#spencer reid fanfiction
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do you believe me now? | 5
in which spencer reid and fem!reader are reunited, but the worst kind of sparks are flying. you meet a man named randall. derek morgan buys you a drink (sort of). it seems that some things can't be unsaid.
part one | two | three | bonus chapter | four
this series is 18+
warnings/tags: r goes to a bar but doesn't drink alcohol, gets hit on by weird men, dramatic, angst, sorry in advance
a/n: surprise! i'll see myself out. love you! lmk your thoughts on this bad boy! i KNOW you'll have some! i'm locking all my doors and the cops are on speed dial after posting this. stay tuned for part six tho
You don’t call Spencer for four days.
Spencer doesn’t call you for four days.
It’s scary.
There’s some texting—mostly him giving you updates on how things are going and when he expects to be back. Mostly you giving the messages a thumbs up and saying nothing else.
Finally, on Thursday afternoon, his ringtone (the Bill Nye theme) makes you jump as you’re sitting on your bed staring into space.
His caller ID photo—which is simply his passport photo, because you’d thought it was adorable—stares at you. You stare back. Contemplate not picking up.
But you’re not quite there yet.
And you cannot keep listening to Bill Nye the Science Guy.
The answer button is cold under your thumb, but not as cold as your greeting.
“Hi.”
You barely recognize your own voice.
It seems to send Spencer for a loop as well, because his reply is halting.
“Hey! Hi, um—how are you? I feel like we’ve barely talked this week.”
That would be because you told me my feelings for you are stronger than your feelings for me and I don’t know how to stop making every single word I say secretly mean I love you. We can’t have a conversation without me loving you. It will always be in the room or on the phone with us. To ignore the presence of it is impossible, and I don’t know if I can ignore the absence of yours, either.
“Uh… yeah. I’m fine. What’s up?”
There’s a pause.
“We wrapped up this morning. We’re getting on the jet here in a few minutes, and, um—I know it’s not ideal, but we missed Derek’s birthday and Penelope is insisting we all go to his favorite bar tonight. And he told me that for his birthday he wants to meet you. So… would you be up for that?”
“You want… to take me to a bar?”
“No. I mean—I know it’s not really your thing, but we missed Derek’s birthday three years in a row, and—and I understand if you don’t want to meet him tonight, but we wouldn’t have to stay very long and I really, really shouldn’t skip it. Derek has saved my life on more than one occasion.”
“You could go without me.”
More silence. Every second hurts, but you don’t understand why he wants you to come meet his best friend if he thinks the two of you are in different places emotionally.
But maybe he’s not going to break up with you just yet. Maybe he’s going to keep inviting you to bars and foreign film festivals and bookshops. Maybe he’s going to treat you exactly the same as he always has but with this new added layer of knowledge that the way he treats you isn’t actually love, and it never was, and you’re not sure if it has the potential to ever become love. Because if it did—wouldn’t it have already? What more do you have to offer than what you’ve already given him?
Breakup or no breakup, you feel sick.
When he speaks his tone is similarly chilly. It’s welcome. You want him mad. If he can’t reciprocate your adoration, then the very least he can do is have the decency to reciprocate your reproach.
“I could. Is that what you want?”
No. I don’t want any of this. I need you to know me well enough to know that. And if you can’t love me then at least get angry. At least show me you feel something other than passive contentment.
“Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.”
A pause stretches so long your heart pounds. You watch the elapsed time of the call tick by, second by second, and you wait for the anticipation to crack under the weight of silence, to give way to some terrible jump scare or to give way at all.
But the words that end the conversation (if you can even call it that) aren’t any great relief. They’re just sad, and chalk full of defeat.
“Alright. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”
You feel like you’ve swallowed an ice cube. All the words you’d like to say are frozen in your stinging throat.
“Okay. Um… I’ll let you board now.”
“The jet’s not…” but he trails off. When he speaks again he sounds just as hurt as you’d wanted—and it doesn’t make you feel better at all. “Okay. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The line goes dead, and your face is burning as tears fill your eyes for the hundredth time this week. That call was terrible and poisonous and you don’t feel like yourself.
Things have gone so wrong so quickly, and all you know how to do is ice him out so he can’t do it to you first. But it’s not going to make this better. No matter how mean you are to him, at the root of it all you feel unloved and scared and alone and Spencer knows things about love and relationships that you don’t. He’s confusing you with all this talk of feeling differently about each other and I’ll be home tomorrow I miss you and things get complicated when one person likes the other more and let’s talk in person and will you come meet my best friend tonight. All of it leaves you motion sick and ugly crying in the fetal position.
All you have to get through this is who you’ve always been, a little of the person you’ve become, and the love you harbor for Spencer which rattles around in your chest like a nail in an empty toolbox. At the moment it hardly seems helpful. It mocks you, pointing out the pathetic hilarity of your paradox. The only person who can comfort you, the person you want more than anything, is the reason you’re so upset in the first place. But you can’t help being drawn to him.
Maybe the love you have for Spencer is more like a magnet in a compass.
Even if he doesn’t feel it for you, you do love Spencer. And that goes beyond just loving the parts of him that like you. To hide from that love would be a gross disservice to yourself and all the work you’ve done to get here. It’s not as if you suddenly know exactly what the answer is—but you’re sure that hiding is the most childish, cowardly thing you could do and the furthest you could get from a resolution. Even if you can’t make him love you back, you refuse to allow yourself to fizzle quietly out of his life. This relationship deserves something more than that.
So maybe you don’t have a plan when you wipe your eyes and pick up your phone. Maybe there’s no strategy behind your actions as you text Garcia for the bar location. But if you keep running from everything you’ll never get anywhere. All you can do is show up. It seems like the next best step.
------
The pub isn’t too crowded—but for a Thursday night, you suppose it’s a bit busy.
Boot heels hooked onto the metal foot-beam of the stool you’re sitting on, elbows resting on the polished mahogany surface of the bar, you’re staring into an untouched mixed drink. Then you glance down the bar to your right, at the man who’d bought it for you.
Maybe your ensemble gave him the wrong idea.
Coming to this gathering had required bravery, and you came armored. Your ensemble projects significantly more confidence than you’re currently feeling. It was intentional, a form of self-protection—but now you’re wondering if it’s projecting a little too much confidence.
All done up, clearly still a little rough around the edges, and sitting alone at a bar was bound to draw the wrong pairs of eyes.
“Hey, darlin’,” the gruff man says, approaching when you inadvertently catch his gaze. “Are you gonna drink that, or should I? Otherwise I’m lookin’ at eleven dollars right down the drain.”
You avert your eyes, scanning the groups dotted here and there.
“I’m waiting for friends.”
“Does that make a free drink less appealing?”
He takes the stool next to you, off-gassing the scent of cigarettes and leather.
“I’m not drinking.”
“Really? I’ve never seen a girl who looks as sad as you do come sit at the bar to stay sober.”
You frown, looking back up at the man next to you. He seems like the Hell’s Angels type—tattooed knuckles, leather jacket, grey beard, and a weathered face that’s clearly spent decades with the sun. Fifties, maybe younger and just looks more rugged. What does it say about how I look tonight that this is the kind of man I’m attracting, you wonder. Maybe you look desperate and just as lonely as you feel. As he claims you do.
