping across his sleeve as it tries to pull itself closer to his throat. there’s no reasoning with it, no pushing it away long enough to escape. leon’s eyes flick briefly toward the car behind him, just long enough to see your silhouette frozen in the passenger seat.
he really doesn’t want you to watch this.
with a sharp twist of his body, leon shoves the creature backward and pivots so his back is angled toward the headlights. the movement places his body between you and what he’s about to do. the zombie stumbles forward again, arms reaching blindly for him, its ruined jaw working in frantic bites.
leon raises the pistol and for a split second the world holds perfectly still.
the gunshot cracks through the night.
the gunshot echoes violently through the trees, the sound ricocheting down the empty road before dissolving into the thick silence of the forest. leon keeps the pistol raised, the barrel steady even as the body in front of him collapses with a heavy, lifeless thud against the pavement. the monster that had once been a man twitches once where it lies, a final reflex of dead muscle that sends one arm dragging weakly across the asphalt before going still. the headlights from the car stretched the corpse’s shadow long and warped across the road, illuminating the gray slackness of its face and the black, ruined wound at the center of its skull. leon exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his breathing back under control as the sharp scent of gunpowder mixes with the sickening rot still clinging to the night air. his eyes move past the body instead, drawn back toward the wrecked transport truck looming crookedly at the edge of the road.
from this closer angle the truck looks even worse than it had from the driver’s seat. the cab is crushed deep into the treeline, metal folded inward like something massive slammed into it at full speed. the container on the back sits half twisted across the shoulder of the road, one heavy door hanging open wide enough to expose the dark interior. leon approaches it cautiously, every instinct he has screaming that he already knows what he’s going to find inside. deep gouges mark the walls in long, violent streaks and one of the restraints has been torn completely out of the metal plating, leaving a jagged hole where the bolt once held. the smell inside is unbearable now, a humid wall of decay and old blood that makes leon’s stomach turn as he takes a half step back into the cooler night air. whatever this truck had been transporting, it wasn’t supposed to get out.
then he remembers the car.
he turns quickly, the beam of the headlights washing over him as he looks back toward the road where you’re still sitting in the passenger seat. when he walks closer the details sharpen enough for him to see your shoulders shaking. your hands are still clamped tightly over your mouth, fingers pressed so hard against your lips that the skin has gone sore beneath them. your chest rises and falls in quick, panicked breaths that you’re clearly trying to force silent, each inhale trembling as tears spill down your cheeks. even from outside the car leon can see the terror frozen across your face. you’re staring straight ahead at the road where the body lies in the headlights, eyes wide and glassy with shock while you struggle desperately to keep from making a sound.
leon moves quickly to the passenger side and pulls the door open. the interior light flickers on faintly, casting a warm glow across your face and revealing just how badly your hands are shaking. you don’t even seem to notice the door opening at first. your breathing is too fast, too shallow, frantic hyperventilation locks your body into pure panic. in the backseat matteo shifts slightly in his sleep, the quiet rustle of fabric enough to remind leon how careful he has to be to not wake him. he crouches beside you immediately, lowering his voice to a soft whisper as he reaches for your wrists.
“hey pretty,” he murmurs gently, prying your hands away from your mouth before they can clamp down again. “hey. look at me.”
your eyes struggle to focus on him, blinking rapidly through tears while your chest continues heaving with uneven breaths. leon cups the side of your face with one hand, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he tries to ground you. “it’s okay,” he whispers again, steady and calm despite the adrenaline still pounding in his veins. “you’re okay. just breathe.”
you try to answer him but the words collapse into another shaky inhale, your body still locked in the aftermath of the fear. leon keeps his voice low and even, guiding you through it the way he’s done for terrified civilians more times than he can count. “dlow,” he says quietly, his hand still resting against your cheek. “in through your nose. like this.” he takes a slow breath himself so you can mirror it, watching carefully until your lungs begin to follow the rhythm. it takes a few tries, but eventually the edge of panic begins to dull. your breathing steadies enough for you to speak, though your voice still trembles when the words finally come out. “leon… what was that?” the question hangs between you.
leon’s gaze flickers briefly toward the road behind him where the body lies in the headlights, then back to you. “nothing that should exist,” he says quietly. the explanation is simple, carefully stripped of anything that would make it worse. “it’s handled.” the lie sits heavy in his chest, but he doesn’t let it show. your eyes squeeze shut as another tear slips down your cheek.and you lean forward slightly until your forehead presses against his shoulder. leon wraps one arm carefully around you, mindful of your stomach as he holds you there, letting the warmth of the contact slow the last tremors running through your body. in the backseat matteo murmurs softly but doesn’t wake, his small figure still curled safely in sleep.
after a minute leon pulls back just enough to brush a quick kiss against your forehead. “stay here,” he whispers. “i’m gonna to check the car.” you nod faintly, wiping at your eyes as you turn to glance at matteo again, instinctively making sure he’s still sleeping. leon closes the passenger door softly and walks around the front of the vehicle, the crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound breaking the silence now that the forest has swallowed the echo of the gunshot. his eyes sweep the road automatically, scanning the trees and the wrecked truck one more time before dropping toward the car itself.
that’s when he hears it.
a faint, steady hiss cutting through the quiet.
leon crouches beside the front tire, his stomach sinking as the sound grows louder. a jagged piece of twisted metal lies half embedded in the rubber, likely thrown from the truck during the crash. air leaks steadily from the puncture with a long, deflating sigh, the tire already sagging visibly against the weight of the car. leon straightens, running a hand over the back of his neck as he looks down the empty road stretching into darkness ahead of them.
they aren’t going anywhere far without a spare.
and somewhere deep in the woods beyond the road, something moves.
☆ summary: a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
☆ caution: age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, stalking, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger (though, this instalment is pretty tame).
☆ word count: 3,000.
what is that noise..?
it’s subtle at first— drawers opening, something heavy set down on wood, the soft zip of a bag? your brain tries to ignore it for a few seconds, trying to cling to sleep because god knows you need it. but the sounds are continuous and you’re now registering them somewhere down the hall and it pulls you up the rest of the way.
the bedroom is still dark with the exception of the night light across the room and the digital clock at your side of the bed.
2:17 AM.
you sit up slowly, blinking blearily as the oversized t-shirt you slept in slides off one shoulder. there’s a heatless curl ribbon still tied in your hair from when you set before bed, stray ends that came undone in your sleep hang down in soft loops— you don’t even know where your bonnet went. but its almost always stuck somewhere between the mattress and the headboard or somewhere discarded on the floor.
your stomach rises in a precious round curve beneath the cotton when you shift. for a moment you just lie there, then something warm shifts beside you and a small heel presses into your side. you blink slowly and turn your head to see your three year old son sprawled across the bed sideways; half on your pillow, half on your arm, breathing softly with the deep and heavy sleep only toddlers seem capable of after a long day of terror (play). one of his hands is tangled in the hem of your shirt and you're certain he fell asleep holding onto you. his hair is messy, sticking up in soft tufts against the pillow— he looks just like his father. you almost want to take a picture.
your son stirs with a sleepy little noise. “..mama..”
“shh,” you murmur, brushing your fingers through his curls. “go back to sleep, baby.” he sighs softly and curls deeper into the blankets.
you’re six— almost seven months along in your pregnancy now and everything takes a second longer than it used to. your back is a little tight and your breasts feel sore and heavy, it takes you a few moments to gather yourself before your legs swing over the side of the bed and push yourself up with a small grunt, rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you waddle toward the hallway.
the light in the living room is on. that’s the first thing you notice.
the second is your husband, leon. how strange. was this a dream? he wasn’t supposed to be home for a couple days. and you know that for a fact because you were counting down the days with a little pochacco widget on the homescreen of your phone. you’re not upset by any means, you’re just very confused, disheveled and half asleep.
leon’s moving quickly through the living room, tossing things into a duffel bag on the couch with urgency that makes your chest tighten before you even understand why. jacket. flashlight. an ammo box. something metallic you don’t recognize and there’s a couple more bags by the door already packed too.
“leon?” your voice comes out soft with sleep and he freezes for just for a second before he turns toward you. oh. you know that look. that’s the look he gets before missions— really focused, distant, already five steps ahead of wherever he is.
