RIP to the person I was when I first saw this frame. I thought my life was about to be changed irrevocably. For a whole second, the universe was going to be realigned forever.
early seasons of criminal mids: the unsub is a white man. he kills women who remind him of his ex.
later seasons of cm: the unsub is a 7 yo girl with dissociative identity disorder one of her alters being a 50 yo russian cannibal who slow roasts his victims bodies at a temperature of 180 degrees. reid suddenly goes silent walks to the whiteboard and writes down revelation 1:8: ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega,’ says the Lord God, ‘who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty' the world alpha appears which has strong connection to wolves so garcia checks reports of wolf attacks and finds a man who went missing as a child in siberia and was reportedly raised by a wolf pack so now its possible he kills to honor his family 'we're ready to deliver the profile' says hotch
cw: angst, references to sex, very mild and metaphorical cannibalism, depression, no happy ending
wc: 1.4k
a/n: wrote this in like two days after having literally no motivation for monthsss and I'm actually so proud of it. a little different to my usual stuff, but probably one of my favourite pieces that i've ever written!
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As the sun set below the horizon, memories slipped in alongside the shadows, filling the cracks in the foundation of your mind. Most nights you still thought about him, the soft and sweet boy from your reckless youth.
It was a sweltering summer the year you moved to California for university, made worse by the fast shift from East to West Coast. Friends hadn’t been high on your list of priorities, and by the end of your first semester, the window had passed, your peers dividing easily into their social groups. You existed comfortably on the edge, too overwhelmed by schoolwork for the ever-present loneliness to take hold, merely a vague sensation contributing to your exponentially pessimistic worldview. It haunted your empty dorm that first year, that room you never let become a home, caught up in all the wrong things and refusing to admit that you were stuck.
And then you saw him, a scrawny little thing lingering around one of your professors during the first days of your second year. Her TA, he said, and you pulled him aside after the lecture to interrogate him, chest tightening when he laughed at your reaction to his age. The same age as you, starting his third doctorate, you thought he was the most amazing person you’d ever met. You told him as much, revelling in the gentle flush that spread across his cheeks, that you had brought out of him.
His eyes found yours during every class, his hand found yours in the courtyard afterwards, fingers intertwined over lunch.
The night you snuck him into an old abandoned building on the outskirts of the campus, dragging him behind you through the gap in the chicken wire fence. He complained, droning on about the legal repercussions, although he never once tried to stop you. That seemed to be how he coped, if he spoke through every possible scenario, he would be prepared for the absolute worst. The way your first kiss had been preceded by what seemed to start as a question, unravelling into a tangent about consent. You’d ended up kissing him, partially to shut him up, mostly because rambling looked far too good on him.
You kissed him again that night, in that old house while he tried to explain the potential health and safety risks—from unsound infrastructure to rot and germs—until he lost the ability to talk at all. He didn’t seem to care much about any hazards after that, in that quiet room of easy movements and confessions.
As the chill of fall grew, the draughty old remains were nothing against even the mildest of winds, and you were pushed out of your makeshift home. You found small cafes with cozy corners where you could pretend there was no one else. And when the sign flipped to ‘closed’ you trudged through the yellowing leaves or rain to your dorm, thankful for the single-room setup that had caused you such isolation that first year.
It took you three months to find the right birthday present for him, a skinny purple scarf whose thread seemed to be woven from his essence. You wrapped it around his neck and told him that the colour brought out the green flecks in his eyes while he tried to kiss you in thanks. You let him, and you let him promise that he would never get rid of it, that he would wear it until it fell apart, and you promised that if that day ever came, you would find him an even better one.
You split the Halloween celebrations, the evening reserved for a costumed horror reading at a local library, followed by a Halloween party in a warehouse. He made it five steps inside before the loud music and pathogen-infested landscape had you taking him back to your dorm for a Halloween movie marathon and caramel corn under warm blankets that you both agreed was far better.
Then there was the first Christmas, gifts traded between soft kisses and whispers of a future you were so sure was yours to keep.
Winter gave way to spring, flowers sprouting on the lawn, handcrafted for him to weave through the strands of your hair and tuck behind your ear. You migrated back to your vacant house that was quickly filled with life—memories, moments, experiences, two heartbeats bound by one rhythm—and nothing more.