“I’m not sad.”
“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. But a happier girl wouldn’t be all alone.”
“I’m waiting for friends,” you repeat, letting the words drip like venom from your tongue.
“I’m Randall. See? Now we're friends.”
“I don’t need more friends. I like the ones I have.”
Something catches Randall’s attention long enough to catch yours. He raises his bottle vaguely, gesturing beyond your shoulder.
“Are those angry lookin’ guys in the suits marching right over here the friends you’re talking about?”
You turn your head, brows furrowed, and immediately see the gentlemen to whom your new pal is pointing out.
Spencer is storming across the bar looking close to furious (which for him, means an expression so placid it gives you chills) followed by Derek Morgan—a man who you’ve only seen pictures of and is even more impressive in person.
You hate how your breath catches, how your heart is already beating a little faster than usual at the sight of him even though you’re not exactly pleased with each other right now.
Suddenly the bubbles in your cocktail are once again fascinating.
“Those are the ones.”
“And why are they dressed for church?”
Church?
“They’re FBI.”
“Ah. My lucky fuckin’ day.”
You almost snort.
“Hey,” Spencer says sternly, hand settling on your back as he partially fills the small space between you and the strange man. “Who’s this?”
You shrug, sit up a little straighter, and take a shallow breath—not because you’re scared of this man but because Spencer is suddenly so close to you and you can feel his warmth and the air bending around him and the scent of him is genuinely dizzying to you.
“Randall,” you exhale unenthusiastically. But the odd thing is that you’re rather grateful for Randall’s presence. Because now Spencer is here and you have no idea what you’re going to say to him.
“Oh,” Randall says, sipping his beer unhurriedly before using it to gesture to Spencer. “You’re the boyfriend. You know, that’s funny, because she didn’t mention a boyfriend.”
“I didn’t mention anything. We weren’t having a real conversation.”
Randy holds his hands up defensively, fingers still wrapped around the neck of a sweating bottle.
“I’m just saying it’s in-ter-esting. Not trying to start anything.” He stands, pauses for another sip—Spencer obviously isn’t sure what to make of this man because he says nothing. “But listen, man to man—you better buy her some flowers or a real pretty fuckin’ necklace or somethin’ because a happy girl in a happy relationship does not come pout at the bar all by herself.”
“Get out of here, man,” Derek finally speaks up.
“Yeah, yeah.” He sets his empty bottle down and fishes in his pocket for a cigarette, sticking it between his lips. “But—just for the record—I have a wife. I wasn’t gonna do anything weird. Sometimes when you’re my age you just gotta live a little. Buy a pretty girl a drink. Piss off some Mormons, or whatever the fuck you are.”
This guy sounds like a bad Bruce Springsteen song. But part of you would almost rather hang out with Randall than be forced into a conversation you’re not prepared for with Spencer.
And whose fault is that, you remind yourself. You decided to come be mature. Suck it up.
“Goodnight,” Derek emphasizes.
Spencer doesn’t say a word. You can feel his eyes boring smoking holes into the side of your face, and you look anywhere else.
“I’ll be here next week after physical therapy like clockwork,” the stranger waves as he ambles away—but not before pointing at you. “You enjoy that drink, friend. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
What a weird man.
There’s silence for a moment—in which Spencer refuses to stop watching you and you refuse to acknowledge that.
“And here I was thinking Spencer made you up.” Derek has a beautiful smile and a warm, charming cadence as he holds out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Derek.”
You take the proffered hand and shake, offering him a shy smile and introducing yourself in kind.
“Happy birthday, by the way. Sorry for crashing your party.”
Really, he’s stunning.
“Thank you, sweetheart. And you’re not crashing anything. I told pretty boy here I wanted to meet you the second he started talking about a friend. But nah, he just wanted to talk and talk and talk about you—”
“Alright,” Spencer mumbles, blushing, eyes finally torn from your profile. You smile slightly, brows knitting as Derek magically melts some of the terrible tension.
“Pretty boy?”
Before either of them can explain, someone shrieks in your general direction. You startle backward in your seat, and Spencer steps closer, hand sliding up your back as Penelope, JJ, and Emily join your little huddle. For only a second you allow yourself to shrink into him—before you’re straightening your posture like your spine is a metal rod and his touch burns. It’s a knee-jerk defensive reaction for which you have no explanation. You can’t see him, but you don’t feel his hand on you again.
“Oh my god! Look at this beautiful person who I love!” Penelope exclaims, pushing past Derek to grab your face and kiss both of your cheeks. “Oh my god,” she says again, wiping sticky lipgloss away with her thumbs, “I totally meant to ask before I did that. But your face is just so kissable. I’m so glad you decided to come!”
“Hi, Penelope,” you smile half-heartedly, incapable of reciprocating her cheery mood. Fortunately, she’s cheery enough for a standard commercial flight’s worth of people, and probably thinks of Derek’s birthday as a national holiday—so she doesn’t pick up on this.
Emily and JJ offer you tamer although perfectly kind greetings.
“Ooh, what are you drinking?” Emily asks, leaning closer to examine the forgotten beverage in front of you.
“Not that,” Spencer mutters, grabbing the glass and sliding it away from you. You give him an affronted look—and immediately wish you hadn’t, since you’re meeting his eyes for the first time since he left. His words stall for just a moment as his eyes dart between yours before he’s saying, “you shouldn’t accept a drink if you didn’t watch someone make it.”
The audacity of him to be acting protective makes you scoff.
“That guy didn’t spike my drink. He was harmless.”
“People thought Ted Bundy was harmless, too.”
It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that you don’t even have a response—your eyes simply narrow and you shake your head. A claustrophobic silence falls over the small group.
“Okay…” JJ murmurs. “Um, do you guys want to go check out the jukebox with me? We have to play all of the birthday boy’s favorites.”
Several enthusiastic yeses go around, but you’re too busy having a stand off with your boyfriend to take much notice.
Soon, it’s just the two of you.
“Controlling isn’t a good look for you,” you finally say, spinning to rest your elbows on the bar once more and studying the bottles of liquor on the shelves beyond.
“Evasive and avoidant isn’t particularly flattering, either. I was under the impression that you had no intention of coming after that phone call earlier.”
You scoff again as your blood heats. Already the conversation is going worse than you’d expected—and your expectations were not high.
“Do you think the cab driver was a serial killer, too? Or maybe the bartender?”
He’s still behind you and slightly to the side—but he leans down, resting his own fists on the bar right next to you and speaking lowly, directly over your shoulder.
“Why don’t you try speaking to me like we’re adults instead of starting meaningless arguments in order to get under my skin?”
From him, that hurts.
It’s a branch on the tree of your greatest insecurity—the fear that you’re too inexperienced with relationships and that makes you too immature and he’s been lying every time he says it’s not an issue. Because of course it’s an issue. It’s why you fell in love with him, it’s why you don’t know how to fix it, and it’s why you’re incapable of actually expressing any of your feelings to him.
