welcome to my blog!! i’m Em, i’m 25, and my pronouns are she/her. i write for Spencer Reid from criminal minds <3 i’m a writer, before anything else, and while all my works may not be explicit, i tend to tag everything 18+. you’ll find everything important here!!
I do NOT and WILL NOT use ai to write my fics!!!!! I have written some cai bots, but I do not consent to my stories or my bots being used to write fanfic.
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master list
aura
where Spencer meets someone who understands his pain, even if they’re only in his life for a short while
go easy (on me baby)
Spencer struggles to comfort fem!reader through her grief.
maraschino
valentine’s day day evening as reader tries to make things perfect for Spencer, who already adores her.
stains
Spencer and fem!reader’s relationship is explored through the years through four spills.
you missed my heart
Spencer and fem!reader work through a case that is close to home for reader. Very much so.
IN WHICH 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 !
Lucky @reidmarieprentiss
Summary: Based on this request! Reader encourages Penelope to go on a date, which ends in tragedy. This event shakes the team, leading to conflict, particularly between reader and Spencer, who blames her for what happened.
You missed my heart @shiningjustforreid
where bau!fem!reader, Spencer Reid, and the bau deal with a case very close to home for reader.
Support System @luveline
hotch and spencer have to work together to look after you when things get really hard. fem,
Cocoa powder @gghostwriter
Alarmed @gf2bellamy
Close to home @reidrum
summary: the bau is working a local case when their unsub strikes again mid investigation, hotch tells reid and morgan to go check it out but spencer finds the address of the crime to be a little too familar
Can't sleep @theesterianempire
When no one's heard from Y/N in over a week the team begin to get worried so Spencer pays you a visit to find out what's going on.
Still Yours @blairenqs
IN WHICH you can’t handle spencers’ absence in your relationship anymore, bringing hidden feelings to the surface
Coffee @gf2bellamy
All I do is try @pencil-n-pen
summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?
Parents @gf2bellamy
Sleeping @gf2bellamy
And they were roommates @chaussetteblanche
summary : you are Spencer Reid's roommate, the team finds out about you when a case brings them to the university you study at
To talk is to bare @esote-rika
Summary: three times you've never felt enough for Spencer Reid—and the three times he rectified it immediately
I know you @awordsmith
in which you tease Spencer for reading a spicy book and get trapped in an elevator right after...karma?
The Quiet One @magical-reid
Summary: Spencer Reid becomes increasingly intrigued by Y/N, a reserved but brilliant new member of the BAU, who remains distant from the team despite her exceptional skills. As they spend more time together, Spencer finds himself drawn to her quiet strength and vulnerability, leading to a growing connection between them.
You can't let it go @reidrum
summary: in which you feel yourself slipping away but not if spencer can help it
Arrest me but make it sexy @dearlenore
SUMMARY: The team successfully arrests a murder suspect—only to realize they’ve just taken down a highly respected FBI agent from another unit. Furious that they’ve blown her undercover mission, she decides to make their mistake their problem. After all, if they’ve already ruined her op, she might as well have a little fun with it.
Warm under the collar @mariasont
summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying.
Love between the margins @moonlight-joy
Summary: Spencer has a habit of leaving handwritten notes in the books you borrow from his personal collection. One day, you finally write back.
Important Names @morguesiren
summary: how your best friend helped your daughter come into the world.
Welcome Home @badathumanemotions
Exile @reidrum
summary: in which you and JJ are the ones held hostage in truth or dare
Baby Fever @recollins
Dinner Plans @dearlenore
SUMMARY: the team is stunned when their boy genius accidentally reveals that he’s dating a woman with a child while discussing an unsub, leaving them reeling from the unexpected revelation.
Mrs. Reid @readreidsworld
Summary: Spencer gets released from prison and decides he can no longer live another day without you by his side
Baby Girl? @desideriumwriter
summary: Derek and Emily find out about Spencer’s (unintentionally) secret kid.
Dedicated To @cherrygarcia-07
synopsis: spencer is babysitting henry for the night and takes the opportunity to read him your new children’s book. he has a big realisation about your future together when he finds the surprise you wrote for him inside.
Flip the page @thedivinereverie
synopsis: your journal is where you write out anything and everything. you feel it, your journal has it— including the declaration of your feelings for your good friend and colleague, dr. spencer reid. the journal serves its purpose of secrecy, until spencer accidentally stumbles upon it and reads how you really feel.
Making up for lost time @cherrygarcia-07
synopsis: When you find out you’re pregnant days after Spencer is sent to prison, you worry about how he’s going to handle not being there. While trying to navigate the pregnancy alone, you come up with a way to make sure he doesn’t miss a single thing.