When you were evicted from your dorm that summer, he offered up his university-funded, off-campus apartment. There was little about him that managed to surprise you by then, but you did find yourself disconcerted by the realisation that in a year of knowing each other, you’d never seen where he lived. Not that it mattered for long, toothbrushes resting side by side in his bathroom, reminiscent of two figures curled up on the couch and tangled in pristine sheets that smelled like him.
He’d finished his doctorate in engineering halfway through the year, you’d ordered chicken tandoori from his favourite Indian place down the street and watched Doctor Who reruns in celebration.
In the midwinter chill, you snuck back under the chicken wire fence, his old jacket wrapped around you where you stood on the edge of the world you’d built. There was no complaining voice in your ear, no spindly hand in yours, no soft breath on the back of your neck, only icy wind brushing through your hair. The silence was eerie, no long-winded rambles that should have been boring, would have been, if they’d come from anyone else’s lips.
Sat on the frigid concrete floor until your legs went numb—whether from the cold or the lack of movement, you didn’t know—and only then did you move to that dirty mattress in the middle of the floor. You lay on his side, and you swore you could feel the outline of his body under you, the impression he had left sticking to your skin. Tears fell, spreading as they hit the fabric, forming dark circles to match those that stained the skin under your eyes. You pulled his jacket tighter around you, breathed in the smell of him that was fading all too quickly.
You’d moved back home after finishing your Master’s four years ago, found a scrawny little studio apartment in D.C. that you could barely afford the rent for, but at least you could say you were independent. That seemed to be your measure of success these days—how little you needed anyone else.
Over the years, you’d spent too much of your time thinking about him, where he was, what happened after he was taken away. Him and his stupid layers in the West Coast heat, you doubted he would survive the winters in the East. He’d probably ended up as a researcher, one day his name would show up in some important paper alongside a possible cure for schizophrenia, he’d always wanted to find one.
Sometimes, you’d open up the box under your bed, empty it piece by piece, and pack it away again. There was no logical reason for it, it was a ritual of what had to be self-harm, reliving every moment and contemplating how you lost it. It was less common now, but you still pulled the jacket on over your pyjamas when the winters grew especially cold. Flicked through the polaroids of you he’d been obsessed with taking that first spring, the pictures of him few and far between. A camera shoved in his face while he complained that he never looked good in them, the rare candid shots that he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It felt like a dream, a year and a half of peace jutting out awkwardly from everything that came before and afterwards. An anomaly only proven real by the visual documentation of those photographs. Maybe he had taken them for the sole purpose of never letting you forget, and maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe you didn’t want to use a flimsy glue stick of amnesia to fruitlessly seal the cracks in your heart that he’d left you with.
Maybe you wanted to carefully split it into each little segment with delicate fingers, laugh on a picnic blanket as you fed it to him piece by piece until you were a part of him he wouldn’t be able to leave behind.
cw: fluff, angst, drug addiction, non-graphic depictions of injury, insecurities, really fucking bad parenting, pain medication, r almost has a panic attack lowkey, we start teasing r's trauma
wc: 3k
a/n: So this took... a lot longer than I thought it would. I'm so sorry to anyone who read the first part in January and thought you would get a quick update. I thought so too, but here we are!
Chapter 1
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After Spencer left the room, you fell back asleep quickly, the exhaustion taking over you as you turned over the interactions in your head. The sleep was restless, waking up often to pains or nurses stabbing you with needles and asking you ridiculous questions that they clearly already had the answers to. But eventually, the hints of morning light started to filter through the curtains, sixteen hours of drifting in and out of sleep finally over. It wasn’t long after that things started to pick up around your bed.
It started when you saw Hotchner outside of your room, talking to one of the nurses. Then JJ arrived, an ominously large stack of forms in hand, luckily only one of them landed in your lap when she entered the room.
“You need to fill this out, it’s just a written agreement to everything that you’ve already verbally agreed to. I promise there aren’t any weird clauses, but you can read through it if you want to be sure.” You were too tired to care all that much whether there was some odd trap in the margins as you skimmed over it, although you couldn’t imagine why the FBI would do that to you of all people. You quickly signed on every dotted line before handing the paper back to JJ, gesturing to the large stack in her arms.