“Why do you think I’m here right now?” you whisper—as sharp and stinging as a poison dart. “I’m trying to be a fucking adult. I don’t want to be here.”
Silence.
“Then why did you come?”
His voice is so calm it burns like dry ice.
“Because! Because you asked me to, because—”
You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud.
Because I’m obviously still in love with you and I can’t just turn that off. I tried to do the right thing.
Instead you bury your face in your hands and let it hang in the air, unspoken. You know he knows. You just don’t know why he’s acting like you’re so unreasonable for being upset.
“Let me make this very clear to you,” Spencer murmurs, brushing your hair away from your ear so tenderly, speaking so softly you could convince yourself that he’ll say something kind. It’s the closest he’s been in days and now that he’s here you feel how much you missed him in your bones. And even though you sense a trap, you can’t help but sit up straighter. You’ll be complicit in your own undoing if it means you can have him close. His breath shakes slightly as he inhales and you brace as best you can. “Nobody is forcing you to be here. You told me you weren’t coming and then you decided to show up. I was ready to give you the space that you were too scared to ask me for. But I can only take responsibility for so much of what is ultimately your bad behavior and your adolescent volatility. You can only blame so much of your bad behavior on inexperience before I run out of patience because I don’t find thoughtlessness and emotional immaturity compelling. I told you that if there is a disparity in the way we feel for each other, that was fine, and I meant it. But if you can’t cope with how I feel about you then don’t let me hold you back. I am not holding you hostage. You can leave whenever you want. So don’t waste your time punishing me because you don’t want to be here. And if you do want to be here, good. I want that too. But act like an adult and make a decision. My leniency has limits, even for you. I am asking that you do not push it any further than you already have.”
You don’t know how long it’s been since your last breath by the time he finishes his address.
Long enough that you’re dizzy when you push away from the bar and shoulder through the throng of patrons as quickly as you reasonably can without outright running.
Long enough that when you burst out the door into the biting-cold night air, and finally take a deep, gasping breath, it burns and stings and aches and so does your head and your eyes as they well with hot, furious, heartbroken tears.
You speed-walk to the end of the block, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries and all the curse words you’d love to scream.
Part of you knows you walked away from the bar in case he decided to try and follow you—but when you look over your shoulder the sidewalk is empty. You should’ve known better than to think he’d follow you after that. But at least it means you can have your breakdown by the relative safety of the bar, leaning your back against the dirty brick facade next to the entrance alcove and sliding down until your butt hits the cold concrete and you don’t even care.
Who the fuck was that man in the bar who looked like Spencer and sounded like Spencer but spoke to you like this is all your fault, like it’s your fault you love him and he doesn’t love you back, like it’s ridiculous that you’d be upset, like you’re cruel and petty for having feelings about it, about him—for having any fucking feelings at all? And to think that was the man who you let know you more intimately than anyone ever has. Every insecurity you’d ever admitted to him was hurled back in your face like it was nothing. Hell—he even handed you the ones you’d never mentioned. He proved every terrible thought you’ve been having about yourself right.
How could he be so unabashedly mean to you?
Spencer doesn’t have to love you. It seems clearer now than ever that he doesn’t. But part of you wonders if he suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury because that’s the only explanation for why he could go from treating you how he did before to treating you like he doesn’t even like you.
You feel like you might throw up.
“Called it,” a rasping, grumbling voice says from a few feet away.
You look up, and spot fucking Randall standing under a street light ten feet away, still smoking.
You go back to studying the tar spots on the sidewalk through bleary eyes. Pebbles sting as they press into your palms. Another one of the universe’s terrible jokes, you suppose. Just earlier you’d thought that you’d rather talk to Randall than Spencer and now here you are and here he is.
“That kid as much of a dipshit punk as I thought he was?”
Hearing Spencer described as a kid and a dipshit punk is so jarring you almost stop crying.
“He’s not a dipshit,” you sniff, voice thick with tears as you find yourself explaining Spencer Reid to this stranger for no reason at all. “He has an IQ of 187. He’s a genius.”
“Ah,” he scoffs dismissively, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Dipshit-ism don’t discriminate. Anyone can be one. Even your genius punk boyfriend. As a recovering dipshit myself I know what the work of a fellow dipshit looks like. And this has dipshit written all over it.”
You sob harder.
Randall speaks calmly around his cigarette.
“You know, I’m sorry for whatever you got goin’ on. But I’ve never not been the asshole when I got a hysterical woman in front of me. It’s nice that I can confidently say this time it is not my fault.”
The bar door opens, letting a warm burst of jovial music and chatter into the otherwise still night. Steps that are too heavy to be Spencer’s hit the concrete next to you—you look to your left and see Derek Morgan before he looks down and sees you.
“Hey—you okay out here?”
“Why don’t you go ask your Jehovah’s Witness buddy? He did this.”
Derek makes a face, locating the source of this interjection.
“Sir, I asked you to leave her alone once and I don’t appreciate being made to repeat myself. Are we clear?”
“Yeah, whatever. Fuck me for making friendly conversation, I guess. Gonna have to call my wife and tell her to pick me up down the street. I don’t want her on the damn phone while she’s driving.”
Randall wanders away again, still muttering to himself and smoking. Derek watches him go, staring daggers into his back until he turns his gaze to you.
Goodbye, Randall, you think. Great. Now I have neither of them.
“Hey,” he softens, crouching down to your level. “You okay?”
You sniff, wiping your cheeks and attempting not to smudge your makeup. It’s impossible not to feel awkward—you just met this guy and now he’s here trying to do emotional labor for you on his birthday.
“Yeah, I’m fine. This is embarrassing.”
“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything for you? Do you want some food? A drink?”
“You really don’t have to—”
“I know, I know. But look—Reid is always talking about you. You’re important to him, and he’s important to me. I’ve never seen him this happy and I’ve known that kid a long time. It is in my best interest that someone maintain you, and if it’s not him, it’ll be me. Call it a favor to him, if that makes you feel better.” Derek is sporting a slightly more modest Cheshire grin again by the end of his sentence. Listening to him speak that way about Spencer speaking about you, it’s impossible not to feel a teeny bit lighter. Even if you’re not entirely sure where you stand on all things Spencer related at the moment. “So I’ll ask you again. Is there anything I can do for you?”
You sniff again.
“Sure. A ginger ale or something might be good.”
“Got it. I’ll be back. And come inside if Randall tries to run up on you again, okay?”
Despite yourself you manage a laugh at the way he says the name. His warm smile flickers warmer at this.
“Will do.”
When Derek returns a few minutes later, the plastic cup he’s holding looks decidedly not like ginger ale.
“Penelope insisted that this is what you would want. I don’t even know.”
You smile slightly as you take the cup, full to the brim with bubbles and thick red syrup. A cherry bobs underneath the layer of cubed ice.
“Shirley temple,” you chuckle. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” he says, flashing that brilliant smile again, and you look into your cup as you drink. Maybe your face warms just a bit. You’re still shy around men, you realize. Especially attractive ones. And Derek Morgan definitely qualifies as attractive.
