synopsis: after seven years of friendship, spencer finally introduces you to his team. unfortunately, they're all very good at their jobs.
word count: 4.5k
content: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, mutual pining, everyone knows but them, seven years of accidental courtship, the BAU drawing one very reasonable conclusion, alcohol consumption, fluff
Spencer changes his mind about bringing you somewhere between ringing the bell and Rossi opening the front door.
“We can still leave,” he says, leaning closer and lowering his voice as though someone might overhear him, despite the empty porch.
“You spent three weeks convincing me to come.”
“I know.” He glances towards the house, and you watch the implications of what he’s done catch up with him. “I may not have thought this through.”
You follow his gaze to the nearest window. The curtain falls back into place with such violent innocence that you can practically hear Penelope Garcia denying everything from the other side.
“She’s been waiting there?”
“Possibly.”
“How long?”
Spencer glances at his watch. “We’ve only been here for forty-three seconds.”
“And she’s already frightened you into retreat.”
“I’m not frightened.” His mouth pulls to one side, though his eyes stray to the curtain again. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
You look back at him. He’s dressed slightly better than the occasion requires, which is normal enough that you noticed only in passing when he arrived at your flat. His tie is patterned but subdued, and his hair keeps falling forwards no matter how often he pushes it away. His coat is still unbuttoned despite the January cold; he began telling you about Rossi’s cooking before you made it out of your building and apparently forgot there were buttons involved.
The knot of his tie has worked its way a little to the left. You reach up to straighten it. “I’m comfortable.”
His attention drops to your hands. “You’re cold.”
“I’m standing outside in January.”
“You loosened the scarf.”
“It made me look like I was being strangled by a blanket.”
“It’s cashmere.”
You glance down at the loosened scarf. “I know. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t aggressive.”
Spencer’s smile spreads slowly, warm and crooked and bright enough to make you forget the weather for a second. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“You understood me.”
“I usually do.”
The door opens before you can answer. Rossi takes in the two of you on his porch — your fingers still resting against Spencer’s tie, Spencer standing close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushes yours — and lets his eyes linger on your hand before returning to Reid.
“Reid.” He steps aside. “And you must be the woman who stole his seat.”
You turn on Spencer. “You told him that?”
“It’s how we met.”
“That’s not how we met.”
Rossi accepts your coat. You unwind the scarf and hold it out without looking; Spencer takes it automatically, hanging it beside your coat while he continues to regard you with the stubborn composure of someone who possesses an eidetic memory and has appointed himself sole custodian of the past.
“There was a programme on the chair,” he says.
“There was rubbish on the chair.”
“It was the programme for the lecture.”
“Which had already started.”
“That doesn’t make it rubbish.”
Rossi closes the door behind you. “You can argue the case over dinner. I’ve heard Reid’s testimony several times.”
You follow him into the hall, looking sideways at Spencer. “How many times have you told this story?”
“It comes up more often than you’d think.”
Before you can ask how a disagreement over auditorium seating could possibly come up at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, someone makes a small, delighted noise at the end of the hallway.
Garcia appears in a sweep of colour, bracelets and barely restrained curiosity. “You’re real.”
“Garcia,” Spencer warns.
“I never suggested she wasn’t.” She reaches you and takes both your hands, looking you over with such open pleasure that it’s impossible to feel inspected. “I’m Penelope. I have been waiting so patiently to meet you that I think I deserve official recognition from the Bureau.”
“You sent me four messages this afternoon,” Spencer says.
Garcia dismisses this with a flick of her bracelets. “And every one of them was supportive.”
“One of them was nine exclamation marks.”
She hugs you before you have decided whether handshakes are still an option. Over her shoulder, you find Spencer watching you, ready to intervene and relieved when he sees he doesn’t have to. He knows you have never enjoyed entering a room full of strangers. He also knows that Garcia has rendered strangers impossible within thirty seconds.
Morgan comes around the corner carrying two bottles of wine. “So this is who’s been taking up all your Thursdays.”
Spencer’s head turns. “She doesn’t take them up.”
“You make that sound worse,” you tell him.
“I mean, I choose to spend them with you.”
Morgan’s eyebrows rise. “And disappear before anyone can give you another file.”
Spencer has already turned back to you, taking the bag from your shoulder before you have to hitch it back into place.
“I leave work at a reasonable time on Thursdays,” he adds. “That isn’t disappearing.”
“You texted me from the lift last week saying, ‘I escaped.’”
“They’d already given me three,” he says, as though this settles the choice of verb.
Morgan studies the two of you for another second, then gives you a slow nod. “You’re going to fit in fine.”
The rest of the introductions happen in Rossi’s living room, where the fire is lit and every available surface has acquired either a glass or a plate. JJ greets you with an easy warmth that eases the last of your nerves. Hotch is more reserved, although the handshake he offers comes with a sincere, “It’s good to finally meet you.”
Between the BAU’s cases and your own habit of declining invitations to crowded gatherings, finally becomes the common thread of the evening. Oddly, the feeling is mutual. Spencer has been talking about his team for seven years, long enough that you sometimes forget you’ve never actually met any of them. Tara, seated on the arm of a chair, tells you that she has only known Spencer for a few months and has somehow still heard enough about you to recognise your name immediately.
You look at him. “What have you been telling these people?”
“Not much.”
Morgan sets the wine beside Rossi’s decanter. “He brings you up more than he thinks he does.”
“Only when something reminds me of her,” Spencer says.
“So whenever anyone sits in a chair,” you say.
“Only if they sit in my seat.”
“That wasn’t your seat.”
Tara looks between you. “I’m beginning to see how you two have kept an argument about a chair going for seven years.”
“Seven years, two months and six days,” Spencer corrects.