Jackpot @inkydelusions
summary: it's the night of your daughter's dance recital and all it takes is to se eher on stage for everything to shift. for the three of you to become a family.
Aftermath @josiewritesstuff
summary — the days following spencer's accidental love confession could not be more awkward, especially when your insecurities come to light in an argument.
The Pregnancy Dossier @reidersdigest
Summary: When pregnant reader is too far along to travel with Spencer & the team, Spencer creates a custom y/n dossier for Garcia whilst he’s gone.
Monkey see monkey do @pathologicalreid
in which Spencer and your son meet for the first time—the two quickly take a liking to each other
White Knight @pathologicalreid
in which a mysterious stranger comes to your rescue one night, except he just so happens to be an fbi agent, and you were in serious danger
bau!fem!reader faces immense grief and the aftermath. Spencer attempts to be supportive. sometimes it backfires.
a/n: grief is cruel. and sometimes, even the most caring people don’t know what to say or do.
word count: 4k
warnings/tags: 18+ for content, reader goes through it, funeral, season 11ish boyfriend!Spencer, mental health crises, Spencer is trying his best, grief, reader is fem but only physical descriptions are long hair(?), no use of y/n, church is mentioned for the funeral, mild religious themes
Crisp July wind, warm and suffocating, leeches into the bullpen, somehow, through the windows. Spencer’s flipping through files at his desk, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose; you’d both been in a rush this morning - your hair in a barely holding on pony tail and his lack of contacts proves that. Across the room, he hardly glances your direction as your phone buzzes and a frown paints your face when you answer. The gentle hum of other people and their computers drown out whatever conversation you have with whoever, but he does look up when you’re suddenly at his side.
All the life and color has been washed away from your face, smoothing your hands over your slacks, eyes unseeing, as you look down at the dingy carpet.
“That was my mom.”
You breathe out, voice catching, creaking. It doesn’t go unnoticed, certainly not by your behaviorally tuned boyfriend. He stands, his hands taking your forearms, sliding down until he can hold both your hands. HR and ‘PDA’ and fraternization be damned; you look like you’re about to tip over, and he’s not going to let that happen.
Strangely, though, you don’t look close to tears, as empty as your tone is. Thumbs soothe over your knuckles, as he watches your face, voice low enough that it gets lost in the nine fifteen hustle and bustle.
“What’d your mom say, Angel?”
Faintly, you realize he’s talking to you like he would a victim, or a victim’s family. You’re too stunned to be bothered by it.
“My grandma. She’s gone. Stroke.”
Several thoughts fly through Spencer’s brain. Your grandma, who practically raised you, while your parents were working. Who calls you at least once a week to check in, and sends small trinkets she thinks you’ll like in the mail. Gone. With absolutely no warning.
Quickly, he goes through what he knows about grief. What does he know about grief? Statistics, and informational articles about the five stages (or more) fly through his brain, but he comes up empty with what he should say. So instead, a simple phrase falls out.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”
Wrong response. Was it? He’s starting to freak out internally when all you do is raise your shoulders up, and down, a lethargic movement, as your eyes stay low.
“I suppose I should tell Hotch. My mom will want help. Planning the viewing. The funeral.”
Numbly, you turn, before he squeezes your hands tight, to keep you in place.
“Hey. Woah. Um, maybe you should just take a second and—“
“Spence. It’s fine. I’m fine. This— I’m just going to be very busy for a few days.”
You’ve got your ‘please-just-let-me-avoid-thinking-about-this’ face on, but to be honest, he’s considering having you go sit right back down and telling Hotch himself. Frozen to the spot, he watches you head up the stairs, how your fingers brush along the handrail.
As you initially described it, the next few days are a blur. Hotch gives you time off, and you spend it at your mother’s or the funeral home or your grandma’s house. The first night you come home after spending the day with family, Spencer’s already on the couch, book in lap, when you open the front door. He’s over at your side in a flash, too-quick hands shutting the door behind you and taking your freezing ones in his.
“Hey. You, uh, okay?”
You shrug, a half-hearted movement as your hands sit limply in his.
“I guess. I— maybe it hasn’t hit yet. I haven’t cried yet. My mom was crying, and my cousins, but I couldn’t. Think something might be wrong with me?”
Spencer’s face falls, and he’s quick to busy himself by smoothing through your hair, over the high plane of your cheek bone with his thumb; worrying with his hands so he maybe won’t say the wrong thing.
“Lovely, no. Nothing’s wrong. Grief, it, uh, comes in all types of patterns and forms, and maybe you’re still in denial?”
Still locked away somewhere in your mind, you shrug again, rubbing your hands over your arms. You might as well be underneath layers of ice, underwater, watching everyone up on the shore.