“So,” he begins, and to your surprise, crouches down in front of you. “I have to be honest—I came out here in the first place because Reid sent me to check on you. But now I’m wondering what the hell he did.”
Spencer sent him. A considerate action that would theoretically signal his care for your feelings. You take another sip, staring into space and trying to digest this information, but it only jumbles with the rest to confuse you more.
Of course, you don’t know how to convey this to Derek in a way that’s not overly-familiar for just having met the man, so you go with an old standby.
“I’m probably just overreacting.”
“Uh-huh. I have sisters. I know what an overreaction looks like and if you were overreacting you wouldn’t be out here hiding. What’d he do?”
You can only keep up the facade of emotional stability for so long. Your chin wobbles in a horribly embarrassing way and you look down again.
“I’m not sure—I’m not sure if he really did anything or if I’m just being dramatic and I don’t want to make him seem—”
“Why don’t you stop defending him and just tell me what he did?” Derek urges. “Trust me—I love that kid to death. But I also know he can be a dick sometimes. You don’t need to worry about making him look bad in front of me.”
Part of you is glad Spencer has such a good friend on his side. And Derek is right—Spencer is an adult. You don’t need to worry about besmirching his reputation. So you take a shuddering sigh, staring into the red of your drink.
“He just doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Which isn’t his fault, like I said, but—he’s being such an asshole about it.”
Derek pulls a face, strong eyebrows making an impression as they knit.
“Did he tell you that?”
“Over the phone,” you nod emphatically. “And just now he gave me this whole fucking speech about how immature and horrible I am for not being 100% happy about it. And maybe he’s partially right, I mean—I know people feel things differently and maybe he just was asking for more time. I worry I fucked it up so bad because I couldn’t handle that—but at the same time he didn’t say he wanted more time. He was really fucking unclear and vague about what he wanted, and he asked me to come to this bar like it was nothing when I’ve been worried he was going to break up with me all week. So yeah, I guess he’s right and I have been a bitch about it because I was upset that he didn’t… like me as much. And I wanted him to feel bad because I was so embarrassed, and I also didn’t want to act like everything was normal if he was just going to dump me, I…” you realize you’ve been hardcore rambling and your face heats. “I don’t know.”
There’s a pause, and you worry you’ve done exactly the thing you didn’t want to, which was overshare to this man who seems like he’s significantly more normal and well-adjusted than you. You drink deeply, swallowing sugar and the rest of your words.
“That’s… bizarre. I don’t mean to invalidate your feelings, but… that just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah,” you scoff, projecting annoyance so you won’t start crying again. “I was confused too. I thought he really liked me.”
“No, sweetheart, I’m saying—that doesn’t make sense because he does really like you. Really, really likes you, more than I’ve ever seen him like someone before. I mean, last week I finally finished that Tesla biography he’s been on my ass about for months and when I told him, all he wanted to do was talk about your thoughts on it. And then it wasn’t even about the book anymore. I have never, ever seen Reid pass up an opportunity to talk about Nikola Tesla. I’m talking never in my life. He finds a way to make every conversation about you. I can’t even follow the connections sometimes but he always finds a way.”
Your nose wrinkles.
“Sorry you’ve had to hear so much about me,” you mumble. Though you’re not really sorry. It feels good. A twinge of joy in all the murk.
“I’m not. Like I said, I’ve known Spencer for a long time and I’ve never seen him this happy. I’m not about to let him fuck it up.”
“If I make him so happy then why did he tell me we don’t feel the same?” you whisper, reaching into the puddle of syrup and ice at the bottom of your now empty cup.
“Is that exactly what he said?” Derek asks, after a long pause. You bite the maraschino cherry off the stem and nod morosely, grinding a long-gone stranger’s cigarette butt with your boot just to crush something. There’s another beat of silence. “Alright. You know what I think?”
You raise your head to meet his gaze, your own wide-eyed and expectant.
“I think you two need to have an honest conversation. You’re both confused and hurting—I promise Spencer is feeling it too. If you talk to him he won’t be unkind to you.”
“He already was,” you admit.
“I apologize if I’m out of line here, but you just told me you’ve been icing him out all week because you want him to feel bad. I’m willing to bet you don’t realize how sharp these claws are.” Derek grabs your hand as he says it and you marvel at how much he is the opposite of you. Everything he does and says seems so natural and reasonable and charming even if it would piss you off from anyone else—and you just met the guy. You can see why Spencer and Penelope speak so highly of him. “I think you’ve probably both had your moments these past few days. But that doesn’t mean neither of you deserve any more chances.”
He puts your hand back on your knee and pats it.
“Besides, Spencer‘s not good at mean. I bet he’s inside worrying himself sick over whatever dumb shit he said to you. He’s probably hyperventilating as we speak.”
“It was really out of character for him,” you concede.
“Yeah. He’ll be apologizing for a long while. It will get annoying. But he sure as hell won’t be doing it again, I can tell you that much. If he does, let me know. Emily and I will whoop his ass and call it a fitness evaluation.”
“I think that’ll be unnecessary,” you laugh thickly, pulling your sleeve over your hand and wiping away the few tears that haven’t quite dried. “But thank you.”
“Anytime. Now, it’s my birthday, and as a grown man I should not be getting involved in someone else’s relationship drama. I was supposed to be on the dance floor a while ago.” His tone is so warm and sugary by the time he finishes it could rot his perfect grin. It’s futile to hide the way your mouth twists into a reluctant smile as you look down and fix your hair—praying he can’t tell how fazed you are by his kindness. “You’re going to talk to him, right?”
“I’ll—yeah. Right,” you say quietly. But the sinking feeling in your stomach knows it’s a thing easier said than done.
“Good,” Derek grunts, taking your empty cup before pushing himself back up to his feet and offering you a hand. “Do you want me to send him out here or do you want to come find him inside?”
You balk.
“Like—right now? I have to talk to him now?”
Before he can give you an answer you think you’d rather not have, the bar door is opening. From your spot you can’t see who it is right away, but Derek turns over his shoulder and does a double take before looking back at you.
Spencer steps out onto the sidewalk, eyes scanning for until he realizes you’re a few feet shorter than usual. Sitting on a filthy public walkway is probably his worst nightmare, you realize, as you scramble to your feet and dust the crumbs of concrete from your palms against the back of your cold jeans. He begins to say your name, and it sounds like relief and regret, but you stop him.
“I have to go wash my hands.”
It’s monotonous and mumbled and comes out too quickly but you don’t have time to worry about that as you brush past both of the men on your way back into the bar, making an immediate beeline for the bathroom.
Your face burns with anxiety as you shut the door behind you, immediately drowning in the yellowish lighting which is so harsh but seems to illuminate almost nothing. Who paints a bathroom red? It’s suffocating. You feel like you’re inside an aorta.
Water runs cool over your hands as you sniffle, rinsing the bits of dirt from red indents made by pebbles and things, and the soap is too floral and powdery but you wash twice anyway. Maybe you’ll just stay in here and wash your hands forever.
There’s a light knock on the shiny wooden door and it makes you jump. Your name is muffled from the other side.