“..is he awake?” he asks.
you shake your head. “no.”
leon nods once and relief flashes across his face for just a moment. “good.”
you shuffle further into the room, one hand instinctively resting over the curve of your stomach and the hardwood floor is cold under your bare feet.
“what are you doing..?” you ask. he doesn't answer right away, he zips the duffel bag closed instead then moves past you toward the front door where another bag is already sitting by the entry table.
you frown. “leon.”
he stops again and this time when he looks at you, his eyes soften just slightly. enough that it almost makes you more nervous. “we’re going for a drive, baby.” he says.
your eyebrows knit together. “..a drive?” you glance toward the windows. it’s still dark outside— early enough that the sky hasn’t even started turning gray yet. “leon, it’s like two in the morning.”
“yeah.” he reaches for his jacket off the chair and slips it on, you take another few slow steps toward him.
that’s when you see the axe and the gun holstered at his hip like it always is when he’s working, but seeing it here in the living room in the dead of night, makes your stomach dip unpleasantly. he already knows how you feel about live guns in the house, you don’t care about what he does for a living. he’s not to bring weapons in you guy’s home if its not an emergency.
“why do you have that on?”
leon doesn’t look at the gun when you ask; he looks at you. but really looks this time— taking in his shirt that swallows you almost, the sleepy confusion in your face, the ridiculous polka dot, satin ribbon wrapped in your hair, the way you’re standing there barefoot and pregnant. christ, you’re beautiful.
his jaw tightens. “go grab shoes,” he says instead.
you blink at him. “…what?”
“shoes, sweetheart. your shoes.” he repeats, already reaching for the car keys on the counter. “and maybe a sweater. it’s chilly outside.”
you don’t move. “leon, you’re being weird.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to keep his head on. “i know.”
“well that’s not really great to hear, weirdo..” you shift your weight, wincing a little when the movement pulls at your lower back. “did something happen?”
“nothing you need to worry about,” he says.
you give him a look. “i’m seven months pregnant, leon. everything is something i need to worry about— don’t piss me off.”
he runs a hand through his hair, clearly losing patience with the conversation. “just— go get your shoes and i’ll let you know what’s going on.”
“no.” the word comes out before you can stop it.
leon’s head snaps back toward you. “no?” he repeats, brow raised.
you cross your arms loosely under your chest, the fabric of the big shirt bunching over your stomach.
“no,” you say again, stubborn now. “not until you tell me why you’re packing like the house is on fire.”
you hardly have time to react before your husband is closing the gap between you both so quickly it nearly startles you. he reaches up and places both of his hands on both sides of your face. the contrast between his warm hands and the cooler wedding band feels so familiar— it's only then you realize you haven’t physically touched each other in almost two weeks since he left.
“listen to me.” his voice is low, tight with something that makes your heart drop. “i need you to cooperate right now.”
you blink at him and leon’s eyes search your face like he’s trying to make sure you actually understand what he’s saying.
he’s serious. you know it because he has a look in his eyes— something akin to desperation..
“okay..” you nod in his hands. “can i least know what’s going on.. please..?”
silence stretches between you then leon’s eyes flick briefly toward the kitchen counter and you follow the movement without thinking.
there’s a phone there, his personal phone actually. you close the gap and unlock the phone with the passcode— your birthday.
the photo is already pulled up on the screen, the brightness catches your eye before you even realize what you’re looking at, but your stomach drops so suddenly it feels like the floor shifted beneath you. your fingers loosen around the device and you immediately set it back down on the counter like it burned you, taking a small step backward before you can stop yourself.
when you look at leon again there’s fear in your expression before you can hide it.
it was a photo of you and your son. you recognize the room immediately. the angle of the shot, the dim amber glow of the nightlight, the familiar shape of the blankets pulled halfway up your body. your son is curled against your side in the image, one small arm thrown across your chest the way he does when he crawls into your bed during the night. his face is buried against your shirt, hair sticking up in every direction from sleep. you’re asleep too, one arm loosely wrapped around him. even in the low light, the shape of your pregnancy is obvious beneath the shirt.
the picture.. wasn’t taken from across the street. hell, it wasn’t even taken earlier in the evening while you were awake. whoever took it had been close enough that the details of the bedding, the edge of the nightstand, even the small toy car on the floor beside the bed were perfectly visible.
someone had been in your while you were sleeping.
close enough to see your son. close enough to take their time lining up the shot while both of you slept completely unaware.
“leon..” his name barely leaves your mouth and hen you look back at him, he’s already watching you. there’s no surprise in his expression, no confusion— “what—okay, um—what do you want me to do?”
“shoes, phone, documents,” he says quietly. “and grab my kid.” he pauses. “please.” he adds on, still wanting to have some manners about his orders.
the house suddenly feels different, like its no longer your little slice of life’s pie. you rest one hand against the underside of your stomach as you walk down the hallway again supporting the weight of it as the baby shifts, it draws a labored breath from you. its probably because you’re moving about a bunch at an hour you’re supposed to be replenishing your rest. the satin ribbon tied around your hair has slipped crooked from sleep, one end hanging loose against your shoulder as you walk.
the bedroom is still dim when you step inside and your son hasn’t moved much since you left. he’s still sprawled sideways across the mattress in a tangle of blankets, face buried halfway into the pillow. one leg sticks out from under the comforter, his small foot hanging off the edge of the bed. you move closer and sit carefully on the edge of the mattress, easing your weight down with a soft exhale and the bed dips slightly beneath you. your fingers slide gently through his messy hair.
“hey,” you murmur softly. “buddy.”
he reacts with a little whine, rolling his face deeper into the pillow and you rub slow circles on his back.
“i know, honey..” you whisper. “mommy’s sorry. but we have to get up for a little bit, okay?”
he squirms, one arm reaching out blindly until his fingers find your sleeve and he bunches the fabric in his fist and tugs weakly. “..mama.”
“i’m right here.” another sleepy noise escapes him as he drags himself halfway upright, eyes barely open. he leans heavily into you, resting his forehead against your chest and you smooth his hair down.
“we’re gonna go for a drive, okay?”
he blinks slowly. “..drive?”
“mhm, with papa.” you nod and ge considers this for a long moment in sleepy silence, then lifts his head just enough to mumble: “…papa?”
a small laugh escapes you despite the tight feeling in your chest. “yeah.. papa’s home, lovebug.” and that seems good enough for him. he lets you pull his sweater over his head with minimal protest, though he keeps leaning against you like he might fall asleep standing up.
by the time you make it back to the living room, your shoes are finally on, you have sweats on and a sweater pulled over the shirt. leon is already outside again, the front door standing half open and letting the cold gray light of early morning moon spill into the house. you can hear the dull thud of the trunk closing and reopening, the shuffle of bags being moved around as he rearranges things.
your son has gone almost completely limp against you in the few minutes it took to get dressed. the moment you lifted him from the bed he buried his face into your shoulder and never really woke back up. now his arms hang loosely around your neck, his cheek pressed warm against your collarbone as he breathes slowly into the fabric of your sweater.
you adjust him carefully, one hand supporting his weight under his legs as you walk toward the door. the cold air hits your face the second you step outside; leon’s car is parked in the driveway with the trunk wide open, the interior light casting a warm glow over the scattered bags already inside. leon stands at the back of it, moving quickly, lifting another duffel and shoving it farther in before slamming the trunk down with a solid thud.
he turns at the sound of the door behind you, then he’s already walking toward you.
“hey,” he murmurs quietly as he reaches you, his voice lowering automatically when he sees how deeply asleep his son is. you shift your weight slightly, adjusting the small body slumped against you. even half asleep, your son instinctively curls closer, his fingers tightening weakly in the fabric at the back of your sweater.
“didn’t wake up,” you whisper.
leon’s eyes soften when he looks at him. “figures.”
he reaches out without hesitation, one hand sliding carefully under the boy’s back while the other supports his legs. the transfer is gentle and your son barely stirs as leon lifts him away from you, just making a soft sleepy noise before his head drops against leon’s shoulder instead.
you exhale quietly when the weight leaves your arms, and leon notices immediately. “i got him, go sit.” he says softly as ge turns and walks to the back seat, opening the door and leaning in to settle the boy into the car seat already strapped in place. he works slowly, carefully buckling the harness without jostling him too much. your son squirms once, eyes fluttering halfway open before he sinks right back into sleep, his head tipping to the side.
leon adjusts the strap gently near his shoulder, making sure it sits right. only after he’s satisfied does he shut the door softly.
you’ve made your way around to the passenger side by then, lowering yourself carefully into the seat. the cushion dips under your weight and you lean back with a quiet breath, one hand resting on your stomach out of habit. leon walks around the car, stopping when he sees you watching him through the open passenger window.