You’re accustomed to this. Spencer remembers the first time you met, the first film you watched together and the day you discovered the little bookshop that now holds a hard-won place in your Thursday routine. He remembers what you ordered the first time you dragged him to your favourite café and exactly which joke made you choke on it. None of it has ever seemed remarkable when it’s simply the way his mind works and the shape your life has taken around his. Across the room, JJ’s gaze rests on him for a moment before returning to you.
“That’s Spencer,” you say, because it is.
“It is,” JJ agrees, a small smile tucked into the words, and Rossi calls everyone to the table before you can work out what she finds funny.
He has prepared enough food for twice as many people and accepts praise as his due. The conversation moves easily around you, propelled by the overlapping stories of people who spend too much time together. Morgan disputes Rossi’s version of an arrest in Baltimore; JJ supplies the part both men have omitted. Tara waits until they have nearly finished before revealing that Garcia showed her the security footage and neither account is accurate.
At the head of the table, Hotch listens with the patience of a man who has long since accepted that authority has limits.
As everyone gathers around the table, Spencer rests a hand on the back of an empty chair. You slip into it without either of you acknowledging the gesture, and he takes the seat to your right, tucking your bag safely beside his feet.
The conversation follows everyone to the table, breaking and reforming as chairs are pulled in and Rossi begins sending dishes around. When the bread reaches Spencer, he selects the darker end piece before handing you the basket. He’s looking down at his plate, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You dig beneath the slices for the remaining end and set it on your plate.
“Did you just take that?”
He arranges his face into innocence. “Take what?”
“You know I like the end.”
“There are two ends.”
“You took the better one.”
“They’re structurally identical.”
“They absolutely are not.”
He lets you make your case, then exchanges his piece for the one on your plate with the ease of a ritual completed many times before. You tear the bread in half and put half back on his plate, which is when you notice Tara watching from across the table, amusement gathering at one corner of her mouth.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing.” She reaches for her wine. “I’m learning.”
Spencer leans nearer to you. “About bread?”
You give him a look and take a bite. He glances across at Tara, clearly tempted to investigate.
“Don’t make the face,” you warn.
“What face?”
“The one you make before asking a question that adds twenty minutes to a conversation.”
Spencer turns to you, brow furrowed and mouth pulled into a small, dubious line. “I don’t have a face for that.”
“You do,” JJ says from his other side.
Morgan points his fork at her. “He definitely does.”
Spencer appeals to Hotch, who takes a measured drink of wine. “You do.”
The table breaks into laughter, Spencer along with it. His head tips back, his eyes close, and the smile opens across his face without the flicker of self-consciousness that sometimes follows when he realises a room is watching him. You know the quieter laugh he uses when he’s trying not to encourage you, the startled one that escapes when you catch him off guard, the breathless, helpless version that makes him fold forwards and hide his face. This one is easy and bright. He looks happy.
You are still watching when he turns back. The laughter remains in his eyes as his expression shifts into a question, and only then do you notice the small streak of sauce near the corner of his mouth.
“Hold still.” You wipe it away with your thumb before it occurs to you that a napkin would have done the job just as well.
His lips part at the touch. For a second, the noise of the table seems to move around the two of you, then you drop your hand and reach for your glass. By the time Spencer does the same, Morgan has turned the conversation towards Rossi’s wine.
Later, once the plates have been cleared and Rossi produces a tiramisu large enough to require architectural planning, Garcia asks how you and Spencer became friends after what she calls the Auditorium Incident.
“She followed me outside,” Spencer says.
“You followed me.” You turn towards him, eyebrows raised at the version of events he has chosen to present. “Apparently handing me a pen and saying ‘Here’ was supposed to communicate a short-term loan.”
“I thought it was obvious.”
Morgan rests an elbow on the table. “Was this at least a good pen?”
“No. It leaked all over my hand.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell her when she walked away.”
JJ glances between you. “So you followed a woman out of a lecture hall over a defective pen?”
“I didn’t follow her,” Spencer says, a little too quickly. “She was walking towards the Metro.”
“I was walking towards coffee. He spent three blocks correcting a route I wasn’t taking.”
Garcia presses both hands to her heart. “And he came with you.”
“It had started raining,” Spencer says.
JJ looks at him. “You hate coffee shops.”
“They’re usually loud.”
“That one was,” you say. “You stayed after the rain stopped anyway.”
He looks at you, momentarily caught without a correction. His knee has rested against yours beneath the table for most of the conversation, warm and solid through two layers of clothing. “You were interesting.”
The answer is simple, offered without embarrassment. Before you can decide what to do with it, Rossi cuts into the tiramisu. “And the rest is seven years, two months and six days of arguing.”
“We don’t always argue,” Spencer says.
“You called me at midnight last week because my bookshelf leans.”
“It leans towards your bed.”
“Protectively.”
He gives you a long, suffering look. “It’s going to fall on you.”
Hotch hides a smile behind his wine. “He may have a point.”
“Thank you,” Spencer says, vindicated, and you promise the table that when he appears at your flat with a spirit level, they are all invited to help him.
The evening loosens after dessert. Rossi opens another bottle of wine, Morgan finds music, and people drift between the living room and kitchen as the conversation divides into smaller pieces. You spend a while talking to JJ and Tara near the fire. Spencer is pulled into a discussion with Hotch on the other side of the room, but his attention returns to you often enough that you begin to anticipate it. You look up, and his eyes are already there.
He never stares. His gaze finds yours, checks, and returns to the conversation. When Garcia drops onto the sofa beside you with enough force to send your glass wobbling, his hand lifts from across the room before you catch it yourself.
You raise the rescued glass in his direction. He smiles, lets his hand fall and turns back to Hotch.
Between the fire and the overlapping voices, the room soon grows too warm. You finish what remains in your glass, leave it on the side table beside Garcia and slip through the doors onto the back terrace. At the stone railing, you draw one full breath of cold air before the door opens behind you.
“You’re going to say you told me so,” you say.