“You in there?”
Quickly you wipe under your reddened eyes in the mirror, trying to fix the slightly smudged makeup.
The door opens when you don’t respond, and there’s Spencer, looking weary and tense all at once. Is that your fault?
“Hey,” you sniff, trying to effect casualness, but it comes out too quickly and your posture is too stiff. Under his all-seeing gaze you cross and uncross your arms, look at him and look away. Your hands end up in your pockets. He’d say crossed arms are a sign of self-soothing.
“Hey.” His is more measured, and of course makes you feel embarrassed in comparison. The door swings shut behind him as he enters the small room and makes it feel that much smaller. “Are you… hiding from me in here?”
Yes.
The graffitied toilet stalls to your left suddenly look fascinating.
“Nope. Just washing my hands.”
This is not what Derek told you to do, you scold yourself internally. Stop being so scared. Be honest with him.
Silence rings. All the brutally honest things you’d like to say choke you until your throat hurts and your eyes get hot. Yet again you feel like a stupid little girl who’s too emotional to communicate.
You cross your arms. It’s an indulgence you feel you’re owed.
Spencer says your name again and it’s too much. He never says it this often. When he does it feels good but now it’s too formal, makes you too aware of your own inadequacy, and how he must be seeing you—a wraith of a girl in a dingy bar bathroom with clammy hands and smudged eyeliner, practically shaking with fear under an unforgiving light. Someone who is too scared and much too sensitive.
Spencer attempts to speak again.
“What I said before, it was—”
“Can you just take me home?”
It comes out on one exhalation and seems to stall him with all the effectiveness of a slap to the face.
You don’t know where it comes from, either.
Easier said than done, you’d thought a few moments ago. All the bravery Derek had tried to instill in you is gone, swallowed down the drain like soap scum. And now you’re choosing to let your fear win—because at least that’s a known quantity. The fear will never reject you. It will always be waiting with open arms.
Too scared.
The end feels imminent. You try to press yourself back together, fingernails biting into palms, trying to make something feel more tangible than the terrible knowingness that you’re careening toward an end which was supposed to be a beginning. It’s stifling and you wonder if Spencer is breathing it too.
You can’t look at his face, but you watch him pocket his hands in his pants and there is so much impossible space between you in such a tiny room.
“Yeah. I can.”
Something breaks. It’s small, and without fanfare. But it feels final.
It’s just a ride home. Just a ride home.
That’s all you have left, and you don’t know how you know it but you do.
Something so important is being left in this stupid, dingy bathroom. Something that was at one point beautiful and shiny and so arrogant in its newness that it seemed it would never become ugly. And now you’re abandoning it without dignity on the chipped tile floor and in the cobwebs on the walls. It was bigger than you, it was you—and now it’s going to be nothing.
A vehicle honks on the street. A boisterous group laugh explodes somewhere beyond the door. Water drips from a faucet.
“I’ll… I’ll bring my car around.”
“Okay.”
But he just stands there for another moment. Like he can’t get himself to move.
If only time would freeze before he could walk away.
But it doesn’t.
He sucks in a decisive breath.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
It’s that fucking phone call all over again.
Then he spins on his heels and leaves you there.
Your time is up.
#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid smut#spencer reid angst#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fandom#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds imagine
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gold chain | s.r x fem!reader
ꨄ requested: @blackhottie25
ꨄ genre: smut
ꨄ summary: post-prison!spencer + gold chain + talking you through it. dangerous combination.
"there you go, sweet girl. you're taking me so well." he grunted against your lips, driving his cock deeper into your cunt with each thrust. you moaned and whimpered against his lips, your nails dragging down his back.
you opened your eyes to see his chain dangling in your face but the blunt head on his cock stamping against that sweet spot in your cunt caused your eyes to screw closed once again.
"fuck, spence- i can't, m'gonna cum-" your back arched into him, your walls clamping down on his cock. spencer let out a shaky breath and placed his head in the crook of your neck, he sucked and nipped at the skin.
"cum for me, let me feel you." he groaned. your pleasure peaking and clouding your mind, your hips lifted off of the bed as moan after moan flew from your lips.
"such a good girl for me, you feel so good."
you relaxed back into the bed trying to catch your breath has spencer continued fucking into you, chasing after his own orgasm. your nails digging into his back and a tear escaping your eyes from the overstimulation.
"spence.." you whimpered.
"m'almost there, baby. you're doing so good for me." he gasped, his hips losing rhythm for a split second before he found his rhythm again. spencer lifted himself up for a second so he could pull your leg up against your chest, he leaned back down and captured your lips in a searing kiss.
the new angle caused his cock to slip deeper inside of you. before you realized it, you were cumming again, your mouth falling open in a silent moan. spencer pulled himself up to look at your face, the sight of your fucked out expression made his cock twitch.
spencer thrust into you a few more times before his head was falling back and a deep groan was falling from his parted lips, you whimpered at the feeling of his cum coating your walls.
spencer carefully fell down on top of you, his hips slowing to a stop as he panted against your sweaty skin. he pulled out and rolled off of you so he wouldn't crush you.you brought your hand up and wiped your forehead before turning to look at spencer, you could hardly keep your eyes open from how tired you were.
"that was good." you mumbled, a dazed smile on your face.
"it was," he chuckled and turned onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. "let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"
#golden1u5t#myrarants#spencer reid#criminal minds fandom#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fandom#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x you#soft dom spencer reid#dom spencer reid#post prison reid#spencer reid x fem!reader smut
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heyyy!!! I just wanted to say I really love your work and this is my first time sending a request so sorry if it’s not very specific 😭💕
If you’re still doing requests, I was wondering if you could do a fem reader x Spencer Reid where it’s similar to your cryptic pregnancy one, except Spencer is at home with her when she’s in labour without realising, and she’s just in a lot of pain and it all of a sudden gets worse and she’s just in the bathroom shouting for Spencer, he comes in and eventually works out what’s going on, readers sort of in denial? Maybe the ambulance doesn’t get there in time so Spencer has to help her give birth? Lots of fluff and hurt/comfort :)
Also completely fine if your not comfortable doing it, but again really love your work and hope you have a great day 💕 :)
three's a family | S.R.
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: fluff
content warnings: cryptic pregnancy, traumatic birth, precipitous labor, hospitals, medical inaccuracy (its just me and google against the world), takes place after 9x7 "gatekeeper", surgery, near death experiences, periods, home birth
word count: 3.16k
a/n: anon i'll be so honest with u i wasn't sure if i was gonna write this but then i learned what precipitous labor was and i was like "i would not wish this on my worst enemy... i'm going to force it on y/n" BUT please keep in mind that there is a .000012 probability of this happening to you (i did the math) this is the wildest thing ive written to date i think
“I’m going to try a bath,” you murmured over to Spencer, wincing as you dragged yourself out of bed, walking at a turtle’s pace to the bathroom, hoping the warm water would soothe the cramps away.
Your period came and went as it pleased; it was just your luck that it decided to give you debilitating cramps on your one day off. Padding on the tile floor behind you, Spencer leaned against the doorframe to the bathroom, “I could run to the store and get a new heating pad.”