“baby, can you do me one favor?” you ask.
leon pauses with his hand resting on the roof of the car. “what do you need?”
you glance back toward the house. “i left my bear on the bed.”
his eyebrows pull together slightly. “the one i won you?”
you nod a little, almost sheepish. “i know it’s stupid,” you say quietly. “but you know i can’t sleep anywhere without it.”
leon exhales softly through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “not stupid.”
he's leaning down so he’s level with you and up close you can see the exhaustion in his face,
“two minutes,” he says but before he straightens, you reach out slightly, your hand catching the sleeve of his jacket.
“hey.” you call out softly and he pauses.
you lean toward the open window just enough to press a quick kiss to his lips. it’s soft and brief, but warm— something sweet in the middle of everything that suddenly feels uncertain. you also didn’t get a chance to give him his welcome home kiss.
leon lingers for half a second when you pull back, his forehead almost brushing yours before he finally straightens again.
his hand briefly touches your cheek.
“love you too,” he murmurs. then he turns and jogs back toward the house. a minute later he steps out again with the plushie in his hand, walking straight over to the passenger side and passing it through the window to you. the fabric is worn soft from years of being held, but you recognize it instantly.
“almost left without your emotional support,” he mutters.
you take it from him and put it between your thighs.
“thank you, bub.” you smile a little, despite the anxiety.
leon taps the roof of the car lightly before finally moving around to the driver’s side, hopping in and starting the engine before backing out of the driveway. your thumb fidgets with your wedding ring; a pretty princess cut, four and a half carat diamond.
leon turns onto the empty road, heading toward the highway that cuts through the wooded suburbs outside of dc. at this hour the neighborhood is still dark, porch lights glowing faintly between the trees as the car slips past sleeping houses.
Summary: You feel inadequate next to his superior intelligence, and that simply won't do.
Content Warning: Since I've been so inactive for such a long time, this probably won't be very good. Please bear with me...
────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────
"What does that mean?"
A sentence you feel is too big a part of your vocabulary.
Spencer Reid is so smart. He knows next to everything, and talks really fast—and when you first started dating, it was really charming. Offhand fun-facts over dinner, conversation topics you couldn't even begin to understand, but nodded along with because you loved listening to him.
But after two years, it's become more exhausting.
For example: at this current moment, he's prattling on about Russian Literature tragedy structures.
You'd only asked what he was reading.
Now it's like he's speaking an alien language.
Though you wouldn't exactly call yourself stupid, it's often hard to feel smart when he just... knows so much more than you.
"It means the characters aren't miserable because something went wrong," he explains quickly. "They're miserable because being human is complicated and morally ambiguous."
Surely that's easy enough to understand—right? But he's speaking so fast—it goes through one ear and out the other. And there are too many ways that can be taken. People are miserable, because people are bad?
"Right," you say quietly.
"Dostoevsky believed you can't understand grace without understanding despair," he continues, just a fraction slower this time. Maybe he can see the confusion on your face. "...It's very Russian."
"Okay..."
There's a beat of silence, his eyes suspicious and fixed solely on you.
"Are you alright?" he asks finally, voice cutting through the quiet like a hot knife. He leans over, placing his book on the edge of the coffee table without ever looking away from you.
"Yes," you answer quickly—maybe a little too quickly. "What makes you think I wouldn't be alright? We're talking about a book."
"For starters, your voice got higher at the end of the sentence. That usually means you're overcompensating." Stupid profiling. And to make it worse, it sounds like he's dumbing himself down.
Where's the brain analysis? The comments on your micro expressions, how your eyelid twitched or your nostril... did something. What about how your scent changes when you're upset, like a wild animal?
"And you're avoiding eye-contact, which is a dead giveaway."
"Not it's not," you snap back instantly. You glare at him from the corner of your eye, meeting his gaze just to make a point.
Spencer raises a brow, like he already knows you're full of shit but doesn't want to say it. "You avoid eye-contact when you're upset."
Oh—because you just know everything...
"Many people say the eyes are the window to the soul." He continues after a moment, one hand gently tilting your face toward him. "That's because they often reflect our inner thoughts and feelings. So when people are upset, they'll avoid eye-contact so you can't read them."
You frown, trying initially to twist your face away. In any other case, if he knows you don't want him touching you, he'll immediately let go. He's respectful like that. But this time, he holds firm. His other hand comes up to cradle your head, index finger tapping your temple.
"What's going on in there."
The gentle touch is so soothing, so undeniably loving. Your frown deepens, and your eyes become glossy with tears. Really—it seems like a silly thing to cry about, but you can't quite help it.
"Nothing, apparently," you whisper. "Or at least, not enough."
Spencer blinks at you—just once, his eyes uncomprehending. But he's smart, so smart. It doesn't take more than a few seconds for it to click.
"Oh."
His lovely face, already so gentle with understanding and concern, somehow softens further at the realization.
"You think you're not smart enough," he murmurs. His hands remain on your face, anchoring your gaze to his.
All you can do is nod—your throat feels too tight to speak, a single tear tracking down your cheek. His thumb swipes it away, touch so soft.
"You're silly," he whispers. When he's sure you won't turn away, his hands slide from your face to rest on your shoulders. "Of course you're smart enough."
"No—"
"Yes," he interrupts. It's strange; he never interrupts you. "There are different kinds of intelligence. Just because I'm an expert in one thing, doesn't mean you're less than."
He's an expert in more than one thing. Actually he's an expert in many things. But neither of you bring that up, because his point still stands.
"For example: you're great at picking up conversation cues," he says softly—though there's an almost playful lilt there. "And you're beyond extraordinary at baking cookies. We both know I suck at that."
It's funny, because he was trying to make sugar cookies. The whitest and simplest cookie there is, and he still somehow burned them to coal.
You can't help but chuckle at the memory, the corners of your mouth pulling up into the faintest smile. "You do..."
He gently strokes your cheek, clearly pleased with himself at having successfully cheered you up. "You see? Cognitive specialization doesn't imply hierarchical superiority."
Summary: Realizing you've put your foot in your mouth, you desperately try to backtrack as Spencer desperately tries to help.
Warnings: fluff, future chapters will be 18+ though, reader is an erotica romance author, and is already thinking somewhat impurely about hands
A/N: This one was very trope-y and a bit cliché but we're finally through the set-up so now onto the more fun chapters next week! Let me know what you think in the comments!
Masterlist
Stepping back for a moment, you realized you’d finally reached peak exhaustion.
Neither your writing job nor your role on the BAU was a particularly restful career. You’d balanced week-long cases with midnight writing time, burning the candle at both ends.
Now whatever was left of your wits after expending your last half an hour writing was desperately clutching Spencer’s shirt, haunting the man with your desperation.
The emergency lights flicked on as you came back down to reality.
“Sorry!” You squeaked out, putting as much space between you as possible. Which admittedly wasn’t a whole lot.
“No…no. Not at all. What-”
“I should go,” you shouted again, fully aware you were at least thirty seconds from passing out from sheer embarrassment. You grabbed your bag quickly, hard shut down your computer, quickly saving your first chapter, and tried to run away.
Tried being the operative word.
“What do you need me for?” Spencer stepped in front of you again, steadying you with a hand by your elbow to make sure you couldn’t fully dodge him.
“It’s nothing. It’s a stupid idea really. Not appropriate.”
Not appropriate was exactly how you would describe the thoughts that popped into your head when he was straddling you earlier, too.
“In this scenario, I think I can define what is and isn’t inappropriate. Sit down and talk me through it,” he said gently, walking you back to your seat.
“Okay,” you nodded quickly, trying to avoid the many different scenes from books popping into your head as he pulled your chair out for you and sat you down.
“Your writing was good, Y/N. It’s for your book, right?”
“Yes,” you said, almost embarrassed to respond in more than one syllable. But Spencer let the silence rest and waited for you to do or say anything else, so you had to pull your big girl pants back up and communicate. Effectively.