Spencer settles your coat over your shoulders. “I was going to ask why you came outside without this.” He draws the fabric closed at your throat, making sure your hair stays clear of the collar.
“Same sentiment.”
“Not exactly.”
You turn before he has taken his hands away, leaving the two of you close enough that his hands slide down to your elbows instead. Through the glass doors, Garcia is looking directly at you. Morgan comes up beside her, follows her gaze and says something you can’t hear.
“What are they doing?”
Spencer glances over his shoulder. Both of them disappear from the window.
“I don’t know.”
“They’re very strange.”
“They like you.”
His certainty draws your attention back to him. “They’ve known me for three hours.” You reconsider this, glancing towards the living room. “Then again, Garcia gave me copies of your childhood photographs.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “She gave you copies?”
“And made me promise Morgan would never see them. You were very serious about that chess trophy.”
Spencer smiles, small and pleased. “That means she trusts you.”
You laugh, and his thumbs shift against the sleeves of your coat. The movement is small, nearly absent-minded. You have held his hand through turbulence, hooked an arm through his in crowded streets and fallen asleep against his shoulder during films neither of you remembers finishing. This belongs to the same familiar language, a touch whose meaning has never required either of you to stop and examine it.
You rest your hands against the front of his jacket. “I like them too.”
The line of his shoulders softens. “I knew you would.”
“Even Morgan.”
“That’s premature.”
The door opens, and Morgan sticks his head outside. “We can hear you, genius.”
Spencer looks back at him without removing his hands from your arms. “She said she likes you.”
“I heard the rest too.” Morgan gives you a wounded look before retreating inside.
Spencer’s grin is immediate and entirely unrepentant. It stays with him as you go back indoors together, his hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades. Once the doors close, he eases the coat from your shoulders before the heat can become uncomfortable and carries it back to the hall.
It’s close to midnight when people begin leaving. Hotch goes first, followed shortly by JJ. Morgan hugs you and tells you to come back even if Reid doesn’t, Garcia informs him that threatening a guest is poor etiquette and then hugs you twice as hard. By the time Tara finds her coat, Spencer is helping Rossi carry glasses into the kitchen, although the discussion drifting down the hallway suggests that helping involves an argument about the safest way to store crystal.
“It was lovely meeting you,” Tara says. She loops her scarf around her neck, then glances towards the kitchen with affectionate amusement. “I understand now why he keeps disappearing on Thursdays.”
“He’ll be pleased you believe it counts as disappearing.”
“I’m sure he’ll explain the distinction to me at length on Monday.” She reaches for the door, then pauses. “I’ll admit, I was confused at first. Reid talks about you all the time, but he never mentioned you were his girlfriend.”
The word is gentle, tossed into the conversation without any reason to be careful with it.
“His girlfriend?”
Tara looks back at you. The realisation reaches her a moment later. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought the two of you were together.”
Behind her, Garcia stops rearranging the bracelets on her wrist.
“No.” The answer comes automatically. It is a simple fact. You and Spencer have never crossed that line or even discussed it. The rest ought to follow just as easily. Instead, we’re just friends catches somewhere behind your teeth, suddenly too small to account for seven years of Thursdays and everything the others have been watching all evening. The evening begins moving through your mind again, Rossi opening the door to find your hand on Spencer’s tie, Morgan’s eyebrows when he said Spencer chose to spend Thursdays with you, JJ’s quiet smile, Tara watching the bread pass between your plates, Garcia and Morgan vanishing from the terrace window. “It’s not like that. We’re not—”
“You ready?”
Spencer comes down the hallway with your bag in one hand. His attention passes from your face to Tara’s and then to Garcia, who has become far too interested in her bracelets.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Tara says, recovering first. “I was saying goodnight.”
You can’t find the end of the sentence you were saying. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
He holds your coat while you slip your arms into it and frees your hair from beneath the collar with practised fingers. The touch is the same one you have barely noticed a hundred times. Now the word girlfriend seems to catch against it.
Rossi appears at the end of the hallway. He surveys Tara, whose hand is still on the door, Garcia valiantly looking elsewhere and Spencer adjusting your scarf. “Goodnight,” he says, much too entertained for someone who can’t possibly know what has just happened.
By the time the two of you reach the Metro, Spencer has filled the walk with an account of Rossi insisting tiramisu can’t be made properly without alcohol. He talks while you wait on the platform and keeps going once you’re inside the carriage. The earliest known versions of the dessert lead to the disputed origins of ladyfingers, which somehow bring him back to the argument about stacking Rossi’s crystal.
Usually, you interrupt. You ask questions, argue over details or tug him back to the original point when one tangent begins producing another. Tonight, you watch his reflection in the darkened window while he talks. His curls have grown increasingly disordered over the course of the evening, and one falls across his forehead whenever he turns towards you. Interest animates his whole face — his eyes brighten, his hands move with the rhythm of his words, and every trace of fatigue leaves him for as long as the thought holds him.
You know all of this because you have always known him. What it does to you when he turns that attention on you is hardly new; the part you have never allowed yourself to question is what any of it means from his side. A room full of profilers watched the two of you for a few hours and assumed they already knew. Tara gave that assumption a name, and now every small, familiar thing seems to return carrying the possibility with it.
When the train lurches around a curve, Spencer’s hand closes lightly around your forearm. He releases you once you are steady, still talking. You feel the place his fingers were long after the warmth is gone.
Outside the station, the pavement is damp from an earlier rain, catching the streetlights in long, blurred reflections. Spencer slows his stride to yours without acknowledging the adjustment. He has glanced at you more than once since the train pulled away, waiting at the end of a sentence as though he expects you to tug the conversation elsewhere, and each time he has gone on when you don’t. You’re only a few blocks from home when his explanation of why Rossi’s crystal glasses should never be stacked trails off.