“That’s the first stage right? Makes sense. It’s cold in here, don’t you think?”
Frowning, he watches you head over the thermostat, and then to the kitchen.
Like nothing’s amiss. Like you didn’t just lose someone irreplaceable.
And yet—clearly, something’s very, very wrong.
“Angel…”
You don’t look up as you get out a pot, pan, a colander. Must be making pasta.
“Mm?”
“You can just go relax, okay, I’ll— let me get dinner tonight.”
Now it’s your turn to frown. He swallows, watching your face stay perfectly devoid of any real emotion, just carefully placed confusion as you turn his direction.
“Spence, why wouldn’t I make dinner? I usually do.”
“But I want to. Can you just let me? Please?”
He watches the indecision flicker through your eyes at his plea, and then you nod, slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll go— sit. For a bit. I’m really hungry anyways. Long day.”
Talking in cliches never good, especially when it’s you. Spencer watches you head to the couch, your eyes landing on a shelf — and he winces as you look dully at a frame.
He knows which picture rests behind the glass.
Staring for a moment, your muscles tense, and then you whisper, hoarse, like you’re talking to yourself more than him.
“It’s funny. How time works. Maybe ‘funny’ is the wrong word, but— how someone can be alive in a picture and you don’t think about it until they’re gone, it’s jarring. Wrong. That the picture is all you have.”
To your credit, you don’t choke, there’s no lump in your throat. But you sound so distant, and it absolutely crushes him.
“Baby, you—“
You head down the hall, before he can finish, and the soft click of the bedroom door is all he hears. Sighing, he turns back to dinner, anxiety bubbling in his chest. He knows you need a moment, to gather yourself back into something vaguely presentable, even for him.
How can he fix this? Can he? He can’t just apply his knowledge to his girlfriend like she’s a part of a case.
But he doesn’t know. And that terrifies him the most, that there’s something he can’t learn, can’t prepare for, because grief is different for everyone and God knows it’s going to be unique for you.
When the morning of the funeral dawns, you’re up before he is, taming your hair in the bathroom, already dressed — black skirt and a rather nice matching blouse that he’s never seen before. He comes up behind you, as you run the straightener down your hair, and you meet his eyes in the mirror. What he sees in your eyes is a whole lot of nothing. Emptiness. It’s deeply concerning.
“Hey. Morning, lovely.”
His lips find the side of your face, feather light, and then the column of your throat, but your face stays blank. Nodding your acknowledgment of his presence, your voice comes out dangerously close to emotionless. As if you’re discussing the schedule for a normal day.
“We need to leave by eleven. The funeral’s at 2, but the roads might be busy, there’s a lunch for us before, and a private last chance to—“
You stop. Compose yourself into something steel and put together, and continue.
“To see. Her. Before they close the-her- it. The casket.”
Spencer lets his hand come to rest against your hip, gentle, grounding.
“And then, there’s the funeral, and the burial, and—“
The recitation of the agenda halts as you finish your hair and set the straighter down with a clack against the laminate top. Hands falling against your un-made up face, as though you can hide yourself from the inevitable of today. As though you’re young again, believing that if something is not seen, it simply doesn’t exist.
And God, he wishes it could be done that way.
“Spencer, I don’t want to do this. I can’t, do this.”
A beat. He sighs, his other hand reaching to click the power button and unplug your tool.
“Baby, you have to.”
Perhaps, softer reassurances could have been spoken, but his gentle ones, firm in their candor, have you nodding, measured as you reach for your makeup bag. He can almost hear you repeating his reminder to yourself in your mind - an affirmation, that some things in this world are agonizing beyond human comprehension, because of how they remind us of our mortality. How small we are under the stars, but that we must use their light to keep going anyways.
Morning rushes into noon, and Spencer is dually impressed and unnerved as you stay polite but quiet through tearful family interactions and casserole. Right before the service, he pulls you to the side, some small room in the church, clicking the wood paneled door closed behind the two of you.
When he runs his hands over your arms, he winces at the chill he feels through your sleeves. Your eyes stay low, on the mulberry colored thinning carpet, avoiding his gaze, because you know — meeting his eyes and seeing the pain there will break you more than anything else.
“Angel girl. Hey. Listen. If you don’t feel these emotions, this grief, now, I’m afraid you’re going to regret it.”
Shaking your head, you look off to the side, voice hoarse.
“I can’t. I can’t fall apart in front of all these people, my mom, Spencer. I have to push it down, squash it so far into my heart that I can pretend it’s not even really happening to me.”
But it is happening to you.
Neither of you say it, but both of you feel it. Your mother weeps during the service, during the burial, until she’s all cried out and sort of just stands there and trembles. You? Stone. Several times, the urge to let out some sort of bitter little whimper crawls up your throat, but you shove it down.