“Yes. I have a book due to my editor in a couple of weeks - I signed a four book deal after my first one was modestly popular online. Social media really blew it up so they wanted to lock me in for a few books,” you started, sinking back into the chair as you explained the fluke that was your writing career.
“Anyway, I’ve been here for a while now so romance isn’t exactly on the brain. I haven’t written in months and so my editor… So I need to start writing.”
Spencer sat so silently, you’d be so sure he was asleep if his eyes weren’t locked directly on yours.
You were so used to Spencer fidgeting - moving, reading, playing with a pencil between his fingers, drinking coffee - that this sudden rush of attention wasn’t immediately comfortable. “Spencer, you’re staring.”
“Sorry, sorry. Um, so you just needed to find something to write?”
You nodded and continued again.
“Yeah, I needed to find something to write about. And I don’t really want to lean into the whole serial killer romance thing.”
Spencer nodded along with you, finally nodding and moving again, and you let out a sigh as you watched him think.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll help you.”
Surprised, you looked up, once again making almost uncomfortable eye contact with Spencer Reid. You wished, too, that you had a notebook at that very moment to help you remember the exact feeling of your heart beating out of your chest.
A scene where you jumped straight into his lap and started twirling your fingers through his hair came to mind. Focusing again, you pushed it away.
“Help me with what?”
“I’ll help you write your book.”
“Oh! Oh no…” you stood and grabbed your bag again. “You really don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Okay, great, glad we are in agreement. Now let’s never talk about this ever again.”
You stood and grabbed your bag, but a firm grip on your wrist tugged you right back down. Instead of your own chair though you found yourself in Spencer’s chair.
Or more realistically speaking, in Spencer’s lap.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumbled under your breath.
“I know I don’t have to help you, but I want to. It sounds interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Yes.”
“You have three PhDs, and a number of other accolades, an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. Helping me write a romance novel that will be, at best, a good beach read, is interesting to you?”
Spencer seemed to consider for a moment, and then leaning in slightly, whispered his answer. “Yes.”
You would have shivered had your body had the energy for that.
“Sure, Spencer. Okay. And how exactly are you going to help me?”
He took another moment to think about his answer. You took that as your opportunity to leave, quickly jumping up again after a too comfortable moment in his arms, and quickly left the office.
For two days after you avoided even thinking about Spencer, or your book, or writing about Spencer in your book.
Two whole days. A wonderful weekend away from what was becoming a real puppy crush. You found yourself inexplicably looking up Spencer on any platform you thought he’d have a presence on (not a single social media but a number of child prodigy articles from newspapers in Nevada from a handful of years ago.)
Then you found yourself back at work, facing a stack of books and the most confrontational version of Spencer Reid you’d ever been acquainted with.
“The Love Hypothesis, The Spanish Love Deception, The Unhoneymooners, The Deal, The Kiss Quotient - did you know that fake relationships are often ranked as readers second favorite romance trope?”
“Spencer what are you- Spencer our coworkers will be here soon, put those away,” you gasped, quickly rushing to push each and every book into some nook or cranny of your desk.
“This is the FBI, Spencer, what has gotten into you?”
As you moved each book, you realised that, though they appeared to be new, there were cracks in each book's spine. There were some tabs sticking out randomly, the type you’d seen in Spencer’s paperwork before, and you found yourself almost more exasperated.
“You read them? All of them?”
“ I wanted to help,” he shrugged, taking a few out of your hands and stuffing them back in his satchel. “Besides, some of them were pretty good.”
“Okay. Okay, Spencer, since we’re both acting a little bit out of character today, I have to ask: why do you want to help me?”
Finally, the man fidgeted uncomfortably. He tugged at the collar of his shirt once, then twice and finally looked back at you.
“I want… I want to practice,” his voice was barely a whisper as the tips of his ears reddened. “There’s… there is a girl I like, and… I’m not exactly the most experienced at romance.”
You tried to stop yourself from feeling disappointed at his admission. Your sudden burst of interest in Spencer was only due to his helpfulness. It had been three days, it wasn’t enough for you to feel truly disappointed that nothing could start with him.
And he was your coworker, too, and that would be a nightmare. And you realized quickly that he was still talking, and you’d accidentally tuned him out for half a minute at the least.
“I read your books, too. The first two. They’re not exactly instructional guides I can follow, but it would be fun to get some ideas about y- about what girls like on dates. You know?”
Letting out a sigh, you sat down at your desk.
“So you want to do this?” you asked, holding up the nearest book to you.
“I want to do this.”
You nodded and thought it out for a second. You needed the help. You needed to write, and though apparently clueless about women, he was courteous and handsome, and most importantly consenting.
“Fine.”
“Fine? Really?”
“Don’t make me regret this, but yes. Let’s try it out.”
Spencer’s smile warmed your heart. It genuinely warmed your heart. Handsome men really needed to be stopped, you thought, nearly regretting your decision. But, as you had been before agreeing to many relationships with men before in the past, you were desperate.
“So we need to do the contract thing and the ground rules thing, and then-” Spencer started, flicking through one of the books for quotes and places to start.
“Vetoed and vetoed. We’re just doing research for a book, right Spencer? Why should we put rules down? We’re profilers. We know what is too far, and more importantly, we know how to communicate.”
Spencer nodded along with your points.
“Then, we should just shake on it?”
You hesitated for a second, thinking about where your mind would evidently go and thus had already gone if you got even a glimpse of his hands. You knew they were veiny.
“We can shake on it, sure.”
With that, his hand - yes, veiny - grabbed yours and you found yourself in an agreement of mutual destruction.
Spencer was going to help you write your book, and you were going to stop yourself from thinking about wrapping your legs around him until you were satisfied.
And with that you found yourself a fake boyfriend.
Like any of the great creatives of our time, the reader has found themselves stuck in a writing slump to end all writing slumps. With a literary agent breathing down her neck, and an absolute refusal to download any dating apps, she stumbles upon one of the greatest untapped romantic resources of her lifetime: Spencer Reid.
Warnings: Fluff/ none? Future smut, slow burn, slightly suggestive etc. Mentions of inappropriate age gap romance (not reader and Spencer).
A/N: Here's the first part! I got carried away with a request and decided to make it a full series, so we'll see how well I do with remembering to post ㅠㅠ everyone please send whatever the opposite of a writing block is my way, I wanna make it through this one fr
The view of a blank screen illuminating your dark apartment was one that you were beginning to grow immensely tired of. You’d tried typing out paragraphs, and then deleted them, and then simply tried to go with sentences, and those had ended up being deleted, too. By the time you’d tried to force yourself to type out a single word, you’d given up.
“I can’t do it,” you’d cried into your coffee a week earlier, meeting with the literary agent you knew was absolutely tired of your shit by this point.
“Okaaaayyy. What exactly is it that you can’t do exactly? Because if you say "write" you'd be absolutely incorrect.”
“I can’t write.”
Taking a long sip of her coffee and trying her best to subtly roll her eyes - subtlety was the one thing she hadn’t managed - you squared your shoulders and repeated yourself.
“I really can’t write,” you moaned. “I’ve tried and tried and all that comes out is thriller, horror, death, gore - the worst parts of a Christie novel tied up into a neat little Doyle novel with a splash of whatever new mystery writers there are. It’s not my genre but I started my new job at the FBI and it’s all that’s on the mind.”
You really loved your job. You didn’t enjoy that it was becoming your entire life, but you’d been warned multiple times from coworkers and acquaintances that it was a lot to handle.
“So quit.”
“I can’t quit, I love my job.”
“Then stop writing.”
“I can’t stop writing, I love writing.”
You would’ve screamed out your frustrations, but the franchise coffee shop you were stuck in was currently filled with stressed students and drone-like salary workers just trying to replace the blood in their bodies with caffeine, and you didn’t quite like the idea of zombified masses coming towards you.
“I can’t write, but I can’t stop writing, and I can’t quit my job.”
Nodding, your agent took another sip of her coffee, then set it down carefully and leaned into you across the table.
“I’m sorry to ask this but… when was the last time you had sex?”
“Oh my god!”