“Everything okay?” His words soften as he studies your face. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets you have the answer. You make it another half-block before a disbelieving laugh slips out.
“What?”
You shake your head. “Did you know Tara thought we were dating?”
A smile begins at one corner of his mouth. “What?”
“Yeah.” Saying it aloud makes you unexpectedly shy. You push your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “Apparently everyone did.”
You expect him to laugh. You expect him to question the team’s observational abilities or reconstruct the evidence that led them there. Instead, the smile falters as something you cannot read moves through his expression, and for the first time all evening Spencer has nothing to say.
At the corner, he waits for the light with his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders drawn in against the cold. The unfinished explanation about Rossi’s glasses hangs somewhere behind you.
“Spence?” You bump your arm against his. “Got really quiet there for a minute.”
He looks at you, then towards the signal as it changes. “Did you correct her?”
You start across the street beside him. “I tried. Then you came over.”
“What were you going to say?”
“That it wasn’t like that. That we weren’t…”
“Dating,” he supplies.
“Right.”
He nods, but the silence returns. You reach the other pavement and stop. Spencer takes one more step before noticing you are no longer beside him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re being strange.”
“I’m not.”
“You abandoned a fact halfway through.”
“I can finish it.”
“I don’t want to hear about the glasses anymore.”
His eyebrows lift. “Then why did you bring them up?”
“Spencer.”
He goes still. For a moment he simply looks at you, his hair untidy from the wind, a nervous half-smile appearing and disappearing at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, each word sounds measured.
“I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”
Your pulse stumbles. “What was?”
He doesn’t answer with words. His gaze holds yours, open enough that you can see the question he’s too careful to ask and the truth he has already let escape.
“Oh,” you say. Everything you have been turning over since Rossi’s house settles into place at once. Spencer is still watching you with nervous hope, and Tara’s mistake no longer feels entirely like one.
Spencer glances down at the wet pavement, then back at you, waiting.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says quietly, holding your gaze this time.
For several seconds, all you can do is stare at him. “Spencer, I rearranged my entire week so I could keep Thursdays free for you.”
He blinks. “You said Thursday was convenient.”
“It’s convenient. I made it convenient.”
“For me?” he asks, still sounding uncertain enough to make you want to shake him.
You let out a breath and catch the lapels of his coat. “Yes. For you.”
Then you pull him down and kiss him.
The first touch of your mouth to his goes awry only because Spencer inhales at exactly the wrong moment. His body stills beneath your hands. You feel the startled warmth of his breath, the edge of his lower lip and the smallest movement as he begins to respond — just before nerves get the better of you and you draw back.
His eyes stay closed for another second. When they open, he stares at you, lips parted.
“Because I wanted Thursdays with you,” you say, still holding his coat. “And because I think I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I realised.”
His gaze searches your face. “You’ve wanted this too?”
“Yes, Spence.”
Relief breaks across his face as one of his hands finds your waist, tentative only until you lean into it.
“Then why did you stop?” he asks.
A nervous laugh slips out. “You went completely still.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me.” His fingers curl into your coat and bring you a little closer. “I am now.”
You kiss him again.
This time Spencer meets you halfway. One hand settles against the side of your neck, his thumb fitting beneath your jaw, while the other draws you in at the waist. He kisses you slowly at first, learning the angle, and then with an eagerness that makes you smile against his mouth. His answering laugh is breathless, one you have never heard before and already know you will want to hear again.
When the cold finally makes itself impossible to ignore, you part only far enough to breathe. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, his breath still unsteady.
“Garcia is going to be unbearable,” you whisper.
“She’s going to say she knew.”
“She did know.”
Spencer closes his eyes. “Please don’t tell her that.”
You laugh and smooth the curl the wind has dropped between his eyebrows. He catches your hand as you lower it, keeping your fingers curled inside his.
“Are Thursdays still mine?” he asks.
“They’re still yours.”
He keeps hold of your hand as you begin walking again, his thumb moving over your knuckles while his shoulder keeps brushing yours. He makes it almost half a block before speaking.
“Friday,” he says.
“What about it?”
“Are you free?”
“No.”
His disappointment is immediate. “Oh.”
You let him endure it until you reach the next streetlight. “But I can move things.”
summary - The game is simple. Two players. One gun. One bullet. One winner. When an investigation into a sadistic serial killer takes a devastating turn, both you and BAU Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner find yourselves trapped in a subterranean nightmare, chained by your ankles to the floor of an abandoned swimming pool. As the killer broadcasts your capture live to a horrified Quantico bullpen, days of freezing cold, psychological degradation, and impossible choices force the professional barriers you’ve maintained for years to completely shatter. Stripped of rank, authority, and any hope of easy rescue, you must navigate a sadistic game of survival where refusing to pull the trigger means risking everything, and where surviving the darkness requires finally facing the feelings you’ve kept buried for far too long. The choice is yours, Agents. Kill. Or be killed.
word count - 17k
content warnings - bau!reader, kidnapped reader and Aaron, forced nudity, humiliation, descriptions of injury and blood, s3 characters, physical violence. I always write Hotch with an age gap in mind but I don't think it actually makes a difference.
warnings/tags: slightly suggestive, nothing too bad but still, reader has a boyfriend, he cheats on her a lot though, reader is naive to this though, the air conditioning in the hotel broke (oops), almost kiss, spencer is a bit delusional
summary: your boyfriend is horrible, always treating you badly, constantly cheating, but unfortunately you never notice, except spencer does, and he can't stand how your boyfriend treats you, and wants to do something about it
a/n im taking a minor break from yspsfagsil at the moment, but we will be back to our regularly scheduled program soon
She's got a boyfriend anyway.
That's what Spencer had to keep reminding himself every time he saw you. He repeated it like a mantra every time you mentioned something your boyfriend did that you didn't like or when he stood you up because he was "too busy". It was what he had to remind himself every time your hands grazed when working a cause, or when you accepted his invitations to hangout after work.