“Where are all of those going?”
“A lot of people in this hospital have seen you alive, these are my personal nightmare.” She gave you a tired smile, tapping the stack as if to show it off before she hurried out of the room, a bounce in her step as she headed off to deal with people who likely wouldn’t sign papers as easily as you had.
After another hour of watching out of the window, you saw Spencer walk up to Hotchner, a small bag in hand, glancing over at you every few moments. You caught his eye, and he waved to you, saying something short to Hotchner before taking a few steps to the doorway, poking his head into the room.
“We should be leaving pretty soon now, I brought some clothes from your apartment. I wasn’t sure what you would like to wear, so I brought three tops, two bottoms, a pair of shoes…” He faltered, trailing off for a moment as he tried to figure out how to say whatever he was going to say next, “I also, uh, brought some underclothes, sorry for the invasion of privacy.”
“It’s fine, Spencer, thank you for bringing my stuff.” You smiled at how needlessly uncomfortable he was, adorably unnerved about something so normal. You sat up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and taking the bag from him, choosing some of the items and standing up, “I’m just gonna head to the bathroom.”
He nodded silently, seeming relieved at the fact you hadn’t started screaming at him, or whatever he was scared you would do. You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you and shedding the itchy hospital gown. You hissed with each pull of your stitches as your skin stretched over your ribs when you pulled your shirt over your head. The movement was more than you were used to from the past few days in hospital, only moving to go to the toilet or for short walks around your room to help with recovery.
You heard his voice coming through the closed door, even from the muffled sound you could hear the urgency in his tone. Opening the door, you saw him standing exactly where you left him, phone to his ear, hunched over in that way people did when they were trying to hide whatever they were talking about.
“Thanks, JJ.” He hung up, snapping shut the phone and placing it in his pocket, starting what could only be described as a frantic pace around the room.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s been a leak, you are officially alive and well. We need to get you to the safe house now.” He almost murmured the words under his breath, like he was talking to himself more than to you.
You didn’t respond, you didn’t have the words to, just followed him out of the room as the realisation settled over you that according to FBI profilers, you were now at the top of the killer’s hit list. You spared a thought for JJ, how much work she had put into keeping your survival a secret, only for it to be too late.
Being moved undercover from a hospital to a safe house wasn’t exactly a common occurrence for you. Overall, it was unenjoyable, but that was mostly to do with the fact that curling up in a janitor’s trolley is not comfortable when you have a healing stab wound. The apartment was large, nice, exactly what you would expect from the area, bending in perfectly, although you had no idea what it looked like from the outside. You would have explored further, but your stitches were pulling, you were tired, and the thought of lying down in an actual bed was too tempting to turn down. Getting dibs on the bigger of the two rooms, you employed Spencer to help move your things from the living room to your new abode for the next… while.
Once everything had been moved, you paid him back by carrying the few light bags and boxes you could into his room. Spencer offered you a glass of water for your hard work, and you thanked him with a tired smile, one he had seen many times during your short acquaintance. You were exhausted after the moving, practically collapsing onto your new bed, except that would have been agonising, so instead you very carefully laid yourself down on the pristine sheets. It almost felt wrong after the week spent on the hard bed with scratchy sheets, but despite your initial rejection the blankets embraced you, taking you into their soft arms. In a matter of moments you were fast asleep, lying vaguely nestled amongst the covers.
.*☆¸•
The next morning, the untouched glass sat on your bedside table.
You went through the motions, it took you somewhere between five minutes and half an hour to drag yourself out of bed, the blankets doing their best to pull you back down into the blissful abyss of sleep. You were forced to brush your teeth with your non-dominant hand—a habit you were picking up very slowly—to keep your stitches from pulling, making the ordeal take significantly longer than it should have. It gave you time to think, as if you hadn’t had plenty of that in the past week, practically tied to the hospital bed. You wondered how on earth you ended up there, supposedly at the top of a serial killer’s hit list, in a safe house with an FBI agent that you were growing increasingly fond of by the day. Five days clean—well, apart from the pain meds you were on, but even those were at a low dosage. Speaking of,
“Hey, are you up?” Spencer’s voice called from the other side of your bedroom door, “You should take your medication now.”