“It’s a valid question in this line. Your books have been marketed so far as spicy romances, I need to make sure you’re getting the best inspiration you can in order to write. If you’re in a dry-spell, it could explain your difficulty writing.”
“But-”
Your agent stood up, cutting you off quickly as she began to pack her things.
“But nothing, girl. Get back on the apps and give me at least 10,000 words, a synopsis, and some buzz words this time next month. I believe in you.”
You sighed and downed your coffee, melting further into the table before another stressed looking student asked you to vacate it so they could write an essay while aptly caffeinated.
Apps were off the table after a rough internet stalking case you’d worked on a few months prior, so you tried bars, but drinking alone was depressing and none of the men were inspiration-worthy.
Instead you’d tried a change of atmosphere. Your apartment was dark and dingy, and at least your desk at the BAU had a lamp. And the kitchen provided as much free coffee as you deemed healthy enough to drink.
You stared again at a blank document before deciding you needed to resituate yourself into the world of your novels.
You’d published three so far, under a quite popular and rather famous pen name. They were all connected but followed different couples among them. You sighed looking through their GoodReads pages, avoiding the reviews with a desperate zeal. You remembered the feeling of writing each one. The first you’d finished while in your final year at college.
You’d been with your high school boyfriend still, so the novel had been a sentimental pile of shit about how love was forever. You’d luckily had it published weeks before he announced that he’d got his female roommate pregnant, so at least you got a paycheck out of that heartbreak.
After college you’d taken a year out to work on yourself, which obviously meant you’d been unemployed and living on your book royalties and the remainder of your savings from college. When you started dating an older man who bought you dinner and not your fellow somewhat broke peers, you’d been absolutely inspired to write another book.
That one hadn’t ended well either, after you’d met the man’s adult daughter. So adult that she was in fact older than you. You did some therapy after that one.
Your third romance novel had seemingly come from nowhere, even if you’d been casually seeing a few people the year it came out. But you found that working towards a goal had made you infinitely inspired, and you were trying your best to get accepted into a role in the BAU that year.
Any ex boyfriend claiming to be the inspiration for that one was dearly mistaken. That dreamy man was tough to attain, high maintenance, required multiple qualifications, and a certain level of… physical fitness only parallelled by the FBI.
Now with all your goals met, and a further two books of the three book deal you’d signed with your publisher still unfulfilled, you were in a slump to end all slumps.
You were still sitting at your desk feeling sorry for yourself when you felt someone breathing down your neck.
“Burning the midnight oil?” Spencer asked, leaning over your desk and clutching his own free coffee in his hands.
“You know you probably shouldn’t sneak up on someone with a gun and a licence.”
“If I also didn’t have a gun myself, that might be wise advice,” Spencer replied, pushing in closer to read your writing.
You closed the document a second too late. The damned man was like a super computer.
“What is ‘The Boss Breakdown?’” he asked.
“It’s a book I think,” was the best you could come up with as you closed the tab. Which only unfortunately brought up the work in progress document you’d been not-working on and making no progress in earlier.
“Untitled Project 4?” Spencer asked again, as you willed yourself to spontaneously combust.
“It’s what I’m calling my paperwork. You know, to get it done quicker?” You said, hastily closing this tab, too. Google chrome chose that moment exactly to end your social life at work forever as your idea document popped up behind that one.
“Friends to lovers. Enemies to lovers. Roommates to lovers. Friends with-”
“Okay, please stop! STOP!” You screamed, choosing to just turn off the monitor, standing quickly.
Standing too quickly as your legs got caught in the cursed government assigned desk chair, you found yourself quickly tumbling to the floor. A hand reached out to grab you, but your incredible luck meant that the both of you dropped to the floor together.
Spencer’s arm hit just above your head as he grimaced feeling the pain of the fall reverberate into his arm. His legs fell either side of yours as you finally opened your eyes.
Hands interlocked, bodies pushed together on the floor, both panting from the sudden adrenaline of the fall, you found yourself in the perfect rom-com compromising position.
“Sorry,” you whispered as Spencer hovered centimeters above you, eyes locked with yours.
“Anyone here?” the voice of the security guard called out into the office as you froze up. You weren’t sure if it was embarrassment or fear of being caught up in an office scandal that stopped the both of you from making your presence known.
“Call themselves Supervisory Special Agents, and not one of them is special enough to supervise turning the lights off. Damn…” the officer muttered before entrenching the two of you in complete darkness.
Spencer stayed atop of you, as though it were the most comfortable place in the world.
“So what was that all about?” He asked in another whisper, even though no one else was near.
“It was nothing,” you whispered back, trying your best to figure out where every part of his body was in relation to yours in the shadows.
“It didn't look like nothing.”
“Oh yeah? What did it look like then?”
“It looked like a book.”
“Well… ding ding ding we have a winner,” you said with a huff and tried to stand, only to be forced down again by an unseen hand.
“Y/N. Are you that author?” Spencer asked?
“What? No. What author? That author? Why would you ask that?” you practically vomited the words out, still trying and failing to wiggle yourself out from underneath the apparently very solidly built man.
“You’re writing a book, right? I heard you on the phone with your literary agent a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
“You- what?”
“Rossi is an author too, you know.”
“Rossi writes non-fiction books about cases he has worked on. I write the book modern bodice-rippers. Not exactly the type of thing I want to tell the whole world, Spencer- would you move? God you are hard.”
You couldn’t see the eyebrow raise, but you practically heard it.
In a flash, something came to you. Whether it was the comment you made or a final willingness to listen, Spencer suddenly became easier to move as you jumped back up into your desk chair, turned on your monitor, and vomited up your brain onto the page.
You felt Spencer once again at your back as you typed out every word that entered your brain, not stopping to edit or proofread once. It was messy, there was no plot, no character names, no visible progression so far, but there were words.
There were finally words.
After a solid thirty minutes of panting and the banging sounds of your fingers connecting with your keyboard, you finally pushed away from your desk and grasped at where Spencer, now illuminated by your monitor once again, stood.
Grabbing his shirt between your hands and pulling him a step closer as you still sat, you practically screamed out your request.
Spencer Reid x gn!reader (also race and physical attributes are not specified)
Summary: Being a profiler means being able to read people, unfortunately for Spencer, that means the new agent knows exactly how touch starved he actually is.
Tags: friends to lovers, crush, physical contact as a love language.
A.n: I've started writing this two years ago and kept coming back trying to finish it, and now it is! Pls enjoy! (Also this may have been taken from the vault of my self-indulgent fics and there may be more where this one comes from)
masterlist
Like the best things in life, it started casually. A brush of shoulders while walking side by side, the brief contact of fingertips as he handed you a file, the warmth of his palm, heated by the mug he had just placed down on your desk, as it pressed over your trembling hand, a soft smile on his lips to match the sweet gesture.
The first thing you learned about Spencer Reid, upon your very first meeting, was that he had an aversion to touch. In particular, to the touch of strangers. This clarification was of extreme importance, because, as opposed as he was to people outside his inner circle, that same rule didn’t apply to those he considered part of it.
You had no way of knowing that, however, when the two of you were first introduced. The young doctor had awkwardly avoided your offer for a handshake with a small wave and an even smaller smile. Your cheeks had burned with the painful realization of your first faux pas, made right on your first day in the BAU.
So there you stood, in the middle of the bullpen, the introductions weren’t even over yet, and you had already failed to make a good impression. SSA Derek Morgan, the first to introduce himself upon your arrival, chuckled and patted your back. His voice gently informed you of pretty boy’s mysophobia and you exhaled, relieved.
Doctor Spencer Reid’s cheeks tinted pink and he scurried off to fill his mug with sugar and coffee.
It took you less than a week to notice the way the tall, lanky genius seemed to always reach for the others. His hands stretched out in the direction of whatever casual connection they could find. He seemed to unconsciously relish every contact: he’d cling to each spot on his skin that had successfully found someone else's warmth as his pink lips curled in the sweetest of smiles.
You saw the way Spencer seemed to beam every time Derek patted his back, or how he blushed when someone on the team playfully ruffled his hair.
Spencer Reid craved touch. He was a deeply un-cuddled individual, and you wanted nothing more than to finally enter his graces and give him just that: lots and lots of touch.
There was something both wonderful and daunting about being a profiler in a team of profilers. By the time you had realized he was severely touch-starved, he recognized in you an eagerness to please. You wanted to be a part of the team so badly, he could read it in each of your sweet smiles and sharp glances.