He hated how easily you gravitated towards each other, fitting together perfectly like two puzzle pieces. Sometimes he'd pick up a book only for you to stroll into the office with the same one in your hands. Or, during a case while he was explaining something and rambling on you didn't cut him off, instead adding information to rambling; which made Morgan tease the both of you even more than he usually did.
And he hated every moment your eyes met when Morgan or someone else on the team teased the two of you about each other, as if sharing something unspoken.
He didn't hate it because it happened. Truthfully, he couldn't stop thinking about whenever that happened. It would keep him awake at night, till the sun came up, just thinking about you and everything he wanted to do.
He hated it because even after all those secret shared glances, after every case where you moved in sync with him, he wasn't the one you went home to. Instead, it was him, your horrible boyfriend who never seemed to care about you.
Instead of dinner dates, or trips to the bookstore on your day off, or even soft Sunday mornings where you just laid in bed, whispering sweet nothings to each other, he was always nowhere to be found. He canceled dates because of something "more important"; which usually meant his shitty friends invited him to go get wasted. Or, he was at some girl's apartment, or trashy hotel; because not to mention he was constantly cheating on you.
You didn't know, except for one incident at the start of your relationship; but, stupidly, you forgave him for it. Spencer knew about the others though. He asked Penelope to do a bit of digging on your boyfriend, only to find a bunch of hotel room charges, jewelry that definitely wasn't for you, and countless charges at bars in the city.
He knew he should've brought it up to you. It would've felt good to rub it in your boyfriend's face that you knew all that he was up to and dumped his moronic ass for it.
Spencer even indulged himself in the fantasy of telling you everything and somehow ending up back in his apartment. Your clothes would be strewn about his room, mixed in with his things; as he laid you down softly onto his mattress. Your body on his sheets as he trailed wet kissed down your body. He would take care of you in the way he knew your useless boyfriend never did. Even after he’d admire you sleeping softly in his bed, holding you till you woke up. Then he'd make you breakfast, not leaving your side till you inevitably had to part. And even then he'd keep going back to you for more, always taking care of you when you needed to be.
And yet, he couldn't bring himself to tell you. There was something about the chance hurting you by telling you that kept him from doing so.
He knew it was stupid and even Penelope had ridiculed him for it, rather hypocritically though, since she knew. Although she claimed it was Spencer that caused her to be part of that mess, so he had to be the responsible one and tell you.
Still he couldn't muster the courage to do so. He continued to listen to vent about your boyfriend's latest behavior. Pretending to be interested, when really he was fighting the urge to show you how you should actually be treated.
The worst incident of this had to have been when you were working a case in some dingy small town. The unsub was kidnapping women—big shocker—their bodies turning up within three days. The team had been working on the case for two days, close to finding the unsub. They had Garcia looking through files while the rest of the team was told to return to the hotel and get some rest.
Usually, it was a relief for Hotch to let everyone return their hotel rooms, except when the hotel's air conditioning was broken in the middle of summer. The rooms felt sweltering even with the fans the staff had placed in each room.
You'd been looking through your files, trying to make any last minute connections before heading to bed for the night. Or, at least you tried to. Your head felt foggy, making you unable to focus well. Your boyfriend had called you drunk, babbling some nonsense. You thought it was cute that when he was drunk he was still thinking about you, until you heard some random girl's voice calling out for him. A pit settled in your stomach that just wouldn't go away. You tried convincing yourself you had nothing to worry about.
But not even the most gullible of people would truly believe that. This had happened before, so it wasn't impossible. That only made you question if he was actually as faithful as he had promised to be.
You tried to push the thoughts out of your head. You busied yourself organizing your files till you noticed one was missing. You tried to remember where you misplaced it. It wasn't in your bag, or on the hotel desk. You mentally retraced your steps, thinking you might've left it in the precinct.
You then remembered how you lent it to Spencer to look at when he asked to borrow it for a moment. He must've forgotten to give it back and still had it.
It wasn't too late into the night and usually Spencer was still awake at this time. You slipped out your room, making your way down the hall before knocking on his door.
You heard his footsteps on the other side of the door before he opened it. He was still wearing his work clothes, only he had taken off his sweater vest, leaving him in just his button down that had the top couple buttons undone. His tie hung loosely around his neck, having been also undone. His hair looked tussled, as if someone had just ran their hands through it.
You froze for a moment, unable to tear your eyes away from him. There was just something so enticing about how vulnerable he looked. Spencer was always very put together. With his perfectly curated crisp button ups, making sweater vests and ties, with his perfectly groomed hair. Getting to see him look so undone made your heart flutter and warmth spread to your face, as if this was something scandalous you shouldn't have been allowed to lay your eyes on.
It took you a moment before remembering that he was just your coworker, who you should definitely not be looking at like that. He was just your friend at most, who had no reason to make your entire body shudder at just the sight of him.
"Do you need something?" he asked, clearing his throat.
He hadn't noticed your staring as he was too busy doing the same to you. Not that you noticed either.
"Uh," you stuttered, trying to regain your thoughts, "yeah, I was wondering if you still had that file I let you borrow earlier?"
He paused for a moment, looking into his room, noticing the stray file he had packed into his bag.
"I do actually," he told you, opening the door wider to allow you in.
You took a couple steps into his room before he closed the door behind you. He brushed past you, sending shivers down your spine. He picked up the file, handing it to you.
It was truly a simple interaction that should only have taken a couple seconds. And yet, you couldn't bring yourself to step out of his room, and he couldn't bring himself to let go of the file.
He couldn't stop staring at you. Normally, you'd never appear in front of another agent in nothing but a tank top and rather short shorts, but the lack of air conditioning had a role to play in your outfit choice. He'd seen you a couple times in your pajamas, or comfier clothes, but never in something that showed off so much skin. He knew you were gorgeous, but to him that word felt like an understatement, and maybe even an insult. All he wanted to do was slide off your shirt and shorts, feeling every inch of your body before covering it in wet kisses.