“Just a moment.” You put down your tooth brush and exited the ensuite, opening the bedroom door to let him in.
“Thanks.” He skirted around you awkwardly, stepping into the room, which he didn’t really need to do, since he was just giving you your meds, but you didn’t really mind. You were starting to think that he could get away with a lot of things around you.
“Why’s it so important I take them now? Are there, like, side effects? Or…” You trailed off, not really sure what else it could be. You’d been fed the medication through an IV in the hospital, so you hadn’t needed to pay much attention to when the nurse added them. Maybe if you took them five minutes late you would shrivel up and die.
“It’s not really, I just calculated when would be the most efficient time to take them, factoring in variations of metabolism throughout the day.” You had to admit, whatever mathematical equations he had going in his head, it was kind of cute how much he cared.
“Oh.” The clinical approach he had to your health had the potential to be either very useful or very annoying, probably both.
“Neat, huh?”
“Yeah.” You nodded, despite having absolutely no idea what he was talking about, he sounded certain enough that you trusted him.
“Are you okay to take them with the water?” He gestured to the cup on your nightstand before glancing up at you again, those soft brown eyes clearly worried about making your situation as pleasant as possible, “I could get you some milk, if you want.”
“Babe, you don’t get to where I am without knowing how to dry swallow.”
“You’re not funny.” Rolling your eyes at his lack of humour, you plucked the little cup of pills out of his hands.
“I’m a little funny.” You pinched your fingers together in front of his face, huffing as he pushed your hand away from him. You took the pills he gave you, swallowing them all without water, as if to prove a point that certainly didn’t need proving.
“Please drink some water now, if one of those pills gets stuck in your esophagus it could have inflammatory effects.”
“Anything for you.” You winked, handing him back the now-empty cup before walking over to your nightstand to grab the glass, taking a few sips of water.
“O-kay… You should have breakfast now.” Spencer dodged your gaze nervously, ever the stereotype of the awkward nerd, although you supposed that to end up in the FBI he had to have some hidden edge.
“Why?” You groaned, not quite ready to force yourself out of your room.
“To make sure your stomach can handle the medication.” He started back towards the door, clearly expecting you to follow him.
“Can I at least change first?” You were still in your clothes from the day before, you hadn’t showered, you felt disgusting.
“Oh, of course, sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise.” You laughed as he rushed out of the door.
You headed back to the bathroom, quickly showering before getting dressed in the easiest thing for you to put on—a loose dress with no zips or buttons that would complicate your movements. Holding the neck open, you stepped into it, pulling it up over your hips and slipping your arms into the sleeves before shrugging it into place with a wince.
As you slunk into the kitchen, you breathed in the smells of breakfast with a sigh, your stomach rumbling with the fervour of someone who hadn’t eaten in days. Which wasn’t that far from the truth, having not eaten since lunch the day before.
“Whatcha making?” You leaned forward, your forearms resting against the kitchen island as you watched Spencer standing over the stove.
“Eggs, how do you like them?” He made a face when you told him that made it obvious the two of you had very different tastes. You snickered at that, this man who was so pretentious about eggs, of all things.
“You could at least pretend not to judge me.”
“I’m not!” He raised his hands in surrender, his voice pitching up defensively as you circled around the bench and walked towards him, as if your movement was a threat to his safety.
“You’re quite skittish for an agent, aren’t you?” You teased, wincing slightly as you hopped up to sit on the bench behind him.
“I’m also making you breakfast, so maybe try to be nice.” He said, serving the finished eggs onto a piece of toast on a plate, and held it out for you to take from him. You placed it down on the bench beside you, pulling out the drawer right next to your knees and finding the cutlery, taking out a knife and fork.
“I wasn’t being mean, I was making an observation.” You cut a piece from your toast, stabbing it with your fork and bringing it to your lips as he cracked a few more eggs into the pan for his own breakfast.
“Sure.” He murmured, distracted by his cooking efforts, seemingly not the most practiced chef.
“Fuck, these are good.” You praised, mouth still full of eggs and toast.
“Not so rude now, are we?” If you were writing a list of words to describe Doctor Spencer Reid, it would be becoming increasingly contradictory: Annoying, sweet, analytical, dense, awkward, smooth, nervous, and now smug.