It started right on your first day: you were a little too friendly, your smile a little too open, trying to make up for the nervous fidgeting of your hands and the lack of familiarity for the team. Your eyes had lingered just a moment too long on him, choosing him as the one you’d focus the majority of your efforts on.
After all, who else was there? Hotch liked you enough to hire you, so there was no need to butter him up any further. Rossi had soon followed, accepting you with a kiss on the cheek and an invite for dinner. Garcia loved you the second she laid eyes on you, JJ soon following suit. It had taken just a couple of jokes and some playful banter to win over Derek and Emily.
Yet you still felt out of the group, a distant cousin coming into a close family’s gathering.
Spencer had been the most logical option. If you had Spencer, you were in. Officially in.
Like the best things in life, it started out slowly.
First things first: you infiltrated his morning rituals. Every day, Dr. Spencer Reid entered the bullpen at the same time, a book in his hands and a weary look in his eyes.
He put down his satchel by his desk and made his way to the coffee pot, moving completely on autopilot until the sugary concoction reached his parted lips.
You started making sure to always be present when he entered the bullpen. You waited for him in the kitchenette, slowly pouring yourself coffee, only to casually -very casually- offer to pour some in his empty mug as well.
He accepted -of course he did!- with a sheepish smile on his lips. His walls were slightly off in the morning, more bendy and pliable, and slowly but surely, they allowed you to successfully squeeze yourself into his everyday routine.
It took just a small push, from there, to take it a step further.
One day, Spencer arrived later than usual, a little worse for wear than usual.
He was standing in the kitchenette and rubbing his eyes, trying to wake himself up, when a cup of fresh coffee appeared right in front of him. Like magic, was the only thought his weary brain could form.
He looked up and found your warm smile greeting him. Your lips curled and opened to showcase your teeth, in the way he had found himself starting to grow so fond of in the past month. He had never noticed how your lips parted when you smiled before. Nor the way it made your eyes sparkle.
He spent far too much time just silently looking at your face, too sleepy to realize he hadn’t even thanked you yet. For a moment, it felt as though you two were trapped in a game of gazes, but then Penelope made her way into the office with an energetic “Happy Friday, my beautiful doves!” and the moment was suddenly lost.
He shook himself out of it and grabbed his cup, murmuring an embarrassed “Thank you”. It was merely a matter of milliseconds, but your fingers brushed against his and he felt his heart rate skyrocket. He quickly made his way back to the safety of his desk, his mind filling with flashes of that first, magical touch.
It wasn't until several hours later that Spencer realized something that stuck with him for the rest of the day: you remembered how he liked his coffee.
Like the best things in life, you knew it wouldn’t come cheap. If you wanted to get access to the list of people he allowed close, you had to put something of equal value on the line. You had to show vulnerability and prove yourself harmless. You had to act as if you were approaching a startled deer, rather than a seasoned profiler. Your hands had to be kept open and held high, palms in perfect view to show you weren’t holding any weapons.
Your movements were, inevitably, slow and intentional. Nothing was left to fate. After all, you couldn’t afford to let such a fickle force mess up with your plans.
You moved without haste.
It took months to gather up the courage to do more than the casual brushing of fingers as you handed him his mug in the mornings. Months of deliberately entering his personal space as if it were your own and, soon enough, Spencer stopped fighting it. He no longer shifted back whenever you passed by and his shoulder brushed with yours.
He accepted when your gentle fingers clung to his sweater as the two of you walked towards the jet after a particularly brutal case. It was such a small action you didn’t even realize that, in Spencer’s mind, the gesture registered as touch.
But it did.
His pulse rate picked up as his heart filled with warmth threatening to spill out of him. It felt electrifying to have someone so new openly seek him out in such a vulnerable condition. To actually have someone rely on him that way. He justified himself for enjoying your moment of weakness by painting himself as your rock. He had always thought of himself as kind, so how could he abandon you when you were in such a state?
He appreciated whenever you’d lean your head on his shoulder as he pretended to read on the jet. He was always too engrossed with the way the warmth emanating from your body infiltrated the layers of his clothes, to actually focus on the book in his hands. Too preoccupied with the weight of the trust you were putting in him, to actually make sense of the series of letters on each page. It felt familiar, in a way. Like it was meant to be. Like you and Spencer were always meant for these perfect little moments.
But above all these small gestures, above all the little things you did to gently nestle your way into his life, he welcomed one in specific: when you gently lathered his hands in lotion.
It was silly, really. After your first meeting, you had dutifully taken note of Spencer’s mysophobia, filing that information away to keep when it would’ve become useful again.
It took a few months into the job, when the autumn days got colder and the weather less forgiving.
Like the best things in life, it was a stroke of luck, and it took a while to adjust.
When you walked into the bullpen that morning, you were shivering in your duster coat, mentally cursing yourself for forgoing your warm scarf. As usual, you prepared Spencer’s coffee cup alongside yours, making sure to use the heat emanating from the mug to restore feeling in your fingers.
As usual, Spencer strode in a minute later, perfectly on time. It was just as you were handing him his coffee that you finally noticed it. You brushed against his knuckles to find cold, chapped skin underneath your fingertips. You snuck a glance and saw pretty boy’s hands being not-so-very-pretty.
Small cuts littered his skin, along his fingers. The mere sight made your heart shudder.
This wouldn’t do. You smiled, the way you did every morning, and got back to your desk, a plan already forming in your head.
The occasion arrived a few days later, as the team was called on a case. Sometime between the meeting in the office and the boarding on the plane, you had managed to snatch a seat near Spencer, on the couch. You made it look casual, careful not to be too obvious, and pulled out a tube of hand cream from your bag.
Your movements briefly attracted the attention of the genius by your side, but you pretended not to notice. Instead, you gestured towards the rest of the team. “Anyone want some?”
And as your eyes scanned the group, Spencer’s eyes hastily went back to his book, fingers trailing down the pages. After JJ and Emily accepted, you turned your focus towards him, internally smirking for what you thought was the most nonchalant performance you’ve ever given in front of an audience.
“Spencer?” You called for his attention, tube still in your hands.
He looked up and pursed his lips. Technically, sharing lotion would also mean spreading unnecessary germs, however his hands suddenly felt dry and chapped. Surely, exchanging bacteria one time couldn’t hurt that much… right?
After a moment of hesitation, he nodded and settled down his book to offer you his opened-up palm. You resisted the urge to just pull his hands in your lap and take care of them for him, and simply smiled softly.
One step at the time, you reminded yourself.
Taking it slow turned out to be a little harder than you expected. Spencer had some kind of gravitational pull that tugged right at your heartstrings. Your eyes followed his every movement, your mind kept track of his every shift in mood and expression.
You knew that, with time, he’d grow fonder of you, but you were sick with longing. You wanted him to get accustomed to your presence, but there was no telling how long it would take.
That’s how you found out you weren’t all that patient after all.
“You're doing it wrong!” You exclaimed, looking at the genius who was definitely not doing it wrong.
“How could I do it wrong? This is the optimal way to use hand cream to get most of the promised benefits.” He rebuked, turning up his nose.
“Nope,” you pulled his hands closer and he got startled for a second. “Let me show you, Spence, I promise I'll be fast.”
He sighed, seemingly resigned, but let you finish the job. It was an odd sensation, having someone caress his hands so tenderly. It felt almost… intimate.
He tried not to think about it too much. You were just being your friendly, slightly overbearing, self. You looked up at him and smiled. He relaxed a little. It was fine, surely you didn’t mean anything by it.
The next time it happened, he wasn’t all that startled, but he still pretended to be annoyed. He didn’t like how comforting it felt, how much of an impact you were starting to have on him.
Slowly, he started expecting it. He turned his head to look at you with his big doe eyes whenever you took your lotion out of your bag. It was starting to feel like routine, for the both of you.
You were presented with the next occasion shortly after: Spencer was sipping his third coffee of the day and you were about to take out your hand cream- when Hotch dragged you out of the police station to help with getting food for the team.
You didn’t mind hanging out with Hotch -even though he had temporarily interrupted your evil plan. Hotch had been the first person from the BAU to give you his stamp of approval, which, in his specific case, had consisted of a nod, a handshake and a simple “How do you feel about starting on Monday?”