Instead he was stuck having to remind himself you unfortunately had a boyfriend.
"T-thanks," you stuttered out, your gazes locked on each other.
"It's no problem," he said, his voice rather harsh.
He took in the rest of your appearance, studying your face. Your eyes looked devoid of something, as there was something fogging them up. He noticed the slight fading redness around your eyes, as if you'd been crying. He noticed every detail, coming to the conclusion that something had happened before you walked into his room.
He wanted to ask you what happened, letting you sit next to him on his bed as he held you. You'd explain everything and he'd kiss away the tears that fell from your eyes, placing delicate kisses on the corners of your mouth till he got you to smile again. He wanted to hold you in his arms, running his hands through your hair, whispering in your ear that everything would be okay.
Instead he had to settle for just asking you what was wrong as your gaze fell to the ground.
"I-it's nothing," you stammered, unable to look him in the eye.
He knew you better than anyone, especially your own boyfriend, immediately knowing something was very wrong.
"Don't lie to me," he said, his voice low.
"I don't want to burden you."
"You won't, I'll be more burdened if I know something's wrong and I can't help you."
At that moment he felt a bit of confidence and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your face immediately felt on fire by his gentle touch.
You let out a deep breath before speaking.
"My boyfriend called me," that was all you said, yet it was enough to anger Spencer, "he was drunk and then I heard some girl calling his name, and I don't know what happened, but I hung up, and I can't stop thinking about it."
Your voice trembled as you spoke. Spencer was a mess of emotions. On one hand he felt angry at your boyfriend for his constant infidelity; but on the other hand he felt sad for you, and all you were going through.
He threw the file onto the nearby bed before pulling you into his arms. He knew somewhere it most definitely crossed a line to hold his colleague, and someone who was "just a friend", so closely, but he didn't care.
"You don't deserve that," he whispered in your ear, stroking your hair softly.
You rested your head on his chest, letting him hold you closely. You knew this crossed a line, and your boyfriend would be mad if he ever found out. But, at this point who cares. He was already probably cheating on you, so was it really so bad to be in Spencer's arms at a very vulnerable moment?
"I know," you sniffled against his chest, trying to choke back your tears.
"You deserve someone who actually cares about you, and would never cheat on you, and can care for you however you need."
You lifted your head up off his chest slightly, as his hold around you loosened.
"Sometimes that feels like too much to ask for," you joked, thinking back to your past relationships.
Spencer looked down at you, using two of his fingers to lift your chin up to make your gaze meet his. He looked into your glossy eyes, his gaze soft.
"It shouldn't be," he told you, "you deserve all of that and more."
"That's sweet, Spence."
You were both quiet for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. Neither of you had noticed, but subconsciously you started to lean in closer. Spencer's hand had remained on your chin, pulling you in close, as his other hand delicately rested on your waist. Everything in your brain had shut off. All you knew was that Spencer was in front of you, with his hands on you, as he pulled you closer.
Your hands made their way up Spencer's chest as you were mere inches from your lips meeting his. You were so close to kissing Spencer when you realized.
Oh shit, you were about to kiss Spencer.
At the very last possible second you came to your senses, pulling back. You shook your head a bit, avoiding his gaze as you tried to push what happened very far back in your mind.
Spencer took a step back, also realizing what almost just happened. As much as he really wanted to kiss you, he knew it was wrong. You had a boyfriend anyway. Granted, he was already cheating on you, there was no reason to make you a cheater too.
"I should head to bed, probably," you said, clearing your throat.
You walked over to the bed, picking up the discarded file. Spencer paced around the room, fidgeting with his hands before stopping noticing you leaving the room.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, "goodnight, I'll see you in the morning."
You smiled at him before walking out his room. The second the door was closed you paused, taking a deep breath. Everything felt like too much, and was feeling more like something you'd deal with in the morning.
Once you had closed the door Spencer sat down onto the bed, running his hands through his hair. He never expected anything like that to happen. Sure, he'd imagined it, and hoped someday it would, but he kept telling himself it just wasn't plausible.
And yet, there you were. One move away from kissing him.
He couldn't shake the memory out of his head no matter how hard he tried. Nothing was going to make him forget what almost transpired in his room.
Both of you knew how bad this was. Not even just for your personal relationship with each other, or yours with your boyfriend. Fraternization was very frowned upon at the office, and if it messed with your job, you'd both no doubt get scolded and lectured by HR till everyone in the office knew what happened.
And yet, even though you both knew just how much that shouldn't have happened, you both couldn't stop thinking about what would've happened. Even worse, found yourselves wishing it had.
a/n i'd be willing to do another part (or multiple) if you guys want, also I was debating if i should have them kiss, or write smut for this, but i decided not to so that reader isn't technically a cheater, but if we want that i'd write it lowkey 👀
notice how the headaches started right after he got rid of this hairstyle. the reason his head hurt so bad was because he cut his hair too short (many such cases). when he got rid of his bangs he exposed himself to evil forces imperceptible to mri machines much less the naked eye
tags : southern gothic, deaddovedonoteat, body horror, gore, eventual smut, graphic depictions of death, religious horror, dread, angst
summary : after receiving reports of multiple grisly murders in a town so remote even the resident genius hasn't heard of it, the team finds themselves knee-deep in the Louisiana swamp. with every passing day Dr. Reid becomes more confused with stories that don't match up and townsfolk that lie to his face. an even bigger mystery than the murders is found in you. you aren't on the suspect list, your track record is spotless, but he can't shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong in Willow Creek, and you're to blame.