You didn’t say anything in response, deciding to forego a spat in favour of enjoying the food he’d made, although maybe part of its deliciousness was that you hadn’t eaten anything but hospital food for a week. The two of you sat in silence as he cooked his eggs, plated them, and sat on the bench next to you, your knees knocking into each other as you both ate. When you were both finished, Spencer took your plates to the sink, and you watched in silence as he washed up. Before you could start to feel guilty, he passed you a hand towel and pressed a plate into your hand. Only once everything was washed, dried, and put away, did he speak.
“We’re gonna have to start working soon.” He helped you come down from the bench, holding your weight in just the right places to keep your pain as minimal as possible, “The unsub could take another victim any day now.”
“Yeah, about that. What am I supposed to do?” The way he talked about it, it was like he expected you to be more than the witness you were. Which, given the fact that you’d never been part of a murder investigation before, and that you weren’t exactly the brightest, didn’t seem like it was going to be very useful for the case.
“You have a specialised knowledge of the world we—and likely our unsub—are working in.” He gestured to the penthouse you were in, which really wasn’t that fancy, if you were being honest.
“That’s not going to help you much, I don’t know what to look for.”
“You’ll learn, I’ll teach you.” You’d been told by countless people that you were an impossible student, you doubted his efforts would work, but resisting was only going to make him push harder. Better to let him figure it out himself.
“Cool, so when do we start?” Stepping away from him slightly—needing to put some distance between you and your lie by omission—you walked to the fridge, pouring yourself a glass of water. You let the cold liquid slip down your throat, soothing it, freezing it for a moment, silencing you.
“First, you’re just going to do your job as a witness. Ideally, we would’ve taken your statement once you were conscious in the hospital, but you were coming down hard and any statements would’ve been unreliable. So, make yourself at home, and I’ll take your statement after lunch, does that sound good?”
“I think I can do that.” You weren’t sure you could do anything else, though.
Drifting away from Spencer, you set off to explore the apartment, a modest three bedrooms with an ensuite for each, a guest bathroom, a dining room—no chandelier—a large study, a living room. Nice, not too fancy. There was a grand piano in the living room, you’d taken lessons as a child, but it had been a long time since you’d cared to play. You looked away from it quickly, feeling your breath speed up uncomfortably at the memories that came with playing it. You weren't a fan of the living room.
The study was much nicer, you decided, a small couch in one corner of the room, you noticed your violin in another. Crossing the room, you gently plucked it from its stand. The instrument you’d continued to play throughout the years, it came to you naturally.
Lifting it to your shoulder, you placed your chin on the rest, your fingers already in place. Your breathing calmed, mind quieting at the feeling, at the sound as you slowly dragged the bow across the strings. Music filled the room as you tapped your foot to the familiar beat in your head. Your fingers danced along the strings instinctively, with a careful, delicate precision.
You played until your fingers hurt too much to continue, the melody dying with one final tremor.
“You're good.”
“Thanks.” You placed the violin back down on the stand with a smile, your voice shaking slightly with surprise, having not noticed your audience of one.
“It's good to have a hobby, a distraction.” He crossed his arms over his chest, as if shielding himself from the world.
You nodded, “Yeah, helps a bit.” It didn't help enough, you could only play for so long before the ache of your fingers brought you back to reality. And once you were back in reality, unfriendly memories slipped through the cracks. You had the urge to ask him what he did, his distraction, but that would be overstepping.
“I play chess.” He answered your unasked question, using his ridiculously accurate mind reading skills, “If you ever want a match.”
“I’ve never played before.” You’d never been inclined to learn, the general consensus between your friends and family was that it wasn't exactly your pace, a little too complex.
“I can teach you?”
“Sure, yeah.” You agreed, more to appease him than anything.
“We have a few hours before lunch, should be enough time for you to learn the basics.” He gestured to the couch, and you sat down on it as he walked to the desk, taking out a mobile chess set and placing it down in front of you. He pulled the desk chair over to the table, opposite from you, and sat down.
By the time lunch came around, you had lost seven games in a row, although Spencer claimed you were incredibly talented for a beginner.
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tysm for reading!!