You’re a gargoyle, watching the people you love and grew up with weep over the casket as it’s lowered into the dirt, your face impassive. Spencer’s fingers find yours when someone hands you a rose to toss in the grave, and on wobbling legs you move, tugging him with you, the breath in your lungs kept there only by the physical contact.
It’s not until you’re both back in the apartment, and you stand there, purse in when hand, dangling to the carpet, in the entryway, until Spencer turns to you, voice so soft you barely hear it.
“Baby? I can help with your shoes if you want, or—“
“I don’t need help with my fucking shoes.”
Immediately, the guilt replaces the anger, but not by much. Swallowing hard, you set your bag down on the counter with a little more force than necessary, and sigh, a quick, short burst of air.
“God, Spence, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
Pressing your fingers against your eyes, you vaguely realize that you’ll smudge your makeup. As if that matters. He’s silent, as you stand there, his hands darting over his slacks a few times, uneasy, before they’re shoved in his pockets.
“You didn’t mean it. I know. It’s okay.”
Is it? Does grief give you the right to respond in any way that rolls off your tongue? Looking away, out the living room window, you shake your head.
“No. It’s not okay. I’m sorry. None of this is okay. None of it. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I just can’t believe we just put her in the dirt like that in her dress; she doesn’t have her rose sweater, she’s going to get cold—“
During your ramble, your voice has gotten high, crackly, almost unintelligible, as you turn back to meet his eyes. The expression on his face borders on pity.
“Hey, come here. Let’s just sit for a bit, I can make tea.”
You can’t bear it.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
Spencer sighs, steps closer, lets his hand rest tentatively on your waist. Tensing, you turn, barely, out of his touch.
“Spencer, she can’t be gone, she— she didn’t even look like herself! Didn’t you see it? In the casket? That wasn’t her, they made her all up to look like her but it wasn’t, I swear to God, it wasn’t. How could my mom not tell? It couldn’t be, my grandma can’t be dead, she can’t, Spencer— she is.”
There’s the tears.
He folds you into his chest, feels your tears against his shirt for a moment, arms around your waist. In a desperate attempt to ground yourself, yours wind around his neck, lifting your head to rest on his shoulder so you can speak.
“I want it all to be some lie. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and call her again and she’ll tell me about the new cookies she baked for her neighbor and I would call every day, I would.”
What can he say? He’s never been well-versed in words when they matter, so he lets you get it out. His thumb drifts up and down the fabric covering your ribs as you hiccup another sob.
“It almost makes me sick. I can’t think about the fact that I didn’t return her calls, or that they all got together last Thanksgiving and we didn’t go, I can’t go back to see her, I can’t go back and fix it, I can’t—“
Breathless nearly, he shushes, gentle, one calloused hand coming to rest on your scalp, smoothing down the hair there.
“Breathe, angel. You will make yourself sick if you don’t stop hyperventilating. Just— let me help. Tonight. Okay?”
Somehow, the minutes tick by, and he’s managed to get you showered, in pajamas you love with tea in your hand, and he’s combing through your hair. Sitting, half nothing, half human, in front of him, you let him slide the plastic teeth through your damp locks.
“I was horrid today. You were nothing but supportive and helpful and I was terrible. I’m sorry.”
“You’re grieving. I can take it, okay? The anger. The pain, it’s all a part of this, and I want to be able to handle it with you. That’s— sort of my job, isn’t it? To help you. When you need it.”
Sighing, you turn to face him. He takes your hand, threading your fingers together and letting his thumb ghost over the side of your hand.
“I mean it, sweet girl. Grief is ugly. Horrid, as you say. I definitely can’t expect you to just act as though you’re fine when you’re not.”
“But you also don’t want it to consume me.”
You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, and he grins softly through the light pink that stains his face. Somewhere inside your heart, something glows— still, your affection overwhelms him, just a little.
“And I’ll be damned if I let it.”
“Spencer.”
There’s a warning in your voice, gentle, sad.
“There are some things you just can’t control. No amount of knowledge of statistics or information can fix my heart. This just hurts.”
He blinks. Something flickers in his eyes — upset, raw fear, then, that he won’t be able to drag you out of the pit that you’re slowly sinking into.
“Okay, but I can still apply what I know. How to alleviate some stress, please, just let me.”
Your heart twists. The way his shoulders won’t relax, how tense he is as he tries to hold your eyes despite how you try to avoid avoid avoid.
“We’ll see.” You concede, before you let yourself be tugged under the quilt of your bed and into Spencer’s grasp and the warmth that seems to seep from him. Mentally, you promise to try to let him help. However he can.