summary : spencer is on the hunt for a book that might help him crack a case. despite the heatwave, he'd walk through the whole city to get a very special bookstore owner's attention
word count : 1.8k
pairings : early seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader (meet cute)
notes : dual pov, inspired by s2ep8 "empty planet", where the unsub uses a sci-fi book as a prophecy. the heatwave is just self indulgent, and my swet glasses!reid is a sweaty and blushing mess
it was a hot day in seattle.
afternoons in late june felt inexplicably long, as if time was enjoying making spencer suffer from boredom during such cases. the sweat clinging to his skin, thepowerful burn of the sunlight on the almost melting concrete, it all made him wish he could be anywhere but here on a crime scene.
most people were busy welcoming the summer season. on this day of summer solstice, walking around the public garden or enjoying a picnic by the water, life seemed to have taken on a slow rhythm timed by the need for rest and relaxation.
no one could've possibly guessed the city was under a bomb threat.
back at the police department, when the team gathered around the makeshift conference room with no AC, he swore he could feel his braincells decompose. there was no way he was making it to the end of the day in that lifesize oven.
this is why he practially jumped up when hotch sent him on the hunt for a particular book. some obscure science fiction novel he must've mumbled about in a heat caused haze.
at least he got to be outside.
the first bookstore he saw was the one that caught his eye.
a few blocks near the park, between a coffee shop and a vintage store, was a ridiculously old building that looked straight out of an animated movie. the bricks were cream colored, hidden behind leaves of ivy and numerous flower pots that were somehow surviving the heatwave.
he was glad to have a reason to go in.
usually, he drove past bookstores and libraries he dreamed to visit in the black sedan, and could only promise himself he'd go once the case was over, which almost never happened.
the little bell above the wooden door made a clear noise when he pushed it open, stepping into the cozy atmoshpere. the first thing that hit him was the freshness of the air - slightly smelling of the distinct scent of books he loves so much, and a hint of something sweeter.
lavender, maybe. he too, a look around.
it wasn't too vast of a space, but the aisles weren't narrow either. rather welcoming, inviting, books on the shelves stacked just right in a way that scratched his neurodivergent brain.
naturally, he felt compelled to profile the person who owned the place.
his eyes roamed over the titles of the books as he took a couple of steps further. the titles were highlighted by the giant windows, that bathed the store in sunlight. yet, the temperature was more than delightful.
"looking for anything in particular ?"
someone said right behing him.
it took him a moment to realize the saccharine words were destined to him. he was the only one to be book shopping of all things, on this blazing day.
"i'm just looking around, thank y-" he turned to face her and gesture the shelf in front of him - the book he was searching for on full display - but froze.
she was beautiful, the girl standing before him.
suddenly, the outside heat felt like nothing compred to the one spreading on his cheeks, shades of pink matching those of her flowy sundress. it almost reached the floor, cascading down your hips where the fabric hugged her skin.
staring, he was staring. get a grip, reid.
"yes, actually." the lie came out smoother than intended. good, a semblance of dignity in front of such an ethereal presence was all he hoped for. "is that... the fiction aisle ?"
"yes, all the way to that shelf over there" she pointed to the opposite side, her smile rather amused than anything.
real smart, genius.
for someone who was searching for a book, he didn't make it sound like he even knew how to read. the sign just above his head listed the different sections of the bookstore, how pathetic.
she added kindly, her hand smoothing the fabric of the dress - the dress of the undoing. "but we also have a vast selection of non-fiction books over there, and a little cafe area"
"o-okay."
"if you need something fresh to cool down, or..." she shrugged, and it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. kindness radiated out of her so easily, he wanted to say yes desperately.
or at least to say something, anything.
but on top of forgetting how to read, he'd also seemed to have lost his speaking abilities.
so he did what perhaps was the most insensitive thing to do and grabbed the book from the shelf, muttering something along the lines of a poorly enunciated thank you before heading to the checkout.
sliding behind the counter, their fingers brushed when she took it from him gently, giving him the change in return.
"you'll like it," she spoke, carefully placing it in a brown paper bag. "it's not my favorite genre, but the plot unfolds pretty nicely."
he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and manages to say.
"not mine either, really. it's for scientific purposes, but i usually stick to classics or true crime novels"
"me too !!" she says enthusiastically.
as he took the bag from her, it appeared to him that small talk might be the closest thing he'd ever get from her, and suddenly regreted the way he dismissed her out of nervousness.
"this place is nice,"
she looks up, smiling at the compliment. not bad, he thinks, does he sound too eager ?
"thanks you, i’ve been working here for a while... not alone, usually, but it’s hard to attract people with that heat”
“not for you,” he answers, instantly biting his lip.
“what ?”
attract as in interest, in books. shoot, the haze in his mind was completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced and made him stupid.
“i mean, uh… you’re great. a great salesperson, basically. you’ve got the social cues down”
she let out a genuine chuckle, closing the cash register as the coins clinked.
“don’t you ?”
“no, not really…" he hints at in a bashful tone, slightly shifting positions to lean against the counter in an attempt to appear nonchalant.
the rays of the sun are filtering through the glass, hues of gold spreading around her, reminding him of an angel's halo. bright is the smile she gives him, the magnetic field around her promting him to get closer, closer.
"there's nothing wrong with choosing books over people, trust me" she says as she hands him the bag.
"less disappointing"
he nods, brain too focused on how they almost touched for the second time today. outside, the hot weather is almost nagging him, knowing he'll have to rush back to the police station. spend his day locked in yet another enclosed office, bathing in the discomfort of his own sweat and loneliness.
but he should be getting going.
so, reluctantly, he disappears with an ironic sound of the silver bell as the door closes.
every step he takes is unsure and reluctant, as if his body contemplated betraying him by turning back around. the urge was too strong, similar to the desire he felt to be near you, the scent of sugar and roses you emanated.
except the bell rings not too long later.
you had barely found the time to catch your breath - that had been taken away by the handsome boy on aisle three earlier this morning, the only person in the whole town who’d actually thought it would be smart to come here today of all days - that the sharp sound was heard again, pulling you out of your daydreams.
rays of sunlight hit your eyes, his figure appearing like a mirage in the light.