Tags: @reidmoony-toast @1mnshw @pleasantwitchgarden @pacmil @moonz33 @meowlusions @iyskgd - Comment to be added <3
i understand nico because if I was in the middle of the messiest of divorces that's taking a toll on my body, fighting for a championship, while being mocked by Sebastian Vettel who is also flirting with what is now my ex and this TEENAGER starts to get involved I would be over it because WHY IS THERE A KID IN HERE and why IS HE IN THE COOL DOWN ROOM with me and my EX LOVER
could you maybe do like a one shot of Spencer x Supermodel!fem reader? Like she does runways for super popular brands like Versace and Victoria’s Secret?
Radiant. ౨ৎ
Spencer reid x fem supermodel!reader
content: established relationship, no use of y/n, spencer being down bad tbh, fluff
cw: Victoria's Secret show, so underwear yk (but no sexualising or anything)
wc: 2.3k
an: This is so exciting, hi first anon req!! I love you so much! Anyways this idea is amazing and I hope this is what you envisioned <3 This isn't my best work, but I tried 😭 Also I based the outfit off Karolina Kurkova's in a 2003 show, but its set in early season 7 soo forget that!
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“Is that her?” Penelope whispers for the hundredth time.
“No.” He huffs, tired of answering the same question for the past ten minutes.
“Patience, babygirl.” Derek chuckles from Spencer's other side. “He'll tell us when she's here. Maybe not with his words, but definitely with his eyes.” Derek flutters his lashes in Spencer's direction, clearly making fun of him.
“Both of you leave me alone, please?” He pleads, sick of their antics. They haven't stopped talking, and it's putting him on edge. He wants to appreciate today. Appreciate you.
You had been desperately hoping to get this job with Victoria's Secret for months, and you were ecstatic when news of your hire reached you through your manager. You'd been raving excitedly about it ever since, and had begged him to finally come to a show.
He obliged, of course. Partly, because he can't say no to you, and mostly because he has been eager to see you in your element ever since you two had started dating.
Now, he is buzzing in anticipation, which is definitely not helped by Morgan and Garcia's constant remarks.
It wouldn't have been his personal preference to invite them, but you'd insisted, saying it was about time you met Spencer's friends, anyways.
The show continues, scantily clad girls strutting down the catwalk, angel wings attached to their backs and sequins blinding, but still, you were nowhere to be seen. Spencer fidgets, waiting with baited breath.
A figure emerges from the side of the stage, turning to strut down the walkway. He freezes, shooting up in his chair from where he was previously slumped. It was you. Undeniably. He could pick you in a sea of people from a mile off, if it came to it.
His breath hitches. He takes you in.
There you stand, in all of your glory. He can't quite believe what he’s seeing. Sure, you're self-assured in your everyday life, but this is on a whole new level.
You radiate confidence, striding down the catwalk like you own it. Spencer is utterly captivated by this different side of you that he has never seen in person before.
Sure, he's seen endless pictures—and even some videos—of your modelling, as well as the shows that take place in the comfort of your home; when you put on outfits and strut down the long hallway of your apartment, to loud enthusiasm from Spencer.
These particular one-on-one shows usually end in you dressing in progressively more atrocious outfits, until you’re both prone from uncontrollable laughter.
But this. This was real. It all hits him then—that you are a supermodel, that you do this for a living. That this is your life.
His chest swells with immense pride at all you have accomplished. You've worked so hard, built your career from the ground up, and it has paid off. Your dreams have finally come true, and now, you're modelling in a Victoria's Secret show, which he is told (by you, of course) is world-renowned.
“That's her.” Derek concludes smugly, no uncertainty in his tone. Spencer shushes him loudly, eyes fixed solely on you.
You don't falter for a single step as you glide down the stage. You're clad in a sparkly silver bra that glints off the bright lights, sequined mesh sitting below the bra's edge.
A small pair of matching silver underwear sit below your hips, a glittering garter to match. And, of course, the wings. They protrude from your back, spanning above your head, magnificent and ethereal. Spencer thinks you ought to have a halo to match.
The feathered angel wings trail down your back, sweeping across the floor behind you as you make your way to the end of the catwalk.
Garcia and Morgan are saying something across him—most likely about you—but he pays them no mind, not caring for anything else but you, in front of him.