He was driving back to the station while you were triple-checking the order to make sure you got everything.
“I know what you’re doing.” He stated simply, his voice pulled you right out of your thoughts. You just looked at him, confusion written in your features. He sighed half-heartedly and kept his gaze fixated on the road. “With Reid. I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” You replied, trying to continue playing dumb. He shot you a glance. Clearly, you had to work on your acting skills.
“Right.”
Silence filled the car once again, the only noise came from the outside traffic. You nervously tapped your fingers on your thigh. “I care about the team, Hotch.”
He could definitely read between the lines. The team leader moved his focus on parking the car. “Just fill out the forms if it becomes more than simple caring.”
If you had been on friendlier terms, you’d have probably stamped a kiss on his cheek. Alas, you went for a more appropriate approach and smiled brightly. “Of course! You won’t regret it, trust me!” And with that, you got out of the car.
As you stepped into the building, you were delighted to find Spencer, still exactly where you left him. He was staring at the map he had been working on the whole morning, coffee getting cold in his hands. The rest of the team noticed you coming in first and they merrily gathered around the table as you started passing the food around. The noise caught his attention and his eyes searched for yours.
You grabbed his lunch and made your way to his seat, a bright smile on your lips. “Here’s your food, pretty boy.”
A light pink made its way onto his cheeks, and he averted your gaze, grabbing the plate off of your hands. There was a brief contact, a brush of fingers. It was enough to make your skin tingle.
You shrugged the feeling off, not wanting to attract too much attention on your unrequited little crush. You forced yourself to just stop looking at him, and, thankfully, his empty cup caught your attention.
Within a couple of seconds, it was in your hands and you were on your way to the coffee machine. An officer greeted you, asking about the case with a smile that did not match the seriousness of the crimes, and before you knew it, you were trapped in small talk. Spencer’s cup was abandoned on the counter, right in front of the coffee machine.
Spencer’s eyes never left you. You could feel the burning of his gaze as it lingered on the back of your head, but you didn’t pay it any mind.
You smiled at the officer, at first, purely out of courtesy -as an FBI agent you were instructed to be amicable and polite in these circumstances- but then, as the small talk turned more to a more friendly chat, you found yourself genuinely smiling, parting your lips to flash your teeth.
Spencer felt a pang of pain in his chest as he watched you interact with the officer. The man made you laugh, but he could tell it wasn't the polite chuckle you used when talking with strangers. It was your special laugh, the real one, the one Spencer had wrongly assumed belonged to him, and him only. He didn’t fully understand what was happening inside of him, but he hated it. He felt weird.
It didn’t help that the rest of the team seemed to have caught on his feelings before him. Derek looked at him, then at you and the officer, and turned right back to Spencer, his light chuckle ringing in the air. “I see you got some competition, lover boy.”
Spencer stood up all of a sudden, tissues crumbled in his hands, and hurried out. He passed right by you, but didn’t even glance your way. You shot a confused look at his back and excused yourself from the officer.
“What was that about?” Before you could actually stop and think about it, you got dragged into a conversation by Emily and Derek. Both profilers were far too busy teasing and joking around to notice the slight slump in your shoulders the minute the object of your interest had left the room.
When Spencer finally came back, his fingertips and knuckles were red, skin tight and chapped. You briefly wondered how long he had been scrubbing his hands, but quickly shooed those thoughts away. You didn’t want to inconvenience him too much, or put him on the spot by bringing up the poor state of his hands.
However, this was the perfect opportunity to advance your mission.
As soon as Spencer sat down, you got back to your seat with a big smile on your face. You started rummaging through your bag again, pulling out the cream and reaching out to grab his hands. He pulled back, making you frown. “Spencer, your hands are- just let me-”
He interrupted you right away. “Stop! Stop fussing over me like I’m a kid. I don’t need a babysitter.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he had fucked up but it was too late. Your eyes widened and you closed your mouth. “Sorry,” you whispered quickly. You turned your head away, silently gathered your things, and moved to the other side of the room. Spencer felt his heart drop at your reaction, but it was too late to take it back now.
For the rest of the case, you made a conscious effort not to bug Spencer in any way, shape or form. Instead, you focused your energies on catching the unsub and strengthening your bond with the rest of the team.
You caught him looking at you multiple times, his eyes looked sad, but you didn't pay it any mind. You still felt guilty about pushing his boundaries to the point of making him snap. How could you act like nothing had happened?
On the jet, on the way back, instead of settling next to him as you usually did, you followed Derek to the side table, where he and Emily were about to play cards. Spencer could only watch in horror as you hugged Prentiss, smashing your cheek against hers and laughing at one of Derek's flirty jabs. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the happy scene. Had you always been so close to the rest of the team? Was your attention something you gave freely, without second thought? Was he not as important to you as he thought he was?
The realization stung.
A few days later, Spencer came to work and found a hand cream sitting on his desk. He looked around the bullpen, eyes scanning the space to find the culprit. Of course, he found you. “What's this?”
He nervously glanced back at the foreign object, eyebrows raised in suspicion.
You shrugged. “I didn't want to bother you with my continuous fussing, and I know how you are about germs. This way, everyone's happy.”
Spencer felt his heart drop. This would not make him happy. It was a disaster!
His mouth opened to object. Nothing came out.
He was too embarrassed to admit to the pain your gift was subjecting him to. Before he could properly sit down and overanalyze his grief over the loss of yet another form of casual contact, a whirlwind of worries started taking over his line of thoughts: did you no longer want to lend him your own lotion? Did you think him a cheapskate, always mooching off your kindness? Were you tired of motioning for him to hand you his hands? Were you done with caressing his skin the way you did, so caringly and so tenderly? But, most important of all, were you done with him?
He looked at you with his big, sad eyes, pupils blown out of proportion and lips curled into the saddest of pouts. He resembled a puppy who had just been benignly reprimanded by its owner. The dog couldn’t understand that he wasn’t being punished. In his mind, this was a step closer to getting abandoned. Distress was written in capital letters all over his features.
His body language took you by surprise. You were sure, after all, that the sweet doctor was done with letting you push him around. You had poked and prodded his limits, and thought you had finally defined them.
Spencer -sweet, kind Spencer- would let you cling to him after a case and rest your head on his shoulder on the jet, but he couldn’t get accustomed to regular contact. Sure, your fingers brushed on the daily, but that was completely different to what you had been doing recently.
Grabbing his hands and pulling them close, only to gently spread cold lotion on his dry skin was too much, too intimate.
Or at least that's what you thought.
He cleared his voice, trying to string together enough words to make a sentence. What came out of his parted lips, however, sounded much more pitiful than intended. “I-... I won’t be happy this way.” Your name fell out of his lips, spoken with such immense and unexpected tenderness, it shot an arrow right through your heart.
“Oh,” was all you managed to say, mind still reeling from the unexpected confession. “I guess, I’ll just, uhm- we’ll just continue doing what we were doing before?” You fumbled through your words, even letting your sentence turn into an hesitating question. You looked up at the man, who simply nodded. A small smile decorated his lips, a gentle blush heated up his cheeks.
Like the best things in life, it came in a set of three.
While many believe it’s misfortune the one who always comes in threes, you had found out that, with Spencer, it was luck that required company.
Garcia invited everyone over for movie night. Her cheerful attitude was a healing salve after all the gruesome cases and you were more than happy to accept your first official invite to one of the team’s infamous hangouts.
You showed up right on time, and with a batch of freshly-made cookies. Garcia beamed as she opened the door. “Oh dearest, you’re here!” She quickly invited you inside. Her eyes fell on the box in your hands and she squealed. “And you brought cookies!”
Her excitement was contagious, and you found yourself shedding the last remains of your nerves and leaving them outside her door.
Turns out, your gut feeling was correct and something did go wrong, but in the best way possible. Once everyone showed up and started settling down in Garcia’s living room, a terrible realization came to pass: there weren’t enough seats for everyone. You were the odd one out.
You looked around, your body stiffening. Everybody was seated, busy chatting and joking around, completely absorbed by their conversations. Only Spencer was looking at you, warm, sweet, kind Spencer seemed like he was trying to decide how to intervene without making it too awkward for you.