“you’re back,” you exhaled breathlessly.
quickly, you got up from the shelf you were rearranging. kids picture books, sorted by themes instead of colours.
“i’m back,” he said at the same time.
your brows met halfway, nerves wracking. surely, you couldn’t have spent so much time reading under your breath, nostalgic about your favourite childhood book.
a gasp escaped from your lips.
“you didn’t like the book ? no. it was the wrong one ? what’s wrong ? i forgot the change ?”
shy stranger chuckled again, a sound you couldn’t get enough of. “no, it was the right book and you got everything right.”
“then what ?”
frankly, you could’ve forgotten a dollar or two. it happened often when your preference for literature over maths showed. or when a handsome client with eyes of gold showed up.
“actually… i finished it.”
somehow, he looked bashful.
like it was a truth he hated to admit, disguising the unique parts of him under a joking tone he didn’t quite master. crossing the store to approach you tentatively as if you were in the middle of something, his eyes never left yours.
“the book ?”
“yes, the book.”
stupid question. and incredibly intelligent man, or so it seemed.
his mouth opened once before he spoke, gathering the whirlwind of thoughts as they rushed through his mind.
“twenty thousand words per minute. that’s my usual reading speed,” he explains, like it’s the most natural thing ever.”
“if you minimise factors such as the environment or time of the day. usually, my brain is more active in the early morning.”
you nod along.
“so,” in an attempt to understand, you put your hands on your hips. the little dimple on your right cheek is probably showing, you think. it always does when you’re intrigued.
he almost stares, you notice before he says again.
“so, i was wondering if you had any recommendations. you said classics, right ?”
classics.
jane austen, dostoevsky, maybe some hugo or brontë. the energy he brought felt like a calm breeze, a yearning soul perhaps. looking at his hazel eyes and tall frame felt like discovering a puzzle part you didn't know was missing.
oh, you had plenty of suggestions for him. questions too popped up in your mind as he leaned against the shelf, tilting his head in silent obsrvation.
caramel curls were sticking to his temples, rebelling from the way they'd carefully been pushed back earlier.
he took the silence as an opportunity to ask, round eyes pleaing. "you said something about fresh drinks ?"
the world seemed to stop when you giggled, his inner thermostat skyrocketing.
that's what it was.
it was the expression on your face he wanted to decipher.
your thoughts that he truly wanted to read.
"sure, i'll get you some iced tea" flowing dress creating a delicate movement at every step, you made your way to the coffee station.
"right, i'll just... wait here"
books, fresh air, you. eveerything here seemed perfect, he never wanted to leave, followed you after a couple of seconds as if a magnetic force had pushed him to.
the rest would just have to wait.
౨ৎ if you liked this, try reading you're in my way now
tag list, feel free to comment if you wanna be added/taken off !! @deerfawnn @xervoxs @kaz-03 @cynbx @sleepysleepnomore @emerkinsella89 @sweetheartspence @g4rvez-r3id @peanutalergy @keirareidss @eternlmoonshine @xbluereid @spencilweidblog @corollaim @mostofmeghan @siriuslyval03 @midn1ght-ra1n @rose-of-the-grave @copper-rose-strings @irisinlovee @thecrimsonfog @glossiercheek @littleredwolfnerd @babywinter @1-800-peakyblinders @reidslovegia @sreidahgirl @jjellecubed @sreidahgirl @cherrygarcia-07
liaison!prentiss!reader x spencer reid universe | starts sometime in s8
Your most trusted weapon isn’t your gun—it is a microphone.
You are Emily Prentiss’ baby sister. You’ve grown up trying to escape her shadow, complying where Emily defied, recalibrating where Emily refused.
Spencer Reid sees your entire existence as another betrayal. He lashes out, petty in his hurt, and you go even lower; two sides of the same coin.
Finding where the other is most tender, where the skin will yield so insults and threats can bury bone–deep. Nothing is sacred, nothing off limits, the worst of each other stripped and bared raw. Desire has grown from less, but can love?
Meet the reader here!
General Contents: toxic enemies to lovers, might veer into ooc territory you have been warned, fem!reader, reader is Emily Prentiss' baby sister, mommy issues, Maeve arc, case fics, typical criminal minds violence, loosely related one shots instead of a traditional series
MASTERLIST
I'VE NEVER BEEN A NATURAL —.✦Your first month working with your older sister's team goes about as well as you expected—there's betrayal in their eyes, professional stolidity in yours, and a gaping Emily Prentiss shaped hole you'll never fill.
an: ... hehehehe. no taglist, but you can follow the tag for fics and other rambles: #liaison!prentiss!reader. title is from the ethel cain song. lowkey highkey dedicated to @whisperedmeg for listening to me yap about this reader any chance i get (does this count as a 2k gift? lol prob not but ily anyway)
Your existence revolves around your work, estate sales on the weekend, and the occasional one-night stand—carefully curated, just like the content you comb through every day at your job. But when you recognize a murder victim as one of the girls from a video you'd deleted, suddenly upper management is hounding you, cryptic messages are left in your work locker, and one very lanky FBI agent keeps showing up at your door.
post prison!Spencer Reid x content mod!reader
contents: fem!reader, no use of y/n but you'll occasionally be called 'Stella', reader is a smoker, typical criminal minds violence, self-isolating reader. More specific warnings will be added per chapter.
coming soon...
a/n: I feel a little manic. Sharing my ideas is always a bad thing bc I hyperfixate and do shit like this. Anyway. Short, limited series (I hope lol) so let me know if you'd like to be on the taglist!
gracieabrams
yousharknotpass
izzy806
germansingergirl
dailybridgerton
pixelskylines
gummygunk
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