As you near the end of the perilously long stage, Spencer's smile only grows, until he is beaming uncontrollably when you slow to strike your pose.
Spencer and his company have VIP tickets, courtesy of you, so he has an unobstructed view of you, directly in front of where he is sitting.
Your hands rest on your hips as you lock eyes with the sea of cameras frantically snapping pictures.
You look fierce, fiery, and Spencer somehow grins harder.
As your eyes scan the room, they easily lock on Spencer's, not even ten feet away. His eyes are wide, smile larger than life.
His lips move, mouthing words to you that you instantly understand, and you light up, a warm glow from within.
‘I love you’
The luminous smile remains, even when you remember your surroundings. You pose again, grinning all the while and the crowd claps while shutters click incessantly. You pivot, sashaying off, but not before looking back over your shoulder to blow a cheeky kiss in Spencer's direction, winking.
It might just be Spencer's perception, but you seem to shimmer with incandescent light, like your very soul was set aflame with a soft fire. You are radiantly gorgeous—utterly perfect in the eyes of Spencer Reid.
The wink you sent over your shoulder makes him duck his head, face and ears bright red. He is the luckiest man in the world. To have you, all to himself.
He is still grinning, even as you disappear around the corner. Maybe he is biassed (most certainly), but you were by far the most captivating model up there. Your every move seemed effortless—practised and perfected.
You drew the attention of everyone, and you kept it. It felt as if the whole room had held its breath as you passed, too busy watching to remember how to breathe.
Maybe that was just his singular experience. He wouldn't know, and he doesn't particularly care.
As the show wraps up, Garcia and Morgan are raving—about you.
“Spencer, I can't believe she is your girlfriend! She is absolutely stunning!” Penny gushes.
The first statement hurts him a little, like everyone thinks he can't possibly be dating a pretty model—but it's definitely true. The second statement, however, is the truest thing he's ever heard in his 29 years of life.
Spencer chooses not to respond to Penelope, instead heading for the exit. They follow, and Morgan claps him on the back. “You're one lucky man, pretty boy.” He whistles suggestively, and Spencer brushes off his hand, mumbling something under his breath as he is suddenly interested in the craftsmanship of the venue floor.
He found this hard. Blending his work and home life, introducing you to his family. It's not that he's worried they won't like you—that’s impossible, when it comes to you—it's more that he has trouble combining the two sides of his life in his head, given the fact that he is almost two different people in each.
He doesn't bring his work home, and he doesn't bring his home to work—mostly. He does, sometimes (too often), ramble on about you and how downright amazing you are. He's only human, after all.
Mostly, he's scared that it will be a mistake, that the two sides will end up being better off separate, that mixing the two now will have irreparable consequences.
But, you wanted to, so he’s taking the plunge. For you. Always for you.
~☆~
Spencer feels like he shouldn't be here. They're in the very depths of the building; models, designers and beauticians alike flit past them, paying them no mind as they go about their business.
He glances over his shoulder at the ajar door that leads to the dressing rooms every couple of seconds, in case you come through and save him from this place—which is the polar opposite to everything that makes him comfortable.
He's here for you, though, and he would endure this for you. Only for you.
Morgan and Penelope stand a few feet away, at ease and chatting like this is the most normal situation in the world, like they've been backstage at thousands of Victoria's Secret shows.
Just as he's about to go into a nervous breakdown, he sees a flash of movement appear from behind the door.
“Spence!” A shriek sounds as he turns to see you, bounding towards him. You throw your arms around his neck, nuzzling his cheek.
His hands come up to steady you, curling under the hem of your sweater. He feels instantly less overwhelmed, breathing you in like you're the oxygen he needs to live—like he can’t breathe properly when you’re not near.
You're draped in an oversized knit and comfortable track pants that engulf your frame. The irony wasn't lost on him—you were wearing nothing but showy undergarments not even half an hour ago.
He loves that about you. That you aren't entirely defined by your job, that you have a part of your life and sense of self cordoned off; a part that isn't affected by the insane world of modelling. He loves that you can be yourself in so many different ways, that you have all these different facets. Just like a diamond, whose sides are all different, but every single one shines just as brightly all the same.