Sticking your hand under the tap to check the temperature, you plugged the drain once you found it to be satisfactory. You shook your head, “No, it’s fine.” Your original heating pad must’ve gotten lost somewhere in the depths of your storage closet, but you didn’t have the patience to look for it. You could manage just fine without it.
“Will you let me know if you need anything?” He asked, leaning forward to press a comforting kiss to your forehead.
Nodding, you hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your pajama pants and pulled them down, watching as Spencer pointedly flicked the bathroom fan on – something you often forgot to do.
You lasted about thirty minutes in the bath, not only was the water beginning to grow lukewarm, but if anything, your cramps were getting worse while submerged in the water. Grunting, you reached over and tugged the plug from the drain, watching as the water drained, you managed to pull yourself to a squat before you felt stuck.
Aunt Flo really had it out for you this month.
Burying your face in your hands you accepted defeat and called out for Spencer, reaching up and trying to stand again, but only succeeding in knocking over several shampoo bottles. “Spence!” You tried again, white-knuckling the edge of the bathtub as you bowed your head. A creeping feeling that this wasn’t your period was beginning to rise.
You listened as your husband made his way up the stairs, turning the corner into your room, and opening the door to the ensuite. Moving quickly, Spencer dropped to a crouch in front of you, cupping your pained face in his hands, “I don’t think this is your period, angel.”
Clamping your lips together to prevent yourself from crying out, you simply nodded in response. How awful was it that you were going to die, naked, in your bathtub?
Spencer wiped tears away from under your eyes – you hadn’t even realized you started crying. “What does it feel like, darling? What else could it be?” He asked, voice urgent but gentle as he tried to stop you from panicking.
As you shook your head, you couldn’t focus on anything else besides your breathing as another pain rose up through you. “It’s like a cramp, but with more pressure,” you said, depending on the bathtub and Spencer to keep you upright as your legs shook beneath you. “Like something’s pushing on me, kind of like I have to shit.”
Reaching behind him, Spencer dug through one of the drawers in the bathroom vanity before retrieving the handheld mirror that you used when you cut his hair. Before you could ask what he was doing, he placed the mirror at the bottom of the tub, just beneath you. “I think you’re in labor,” he announced, breaking the news to you.
“There’s no– fuck,” your voice broke off as you dropped your head onto Spencer’s shoulder, breathing through what was apparently a contraction. “I’m not pregnant,” you insisted as your symptoms started to make sense. You had been in labor all morning.
Nodding to himself, Spencer quickly kissed your cheek before standing up and making sure you were stable before stepping to the side.
You frowned as you looked up at him, “Where are you going?”
He didn’t go far, opening the linen closet and piling towels into his arms, “I’m getting towels to put in the tub beneath you, and then I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“You want me to give birth in our bathtub?” You asked, furrowing your brows quizzically before letting out a low whine as another contraction hit.
Stopping what he was doing, Spencer dropped down to you, running the flat of his palm up and down your back as he gently reminded you to breathe. “Did you want to change positions?”
Immediately, you shook your head. You already had an insurmountable task ahead of you and you saw no reason to add to that task by trying to move. “This is fine. Squatting is good, right?”
Nodding assuredly, Spencer smoothed your hair away from your face, “Gravity can help the baby descend the birth canal, and some people even say that the position can increase the pelvic diameter.”
While you were currently less concerned with the diameter of your pelvis and more concerned with feeling like your body was being split open, you continued going through the motions as he called for an ambulance, trying to explain the situation to the dispatcher.
“Have you been timing your contractions?” Spencer asked, tilting his head at you curiously as the dispatcher spoke on the phone.
Releasing a groan, you gripped the ledge of the tub, “I didn’t know they were contractions!”
Relaying that information over the phone, Spencer dropped to his knees in front of you, “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll take care of it.” He continued to reassure you, taking one look at your desperate expression before ending the call with the dispatcher.
He understood that you were vulnerable right now, and you didn’t want that broadcasted to a stranger on the phone. If you weren’t so preoccupied with remembering to breathe, you’d be more grateful. After a contraction ebbed away, Spencer stood up.
“I have to go unlock the door for the paramedics,” he told you, keeping a wary eye on you. “I’ll be right back,” he comforted you as he took one last look at you before tearing out of the bathroom.
In record speed, he returned to the bathroom as promised, “It’s bad,” you cried, the pressure on your pelvis becoming insufferable.
Crouching in front of you, Spencer studied your face before he spoke carefully, “I have to check your cervix.”
Despite his carefully chosen words, your lips still parted in shock, “You have to what?”
“I’ll use my hand to measure how dilated you are, and then… we’ll go from there,” he told you, nodding almost imperceptibly. At this point, you weren’t sure who he was trying to reassure – you or him. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” you answered instantly, “indefinitely.”
You bit down on your lip as you let Spencer check you, understanding entirely why people choose to get epidurals – this was horribly uncomfortable. “On the next contraction, you need to push, okay?”
For just a moment, your breathing faltered as your scared eyes met his, “Spence, wait,” you pleaded.
Smoothing your hair back, your husband did everything he could to comfort you, “What is it, love?” He asked, his voice soft.
“I’m scared,” you confessed, voice cracking ever so slightly as tears flooded your lash line.
He leaned forward to gently kiss your lips before pulling away to press his forehead to yours, "I've got you. You're going to be fine. You're both going to be fine."
You could see his carotid pounding, and somehow the fact that he was secretly as scared as you was more comforting than the words that came from his mouth. As you pushed, you focused on everything that Spencer was saying instead of the pain. Don’t push for more than eight seconds. Remember to breathe. Your body will know what to do. I love you. I love you. I love you.
By the time Spencer was saying something about the head, your hearing had gone muffled. “You’re doing so well, baby,” you made out his voice and nodded dazedly. “You’re wonderful. I’m so proud of you – just a little more,” he cajoled.
Taking a moment to breathe, your ears and eyes focused as shaky breaths filled your lungs.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on your bare shoulder as he comforted you, continuing to keep you upright.
You shook your head, sniffling as your eyes screwed shut, “You’re perfect. Don’t stop. Keep talking,” you begged, needing something to focus on other than the pain.
“There’s about a point zero four percent chance of you getting pregnant and not finding out until you’re in labor,” he told you, hoping that the information would help you wrap your head around what was happening to you. “One to three in one hundred people have a precipitous labor,” he continued to speak as you pushed, and you wondered what the odds of you squeezing his hand so hard that you did damage were.
Against your better judgment, you looked down to check your progress, “Holy fuck,” you said breathlessly. You weren’t entirely clueless, you knew that once you got past the shoulders the remaining pushes would be easier. You also found yourself grateful that Spencer knew what he was doing – this was, after all, the second baby he had delivered.
You bore down, determined to get the baby out while Spencer untangled your hands, bringing his own down to catch the baby. Out of breath, you panted heavily as you started to feel lightheaded. “Done,” Spencer said quickly, “it’s done. I have him.”