God, you try, you do. At first, it’s easy, faking cohesiveness, and you begin to wonder if you’ll really need external assistance at all. Too much blush and caffeine. A tight grin when needed. Barely collected and rationed laughs that the entire team pretends aren’t flimsy like ash.
Until you take the first sick day. Spencer isn’t thrilled about leaving you home alone, but you tell him that you’re just sort of blech, and a day is all you need to recover, and tidy up around the apartment.
What you don’t mention to him is how you spend the entire day in bed. Nothing gets cleaned. The lights stay off all day, curtains drawn tight, your home a dim shadow of what it normally is. Normally? It’s a sanctuary. It’s starting to feel more like a crypt. Coffee cups pile up on your nightstand, on the end table, and the more you stay home, the harder it is to leave. At all.
Because there isn’t just one sick day. There’s another, a week later, after a night spent in tears. And another two days later, when you feel so nauseous and tense at dawn that you feign a stomach bug. Despite the guilt the first few times, each time, it becomes easier to text Garcia that you won’t be in, with excuses that begin to sound poorly crafted even to you. And you want to believe them more than anyone.
You stop looking in the mirror, because all you see is her, and your mom’s soft reminders from childhood turned haunting whispers of ‘you look so much like her.’
In some back corner of your mind, you begin to wonder how long you can wallow before the water fills your lungs and you drown off shore, a corpse waterlogged with muddy memories. The sea salt in your wounds is when you see a picture, hear a song she loved, or smell her perfume in public, and your lashes catch droplets you try to hide from Spencer. Before you know it, you stay home from a case. One in Florida, that you probably would’ve been helpful on.
You don’t care. Every time you close your eyes now, you see her body, fragile and made up to look less gray than she really was, cushioned by pale pink satin. Hotch calls early, to say there’s a case, and you refuse to go, numbly, dully.
Spencer is shocked; no matter the amount of recent absences you’ve had at work, he still can’t believe the development of your depression.
“Baby, you love cases. Please, come along. You can’t just keep taking sick days and not getting out of bed and—“
“Watch me. I’ll do whatever the hell I like.”
The words are empty, despite their vitriol quality, and he frowns. You’re sat on the edge of the bed, hugging your knees to your chest, cheek laid upon them.
“Easy. I didn’t say you couldn’t stay home, but you already took Monday off, and last Thursday, and—“
“Damn it, Spence, I know! I know. I just can’t. Okay? I can’t. I don’t want to. Let it fucking go.”
Now his face goes dangerously blank. You two rarely fight, but your tone is starting to border on hostile. Guilt creeps up your throat.
“Sorry. God, you didn’t deserve that.”
He glides his hands over his suit jacket, voice clipped as he looks down at his shoes.
“I’m not able to support you if you don’t want it. I’ll see you when we get back, then, I guess.”
Panic claws at your chest, sinks its teeth in and has you flying from your spot, voice shrill.
“Spencer, hey, stop, I’m sorry, please, I know—“
He turns, and the anguish in his eyes is intense.
“Baby, I don’t know. Okay? It is excruciating to watch you collapse in on yourself. I want to apply some study I’ve read or even just cheer you up and I’m beginning to think you don’t even want to be helped.”
Taking in a uneasy breath, you nod, color drained away from your face. Spencer’s fingers itch to comfort you. He doesn’t. There’s so much defeat in his eyes, unbound desperation to fix and heal.
“If I stop being sad, if I just keep going on with cases and life, it’s like she’s not even gone. It’s like she didn’t even die, Spencer! And she did! She’s gone, I can’t do anything to bring her back, please, just let me—“
The tears fall now, clumping on your lashes and dribbling down your cheeks, and the pit in Spencer’s chest gets bigger. Sometimes it feels like all time is anymore is minutes spent weeping or not. He steps forward to bring you against his suit coat, trembling hands smoothing over the linen of your pajama top as you heave silent sobs.
“I’m here. You’re not going to make me leave. Because the one thing I do know, Angel? Deep down, you want life to go back to normal. And it will. The grief won’t get smaller, but you’ll grow around it. Okay? I love you. So much.”
Tender hands trace up and down your spine, one eventually coming to tangle in your hair.
“Tell you what. We take this case, and then come home, and take some time off. Together. I’ll help you clean, and maybe—“
Is he pressing too much?
“Maybe we could go see her. It’s been a few months.”
Immediately, your brain lights up with a oh no please don’t I can’t-
“Sure. Yeah. When we get back.”
Florida is what it is — hot and humid and you manage to stay in the field office the entire time. Vaguely, you wonder if Spencer spoke to Hotch. Eventually, you decide it was probably for the best.