It inspires him to do the same for himself, to have a true self outside of his chaotic job that takes over most of his life. You’ve helped him see that life can be varied, diverse; that there are so many different things—other than one's job—that can make you feel fulfilled. Content. Happy.
He's happy; truely and vibrantly happy with you. And that is the way he wishes it to stay.
He chuckles amusedly at your strong display of affection. “Hello to you too, lovely.”
You pull back to grin at him, albeit a little sheepishly. “Sorry. I'm just so happy you're actually here.”
His gaze softens impossibly more. “It was long overdue.” He cups your cheeks and leans down to press a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “You were phenomenal.”
You beam, and draw him closer.
The clearing of a throat brings you out of your reverie, out of the world where there is only the two of you.
You pull away, detaching yourself from Spencer, eyes flashing with delight. “Hi!” You wave at a shocked-yet-amused Derek Morgan, and an exuberant Penelope Garcia.
Derek raises his eyebrow at Spencer, probably surprised by how little he cared about your public display of affection. He usually doesn’t even let Garcia hug him unless it’s important. But, like with everything else, you’re different—special. He simply shrugs back.
“You must be the friends Spence has told me so much about.” She reaches out a hand to shake Morgan's hand. “Derek, right?”
Derek smirks, “In the flesh.” He grasps your hand, grip firm. “The show was amazing, by the way.”
“Thank you!” You chirp, brightening further, and Morgan huffs out a laugh.
You pull away, turning to the eclectic women next to him. “And you, must be the famous Penelope.”
You reach out your hand once more, but Garcia has other ideas. She dives in for a hug, bypassing the formalities immediately.
She pulls away abruptly as you squeak in surprise. “Oh- sorry! I'm sorry.” She blurts out. “I'm just so happy to meet you, finally! Reid has told us so much about you, I just couldn't wait any longer!” She grins broadly. “And you're even prettier than he described, which I don't understand how that's humanly possible, because boy genius over there won't stop talking about how gorgeous you-”
“Woah there, baby girl, slow your roll.” Derek interrupts, patting Garcia gently on the shoulder. You stifle a laugh, glancing at Spencer. He ducks his head, avoiding your eye and shuffling from one foot to another as his face turns pink.
“Sorry!” Penelope flushes scarlet red. “Uhm… what I meant was ‘nice to meet you’.” She cringes at her outburst.
“No need to say sorry. It's an absolute pleasure to meet the both of you, Spence speaks so highly of you two.” You beam, and Garcia deflates in relief. Spencer’s arm snakes around your waist and under the hem of your sweater once again, smoothing patterns on your bare skin. You lean into his side, a contented sigh escaping your lips.
“You know, when boy genius here told me he was dating a supermodel, I didn't believe him.” He raises eyebrows, smirking. “But, here you are.”
“In the flesh.” You flash him a grin, parroting back his own words. He lets out a chuckle.
“Why is it so unbelievable?” Spencer complains incredulously.
They all laugh at his words, and he hangs his head, sighing dejectedly. You pat him on the chest in consolation.
All of Spencer’s fears are quickly doused as a lively conversation starts up between you and his friends. He doesn’t know why he worried, like if they met everyone would self-combust. No, this was going fine. More than fine, even.
His breathing slows, sure and steady, and he just watches. Watches you speak animatedly, with a delighted glint in your eye, clearly enjoying Penelope and Derek’s presence. And his friends, his family, seemed to be enjoying you just as much, which he obviously isn’t surprised about, but still fills him with relief. It was okay. It was all going to be perfectly okay.
“How does some dinner sound?” You ask the group, just as Spencer tunes back in.
Penelope claps her hands together, “Yes! I have the perfect place.”
“Sounds good to me.” Derek replies. “If lover boy is coming, of course. I can't wait to tell lover girl, here, all the embarrassing stories at his expense.”
Spencer groans, but follows Garcia as she heads towards the door. You just laugh.
Spencer pinches your side from where you're still tucked under his arm and you yelp. This time, he's the one letting out a quiet chuckle, and you roll your eyes.
“Come on genius, lead the way.” You look up expectedly from under his arm.
“Anything for you.” He simply replies, wrapping himself around you tighter, before guiding the both of you towards the door.
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