Carefully, Spencer held the baby along the length of his forearm, rubbing the tiny newborn’s back. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath, and it dawned on you that the baby wasn’t crying.
At the realization, your legs finally gave out from beneath you, watching with wide eyes as Spencer tried to clear your son’s lungs. White hot tears streamed down your face as you whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You took a gasping breath as you silently pleaded for a cry, “I didn’t know,” you sobbed, guilt building a pit in your stomach.
With bleary eyes, you looked on as the baby finally spluttered and let out a wail. “There you go,” Spencer cooed softly, his own voice stiff with emotion as he cradled the baby and handed him off to you.
You were still sobbing as you held the baby to your chest, “I’m so sorry,” you continued to babble, watching as Spencer briefly disappeared into the bedroom before returning with a blanket and wrapping it around the both of you. While holding the baby, your vision started to blur around the edges.
Watching you intently, Spencer cupped your face in his hands, “I love you.”
Nodding, your face crumpled before you responded, “I love you too.”
When the paramedics announced themselves, Spencer called out for them, not wanting to leave your side. The two of you focused your attention on the wriggling baby in your arms.
He was premature – too little to stay with you in the recovery room. The NICU doctor had estimated that he was born at approximately 32 weeks, meaning he’d likely need to spend a few weeks in intensive care. “I want to see him,” you said insistently, looking over as Spencer as he fussed over you.
“You just had abdominal surgery,” Spencer responded simply, as if that was meant to clarify everything for you. He continued fluffing your pillow, which wasn’t entirely productive considering you were lying on the pillow.
As it turned out, you had experienced what was called a precipitous birth, or a rapid birth. It tended to be dangerous, and the fact that you did it in your bathtub only heightened that danger. You reached your arm out for Spencer, “c’mere,” you muttered, trying to get him to stop fretting. “Did you listen to anything that the doctor just said?”
Spencer nodded in understanding, “Lots of rest, no physical exertion, IV medication for now-“
“Did you hear the part where he said I was going to be okay?” You asked, raising your eyebrows at him curiously, you watched as he took your hand in his and sat on the edge of your bed. “I’m going to be fine,” your voice was determined, you had a few small incisions on your abdomen from the surgery to repair a tear in your uterus. “Thank you for looking after me,” you whispered.
Your husband gently smoothed your hair back from your face, “I should’ve noticed it sooner.”
Using all of your strength, you squeezed his hand comfortingly, “You were incredible,” you assured him. “If it weren’t for you, neither of us would’ve made it.”
He shook his head, “Don’t say that.”
Raising your eyebrows, you cocked your head to the side, “It’s true. I couldn’t have done it on my own, I’m so, so thankful for you, my love.”
You had passed out in the ambulance as a direct result of blood loss, so you were brought to a trauma bay as soon as you made it to the hospital. Once they were in the ER, the baby was taken to the NICU, leaving Spencer with a lot of decisions to make.
When you woke up in the recovery room, the first thing you did was ask about the baby.
Spencer, of course, had been up to see him. The nurses claimed he seemed like a fighter, and Spencer knew the survival odds of a 32-weeker, so he turned his attention to you. Every other option had already failed, so the next option was a laparoscopy. Your husband admitted that while it seemed extreme, the very last choice was a hysterectomy, and he didn’t want to make that decision.
Furrowing your brows, “When can I see the baby?” You asked, not entirely sure how to refer to the infant just yet. It wasn’t until then that you realized you needed to name him at some point – your son.
“Once your blood pressure goes up,” Spencer told you with an authoritative tone. “You lost a lot of blood in the ambulance, but the blood transfusions will bring your blood pressure back up.”
Tilting your head to the side, you glared at your husband, “And is this rule from a doctor with a medical degree or a doctor whose name is on my marriage certificate?”
In response, Spencer shrugged, sitting in the beige armchair at the side of your bed, “That’s a secret I’ll never tell.”
You rolled your eyes dismissively, “Will you go see him?”
He leaned over the edge of your bed, taking your hand in his. “I can, will you be alright on your own?”
Nodding almost imperceptibly, you squeezed his hand affectionately, “I just don’t want him to be alone.” You whispered as tears pricked your eyes, you took your free hand and waved at your face, “god, what’s wrong with me?”
“A sudden drop of estrogen and progesterone immediately following birth causes mood swings. Nothing is wrong with you, your body is acting naturally,” Spencer explained patiently, dropping a gentle kiss on your lips.
You sighed before melting back into your pillows, “At least something about this feels natural,” you responded. Your brain felt like a spinning top, while your body felt like you were being weighed down by an elephant in a commercial for COPD medication.
The fact that the NICU nurse informed you that your son had a ninety-five percent chance of living a completely normal life did nothing to calm your nerves. He’d have to stay in the NICU for a few weeks and you tried to convince yourself that the extra time to prepare for him to come home would be good for you, but the idea of leaving him alone at the hospital – save for a small army of doctors and nurses – put a pit of dread in your chest.
Spencer had the forethought to warn you about the tubes and wires that he was hooked up to, ranging from oxygen to a feeding tube. “He’s been undergoing red light therapy to be treated for jaundice, but you can hold him for a while if you want to,” the nurse told you, leading the both of you through the NICU as Spencer steered your wheelchair through the hospital.
Your breathing hitched when you finally saw him, this tiny stowaway that had been growing inside of you for the last several months, and he was just so little. While you were still in your own room, you had convinced yourself that you’d hold him, but now you weren’t so convinced.
According to the sign in his room, he weighed three pounds and ten ounces and was sixteen inches long. He was sound asleep in an incubator, a small hat on top of his head, “Spence,” you breathed.
Behind you, your husband placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, “I know.”
“Did you want to hold him?” The nurse asked you gently, looking over at one of the machines that he was hooked up to.
Genuinely, you didn’t know. “Is… is that okay?” You asked, wiping your sweaty palms on the blanket draped across your legs.
The nurse gave you a knowing look, “Even better than okay, it’ll be good for him to have that kind of contact from both of his parents.”
Frowning, you watched as it took two nurses to break him out of his acrylic prison before they carefully placed him on your chest, making sure you were okay before they stepped back. Your movements were stiff at first, you had never held a baby this small before, but you eventually remembered to breathe and gently cooed at the baby in your arms.
Spencer crouched down next to you and started to ask the nurse a bunch of questions that he had likely been holding in for hours, but you just kept your eyes on the sleeping baby. He was too small to open his eyes, but everyone assured you that he’d get there.
The nurse stepped out to give you some privacy, leaving the door open just in case you needed something, “This doesn’t seem quite as difficult while I’m holding him.” You knew there was a steep learning curve ahead, but with a newborn on your chest, the pit in your heart dissipated.
“That’s called oxytocin,” Spencer said, sitting in a chair, eyes fixated on the infant in your arms.
Humming, you skimmed the pad of your thumb across your son’s tiny back, “He looks like you,” you observed quietly, they had the same nose.
Your husband smiled softly, “You can’t possibly tell which parent he takes after yet,” he informed you.