True to his word, the apartment is cleaned when you both return home, and two days plus the weekend is granted to the both of you. During the drive there, your heart twists and you’re pretty sure no interrogation has ever made your stomach turn like it does when Spencer slides the car into park, and his hand squeezes yours to help you out of the vehicle and onto sun starched grass.
A quick glance your way tells him you’re apprehensive to the extreme, and he stops halfway there, turning to face you.
“We uh, don’t have to do this. If you don’t think you’re ready.”
You shake your head, one quick movement.
“No. I need to do this.”
He looks relieved, his small smile growing after you try to smile too.
“A lot of people say that it can provide a lot of closure, and be cathartic. It might also… not be easy. Might be jarring, but really, the potential benefits of this outweigh the possibility that—“
You stop, pulling him to a halt with you. Fresh stone, neatly carved letters, her name, followed by years, followed by some lovely sentiment you can’t read because your eyes are clouded.
“They did a good job. With it.”
He says softly, and suddenly, the adrenaline kicks in, and you’re shaking so hard you might just collapse right there.
“We need to go. I’ll come back another, we’ll come back, but right now I need to go.”
Typically, he’d suggest that studies show facing fears can help with said fears, but one look at your terrified, gutted expression and he’s leading you back to his car, hands on shoulders, voice in your ear.
“You’re okay. Breathe baby. In, two three four, out, two, three, four. I’m not going anywhere.”
Once back at the car, you sink down, your back against the cold metal of the car, to land on the ground underneath. He follows suit, and your glossy eyes find the sky, a crisp, autumn cerulean that you just stare at.
“Think she’s watching? Like people say?”
He stares too, and takes your hand. He hears the guilt, the loss in your tone, and knows you’re afraid she wouldn’t be proud.
“That’s one thing I’m not sure about. Religion is, I think, at its core, a response to what people see in the world. A solution to the agony and problems we face down here. I can’t comment on whether or not she’s watching, but if she was, she’d still love you. Still be proud. Just like me.”
“Really? Proud? Of me? When I’ve spiraled into a caffeine and depressive lump that barely gets to work, let alone gets anything productive done?”
“Always. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that, well, I love you. Adore you, really, and you’re still in there, even if it feels like it’s all too foggy to see. I still see you.”
He presses a kiss to your cheek, and then pulls back, flushed, and looks away.
“Sorry, that was probably cheesy. But I do. Love you. A lot, and it’s okay if you can’t do this yet, and I—“
You silence him gently with your own mouth, a lingering kiss before you stand.
“We should go. C’mon. Thanks for driving me all the way here. Even if I couldn’t do what I wanted to yet.”
“Good clarifier, ‘yet.’ You will. Eventually. And I’ll be here for each attempt. And, when you finally talk to her.”
I was hoping u could write something where reader has a tough relation with economy bills etc, cause in her child and teen years she heard her parents always fighting and struggling with it, so when spencer gives her gifts or they are doing the shopping it brings her memories etc.
if u are not comfortable, skip this hehe u can add more things to the fic if u want, but that's the basic idea, u have an incredible imagination!!!
The Price of Love
Spencer Reid x reader
w/c: 3.4k
a/n: I hope I did this prompt correctly 😰
You never quite learned how to enjoy the sound of a cash register.
The chime of it at the self-checkout aisle, the low mechanical clunk of coins dropping into a machine, even the smooth slide of a credit card being swiped—it all used to send a little wave of nausea to your stomach. Still did, sometimes. It wasn’t rational, you knew that. But feelings weren’t always logical, and your brain had spent too many years listening to dollar signs scream louder than lullabies.
“Are you okay?”
Spencer’s voice pulled you back, warm and soft like a cotton sweater on a cold morning. He stood beside you in the checkout line, a box of your favorite tea in one hand and a small pack of strawberries in the other. He was smiling, gentle and curious. His scarf—a soft gray one you’d picked out for him—was half slipping off his shoulder.
You blinked. “Yeah, yeah, just thinking.”
“You get quiet when you’re thinking.” He nudged your side playfully. “Statistically, people spend more money when they’re stressed during shopping. Maybe your brain’s protecting your wallet.”
You tried to laugh, even though your chest was tight. “Maybe.”
The total on the screen blinked up at you: $67.42.
You wanted to flinch.
Spencer moved like it was nothing, pulling out his wallet and sliding his card in without a second thought. The screen flashed “Approved.” Your stomach flipped.
“I could’ve—” you started, but the words felt like gravel.
“I wanted to,” he said softly, handing you the strawberries like a peace offering. “I always want to take care of you. That’s not a burden to me.”
You nodded, but something deep in your ribs twisted anyway. You knew he meant well. He always did. But the ghosts of your childhood had long fingers, and they tugged at your mind with every gift, every swipe, every whispered “don’t worry about it.”