He stood up from his armchair and moved aside to let you sit. The team eyed the both of you, ready to tease the boy for his kindness. He tried to wave it off, shrinking a bit into himself, but it was too late.
“Look at you, pretty boy, being such a gentleman!" Derek sneered, getting a light swat on the arm by Penelope. “Oh, c’mon. Spencer was just being kind!” She glared at Derek for a moment, a silent conversation in the exchange of a few glances. Derek raised his hand in defeat, a big smirk on his face. “Now sit down, the movie is starting!”
Spencer had no choice but to settle down on the carpet, his back against your legs. You could feel his warmth, the material of his dress shirt against your skin. It felt exhilarating and terrifying all at once. You tried to shift your focus to the movie, with little success.
How could you not pay attention to the man next to you? His soft curls tickled your knees with every slight movement.
At some point -and you were ready to swear it under oath- your hands accidentally came in contact with that glorious head of curls of his, and, since he didn’t seem to mind, your hands -not you! Your hands- started to gently brush his hair. Your finger played with it until the movie came to an end.
You were almost annoyed by how quickly time flew by, but you hastily retreated your hands in the hopes of avoiding getting caught.
Surprisingly, no one mentioned it that night.
Even more surprisingly, you didn’t pursue this until he explicitly asked you to, cornering you in the kitchen area of the bullpen, in a hushed tone. He purposefully looked at you with his eyes filled with all the silent sadness he could muster. Oh, he knew your weak spots: he truly resembled a sad puppy, and you just had to agree.
It was startling, at first, for Spencer, to find himself seeking out that kind of attention from you. See, he had always been on the fence about opening up and asking for help when he needed it, even more so after he convinced himself he could live life as it was, with those casual touches and rare hugs that the team dragged him into every now and then.
So, when he finally came to terms with the fact that his eyes set on you after he did a good job, with a specific kind of expectation in mind, he stopped pretending to be above it and started to actually play into it.
Spencer had known from the beginning why you had a soft spot for him, specifically. It was obvious, to the young genius, why you had chosen him among your coworkers to befriend. After all, he knew he’d be the easiest to latch onto. Or at least that was what he thought was the reason you chose him above everyone else.
After a while, he had stopped fighting it; instead, he started accepting- appreciating- craving it. And that’s when he decided to tell you.
You shook your head, you couldn’t believe what Spencer was saying. “Is that why you thought I did this?” You looked so hurt, so offended.
Confusion and distress crumpled your face and Spencer took a step back. Had he been wrong after all? All this time… had he been misinterpreting you?
“That's what you thought I was doing?” The disappointment in your voice was crystal clear. You frowned, your words started coming out jumbled up, your voice breaking. “Then why- why would you let me? You thought I was using you, Spencer? I-”
You pressed your lips closed in a straight line.
You were upset with him. That was not his intention. He had imagined telling you he knew why you were so nice to him countless times, and, each time, in his mind, you seemed relieved. You wouldn't have to work on buttering him up any longer. He'd freed you with the truth. You'd smile and pat his shoulder -one last, glorious touch- and thank him for freeing you, for not forcing this any longer.
Clearly, he had been wrong. Dead wrong, looking at the way you were refusing to even look at him. He knew your eyes were filled with tears. He could tell from the way your shoulder slouched over and your head hung low. So why was his heart shattering, not for your tears, but for the fact you were robbing him of the chance to see them?
He knew he could survive well enough without your touch, but without your eyes on him? Certain death. He could not bear it.
You had managed to do it: you spoiled Dr. Spencer Reid so rotten, he could not live in a world where you refused to look at him.
He gathered up all the courage he could muster and took a step in your direction.
The first time he actively sought your affection felt exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time. The logical part of him knew there was no risk of rejection. He knew you liked physical contact, even going as far as seeking it out from the other profilers in the team.
However, the possibility you’d pull away was driving him insane, lacing his nerves with anxious electricity.
You hugged him back right away.
Spencer was too stunned to speak at first, frozen in the embrace. A light turned on in his brain: he craved touch. Your touch, to be specific. He leaned over, his arms engulfing you in the sweetest of hugs. There was an underlying, muted desperation in the way the man was clinging to you. It was as if the mere possibility of you pulling away was painful. His head soon found its place in the spot where neck and shoulder connect. Spencer burrowed his face right there. You could feel his warm breath brushing against your skin. You held onto him tighter, as he melted into the embrace.
You let out a relieved gasp: finally, Spencer Reid trusted you. He trusted you to be near him at his most vulnerable.
After a while, he pulled back.
Spencer’s pretty face was scrunched up in a little frown. “This is all new to me.”
Your fingers faltered for a moment as they brushed aside his hair, messing up his soft curls. You tilted your head down, to look at him properly, curiosity painting your cheeks pink and making your eyes sparkle. “What is?”
“Being happy,” he answered simply. His features relaxed, he sank further into your touch, abandoning any past weariness under your gentle hands.
Like the best things in life, victory tastes sweeter with him by your side.
Firm believer that sometimes you just have to say “fuck it, my writing is good enough” and post, or you’ll spend forever trying to improve it. When you’re a perfectionist, your writing will never be perfect, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t good.
hiii pls for halloween: Spencer and ditzy/unconventional reader have been sleeping together, Spencer thinks they’re dating and in love, reader thinks they’re just having sex, but he does something for her that makes her realise he’s in love
You’re used to this. Used to men liking you, but only over the phone, only in the dark, only in the bars five miles away from home. You know what it’s like to fuck someone for nothing, not a scrap of affection, no sweetness or softness involved, so when things start with Spencer and he’s kind to you afterwards, you’re a dog to a bone. You go crazy for a hint of love.
Spencer’s pushing the hair back from your face. His eyes are on the TV and he’s got a hand curled around your thigh that speaks to what you’re expecting from him, but he’s not touching you like that.
The hair falls in your eyes and he pushes it back. It falls into your eyes, again and again, jostled by his hand pushing it back and gravity letting it tip back down, tickling your face. It’s a motion. He’s not moving it aside to see you better, he’s not looking at you, but he’s stroking your forehead up to your hair as though it’s important to do. He fumbles with the remote, and he lets go of your thigh rather than your head. Soft touching. You’re basically numb.
You doze some in the corner of the couch, your legs dead weight in his lap. He just keeps on stroking your face, arm wrapped skewiff behind your head to cross frontwards, a tented novel crinkling in his lap.
It’s an unsure amount of time later when you wake up and find him in the exact same position. His hand is still going, though slower, and the room is dark. The TV is off. Your eyes ache when they open but Spencer’s only sat there scrolling through his phone. You shift your head, must shift in your sleep, because Spencer doesn’t look up. He clicks on to an article and hums under his breath.
You try to read the lines through blurry eyes. He reads so quickly you can’t keep up, until he pauses.
… your girlfriend falling asleep on you doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all. She might be tired, or stressed, or sick. Or, she might just trust you enough to sleep where she is. Try not to worry, but always contact your physician should you deem it necessary.
He scrolls onto the comments.
You stare at the side of his face. He looks concerned, now you know what he’s reading. His eyebrows are pulled together tightly. He isn’t angry you fell asleep here, how many times have you apologised for overstaying your welcome and been met with outright confusion? No, he’s worrying about you.
The article got things right, you realise. You do feel safe with him. You trust Spencer to let you rest.
You close your eyes and make a light little sigh that’s fake and not half as guttural as your usual waking grunts. “Spence,” you whine under your breath.
“What?” he asks, quiet but worried, obviously so.
“Keep rubbing my head?”
He turns into you —onto you, pulling your head toward his face. He presses a touch of a kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Oh, sorry, angel,” as he continues his ministrations.
“This is nice.”
He nods against your head. “It’s perfect.”
“Can I stay?”
“You don’t… don’t ever have to leave, I always tell you that.”
“Sorry, I…” didn’t realise, you think, puffing out a breath too close to his face, wrapping your arms around him in a cuddle he didn’t sign up for but apparently wants from you dearly. “I wanna stay.”
“Then stay,” he stresses. “Please, you don’t have to go home tonight. Stay, and sleep. I’ll make breakfast in the morning and we can go and get you, like, everything you need. Just stay.”
You smile, pushing up to line his jaw with kisses, slow ones that don’t end before they start again, a row of them on the slight scratch of stubble.