Because you did. You always did.
The apartment was quiet that night, save for the rustle of pages and the occasional clink of Spencer’s teacup against its saucer. He was curled on the couch with a book in his lap—The Little Prince, this time, because he said it reminded him of the way you see the world when you’re tired but still hopeful.
You sat beside him, knees tucked under your body, chewing your thumbnail like it owed you something.
“Your tea’s getting cold,” he murmured, not looking up from the page.
“I know.”
A beat. Then, softly, “You’ve been quiet since the store.”
You sighed, rubbing your hands over your knees. “It’s dumb.”
“I like dumb things,” he said, setting the book aside. His tone was gentle but unwavering, the way it always was when he was trying to make space for you. “Especially when they live in your heart.”
You glanced over at him. His hair was slightly messy from where he’d been running his hands through it, and his eyes—those warm, stormy eyes—were completely focused on you.
You bit the inside of your cheek. “When I was a kid, my parents used to fight about money all the time. I mean, all the time. Screaming matches over electric bills. Silent nights because someone overspent on groceries. I’d pretend to be asleep, but I always listened. Every argument felt like a countdown.”
Spencer didn’t interrupt. He just let you talk.
“I think I started to associate spending money with guilt. Like, even if I’m not the one arguing, even if no one’s mad, it still feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m doing something wrong when things cost too much. Especially if it’s not even my money.”
You swallowed hard and looked down at your hands.
Spencer was quiet for a moment, and then he reached out, threading his fingers gently through yours.
“I know what it’s like to grow up around fear,” he said, voice low. “Mine looked different. Hospitals. Needles. People whispering outside my door about whether I’d be ‘normal.’ But the way it settles in your bones? That’s the same.”
Your eyes met his.
He gave your hand a squeeze. “So… when I buy you strawberries, or tea, or that candle you liked last week, it’s not because I think you need them. It’s because I want you to feel loved in small, quiet ways. Even if it takes a while for your brain to let that in.”
Tears blurred your vision, but they didn’t fall.
“You’re not a burden,” he added. “You’re a gift.”
——
You fell asleep with Spencer’s arm wrapped gently around your waist, his breath steady against the back of your neck, your fingers still interlaced like they’d promised not to let go even in dreams.
It wasn’t the easiest sleep. Your body wanted to relax, but your mind kept whispering things like you don’t deserve this and what if it’s too much. But his warmth made a soft cocoon around you, and eventually, exhaustion won.
When you woke, the sun was just beginning to brush gold against the edges of the curtains. The air smelled like cinnamon and something softly sweet.
Spencer wasn’t beside you.
You sat up slowly, heart fluttering with uncertainty, until your eyes landed on the small, folded note on the nightstand. His handwriting was instantly recognizable—neat, slanted slightly to the right, like he was always just a little too eager to say the next word.
Went to grab us breakfast. The cinnamon rolls you like. Also got the kind of juice you pretend not to like but always drink half of anyway.
P.S. No, you’re not allowed to Venmo me.
P.P.S. I love you.
You smiled before you could stop yourself, blinking hard to chase away the sting in your eyes.
In the kitchen, he’d already set out your favorite mug, a soft pink one with little stars on it, and beside it—a post-it that said Refill me with love, and also coffee. His thoughtfulness wrapped around you like a blanket warmer than any money ever could buy.
By the time he returned, paper bag in one hand and a sleepy smile on his face, you were waiting for him barefoot in his oversized sweater.
He froze in the doorway, eyes softening. “Hi.”
You crossed the room slowly, heart in your throat, and wrapped your arms around his waist. “Thank you.”
He hugged you back, one hand resting lightly on the back of your head. “For what?”
“For not making me feel like I owe you anything,” you whispered into his chest.
He kissed the top of your head. “You don’t. I give because I love you. That’s the only price, and you’ve already paid it.”
——
It started with a list.
Not a grocery list. Not a bill-tracking spreadsheet or a carefully budgeted monthly planner like you’d grown used to making. This one was written on a piece of plain notebook paper, torn from the spiral at the edge. You started it on a quiet Sunday, Spencer dozing beside you with his face buried in your shoulder, arms lazily looped around your waist.
At the top, you scribbled in tiny letters:
Things I Can Give Back
It wasn’t that you felt like you had to give him something. He never made you feel like your worth was measured in things. But you needed to prove to yourself that you could still give in your own way. That love didn’t have to be purchased. That you could fill a space with softness too, even if your credit card stayed in your wallet.
#1. Bake him the pumpkin muffins he likes.
You remembered him telling you once, in passing, that his mom used to make them in the fall before her illness took more of her time than she could spare. He hadn’t eaten them in years. So you looked up three recipes, practiced twice, and filled the kitchen with warm, cinnamon-sweet air before he got home from work one day.
He smiled when he saw them on the counter, one eyebrow raised.
“Are these for…?” he started.
You shrugged, trying not to grin. “Unless you’ve got another brilliant profiler hiding in your apartment, yeah. They’re for you.”
The way he looked at you—like no one had ever made him feel more seen—was more rewarding than any bouquet of roses or wrapped-up gift box.
He ate four that night. One right out of the oven, too hot to chew, and still grinning like a little boy.
#2. Plan something for just the two of us. No distractions.
The BAU had been brutal that week. A case in Montana that Spencer wouldn’t even talk about, his eyes going distant when he mentioned the victim’s name. He came back quieter, less inclined to read, more inclined to hold you for hours without speaking. That’s when you decided to make your own kind of healing space.
You borrowed an old projector from a friend and turned the living room into a blanket fort of warm fairy lights and too many pillows. You made popcorn from scratch, melted a little chocolate on top the way he secretly liked, and stacked his favorite books beside a handwritten sign that said:
“Welcome to the no-trauma zone. Stay as long as you want. No bad dreams allowed.”
When he walked in that Friday night, wearing a worn-out cardigan and the weight of the world in his eyes, he froze in the doorway.
“Did you do all this?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, suddenly shy.
He turned to look at you, that same look in his eyes as when he saw those muffins. Like you’d somehow reached into the part of him no one else dared to touch and said, you deserve softness too.
Spencer stepped forward slowly, pulling you into his arms, burying his nose in your hair. “You make the world feel… quieter,” he whispered.
#3. Write him something.
This one was hard. Not because you didn’t have the words, but because you had too many. So you started small.
One morning, you left a note in the book he’d been reading—folded into page 198, because he once told you that was his favorite number (for reasons too nerdy and statistical to explain).
It said:
You’re my favorite place to be quiet and my favorite person to be loud with. Thank you for being home when I never thought I’d have one.
He didn’t say anything when he found it. Just walked into the room that evening, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and whispered, “Page 198.”
You smiled into his sweater. “I hoped you’d find it.”
“I’ll keep it forever.”
One afternoon, as you both lay tangled on the couch with soft music playing from an old record player, you finally told him what all of it meant. What the muffins, and the projector, and the little notes were really about.
“I think I was always scared,” you said quietly, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist where his pulse fluttered. “That I’d never be able to match what you give me. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m just… complicated. Too used to surviving to know how to just be with someone.”
He looked at you for a long time, brows pulled slightly together, expression unreadable. Then he sat up slowly, pulling you with him, cupping your face in both hands like he was trying to memorize every line of it.
“Do you want to know something true?” he asked.
You nodded.
“I grew up surrounded by chaos. Hospitals. Institutions. People who thought loving meant fixing. And for a long time, I didn’t think anyone would ever see me without seeing all the parts of me that broke first. But then I met you.”
His thumbs brushed your cheeks, soft and reverent.
“You don’t try to fix me. You see me. And you let me see you too. Even the scared parts. Especially the scared parts. That’s not weakness. That’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
Your heart was beating so loud, you were surprised he couldn’t hear it.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth—slow, lingering, like he had nowhere else to be. Then another. And another. Until his lips met yours in full, and the world quieted to just the two of you and the warmth blooming between your ribs.
When he pulled back, he whispered, “Let me keep loving you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
Tears slid down your cheeks, and he kissed them too.
That night, you lay curled together under a woven quilt, facing one another, noses almost touching. His hand rested against your back, fingertips drawing slow, absentminded circles that made you melt into the mattress.
“Do you know,” he whispered, “how many languages have words for love that also mean ‘gift’?”
You blinked sleepily. “No, but I feel like you’re about to tell me.”
“Finnish. Sanskrit. Ancient Greek. Even some Indigenous languages from the Americas,” he said, voice soft and low like it was lulling you. “They knew something we forgot. That real love isn’t currency. It’s presence. Safety. The way someone makes you feel when they just exist beside you.”
You smiled against the pillow. “And you make me feel… safe. Like I don’t have to be on edge every time someone pulls out a wallet.”
He kissed your forehead. “Then I’m doing something right.”
Silence stretched between you again, but it was the kind you liked. The kind that meant everything had been said.
A few weeks later, while cleaning out an old drawer, Spencer found your list.
You’d meant to hide it, but you’d forgotten, and there it was—creased, stained with a drop of muffin batter, and filled with the most beautiful, imperfect handwriting he’d ever seen.
He sat with it for a long time, hand resting over his heart.
Then, with your favorite pen, he added one more line at the bottom:
#4. Let him love me, without guilt. Every day. Every hour. Always.