“And yet, I know he looks like you,” you insisted softly, and Spencer didn’t push back. “You look like your daddy,” you whispered to the baby, “he was the first one to hold you, you know?” You looked over at Spencer, “he’s been my superhero for four years, and now he gets to be yours too.”
#criminal minds#spencer reid#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid fanfic#criminal minds fanfiction#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#written by margot#spencer reid angst#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds angst#criminal minds fluff#spencer reid fanfiction#criminal minds fic#dr spencer reid#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds hurt/comfort#spencer reid hurt/comfort#spencer reid dilf agenda#margot's requests
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i saw this on instagram and felt it was very much in line with your blog's aesthetic rn!!!
could you please do a fic for spencer based on it 🥺
its okay if you are too busy :)
https://www.instagram.com/reel/C6f1T0ju3sP/?igsh=MWZ1OWt4cGx4MWhlcg==
oh this is such a cute comment and such a cute video! spencer would so let you do it!!!
"Spencer, lay still." you're the only one of the two of you moving as you both lay on a picnic blanket.
Spencer's reading his Russian novel and you've gotten bored with your own and transitioned to picking daisies and fitting them in his hair.
He says your name softly, reverent like a prayer. His brown eyes lift to yours and find you smiling, a cheeky smile on your face as you spin a daisy between your fingers.
"How many are in there?" he asks, not wanting to reach a hand up and risk having them all fall out.
"About thirty," you hum, reaching for your phone on the picnic basket to take a picture to show him. "Here, look." Spencer's eyes lighten as he looks at the picture, a smile gracing his own lips.
"There's so many," Spencer turns then, his neck aching from his previous position. "Can I lay in your lap?" he asks, slotting his bookmark between his pages as he twists a little on the blanket.
"Course you can, that's optimal hair flowering position." Spencer chuckles, laying himself carefully in your lap and sighing. "Are your eyes tired, Spence?"
He hums, "A little, I think I may have to transition to my glasses again." you smile secretly, not so opposed to him wearing his glasses again as Spencer is himself.
"Really? The brown ones?" Spencer knows what you mean to ask. He nods all the same. "Those make you look even more handsome!" you compliment, earning a chuckle from Spencer as you weave another flower into his hair.
"I think you're the only one who thinks that. I'm just old now, I'm thirty three and I need glasses now more than ever."
You hum, "Imagine what your prescription would be like if you weren't anti-technology." Spencer laughs again, shaking some of the flowers free from his hair, but you don't mind. It just gives you more time to weave even more into his hair, till it's all just daisies and hardly hair.
#spencerreid#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid blurb#spencer reid fic#spencer reid x black reader#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x yn#spencer reid x y/n#dr spencer reid
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the whole world | s. reid
wc: 3.4k words // warnings: english isn't my first language! soooo much fluuuuuffinessss, swear words maybe? NOT proofread as you can see., a kid, spencer being cute, aaah idk what else, i think this sucks but it's mother's day today where i live and for some reason i couldn't stop thinking about dad!spence so this was born. (ha, that was unintentional)
dad!spence x mom!fem!reader
you’re not really sure what wakes you up.
if it’s the change of temperature in the bed, a sign that spencer had recently gotten up and started his day. or if it’s the small, soft footsteps running around the house.
you know it’s taking everything in your little hazel not to spoil the mother’s day surprise she’s been working on at school. one of the many features she and her father share is their fascination to talk and talk about anything and everything, and more often than not, you are the person they tell everything to. so your daughter had been in a bit of a predicament since you first picked her up from school on a monday afternoon.
“had fun today, haze?” you asked, buckling her into her seat in the back of your car.
“yeah,” she nodded, kicking her legs in the air.
“what did you do?” it was the same routine every day, and she was ready to begin telling you all about the new special project they started working on when suddenly she heard her teacher’s voice in her head.
‘it’s a surprise for mommy! you all have to try and keep it a secret!’
“can’t say.”
“what?” you asked, leaning back a little, letting her bag drop below her feet.
“miss tate said we can only tell daddy! mommy can’t know until it's mommy day.” she explained.
“ohhh, you’re working on something for mother’s day, lovey?” you smiled as you caressed her cheek, cupping her face with your hand, she leaned into it instinctively.
“...maybe.” she grinned at you.
“okay, honey. you know you can tell me if you want to talk about it, okay? i know you must be so excited, and i promise you i’m not going to be mad, i’m going to love it no matter what it is, got it?” you pressed a few kisses all over her face, your heart melting at the sound of her giggles. “or you can tell daddy when he comes home, he’s good at keeping secrets, you know?”
“yeah! i tell daddy”
and every day leading up to mother’s day, she tried to skip the subject about what she did at school, and as much as you loved that panicked expression on her face, the way her hazel eyes widened and cheeks blushed you decided not to torture her anymore.
she’s so easy to read. just like her father.
her perfect, loving father. who told you to take a day all to yourself that friday leading up to mother’s day, it was also the day when the kids were sent home with the project, so it would also give spence and hazel the chance to hide it and perfect it.
while you enjoyed a day at a spa, filled with massages and pampering, your little loves were at the mall looking for a gift.
“what would you like to give her, haze?” spence asked, looking at his daughter through the rearview mirror. “what do you think mommy would like?”
“well, green is her favorite color. so, green?”
“something green, that sounds nice,” he nodded, his chest nearly trembling as he stole glances at his daughter. five years in and he still found it hard to believe he had a daughter. a child. a perfect, beautiful, smart and kind daughter. who looked so much like him and so much like you at the same time. “i heard her tell auntie em she needed a new handbag.” he suggested,
“we can buy her a green handbag!”
“i think that’s an excellent idea, hazey.” spencer smiled, holding the steering wheel with one hand, the other stretched out towards his child. “high-five,” he said, and felt her tiny hand smack against his, “good girl,” he smiled proudly.
since hazel was still in your womb, you knew she’d be a tall girl. i mean, look at her dad! but at five years old, whilst hazel is tall compared to children her age, she looks tiny when standing next to spencer. her head reached just below his waist, and her arm hurt whenever she walking alongside him because spencer pulled her little hand up to meet his, but she had to stretch so far up and it was just the sweetest sight in the world.
it’s late when you got home that night, thirty minutes past hazel’s bedtime, yet the moment you stepped in you heard the sounds of her favorite cartoon coming from the tv.
blossom instructs her two sisters in a plan to defeat that day’s monster, and you expected to find your own little powerpuff girl running around the living room, but other than the tv, the rest of the house was silent. you kicked off your shoes, walking to the coffee table to turn the tv off when you saw them.
spencer with his back on the couch, somehow his legs bent but still managed to stay upright, and your daughter resting against his chest, his arms around her, keeping her close and safe.
and you took a second or two to soak in the view. spencer’s head was to the side, and hazel was pressed so far into his neck that it’s hard to point out where his curls end and hers begin.
you walked to them, your hand reaching to play with hazel’s hair as you leaned to press a kiss to spencer’s forehead. it’s scary how quickly they capture your undivided attention, just the sight of either of them was enough to make you drop whatever it was you were doing.
“hey,” spencer’s voice was groggy, sleep evident in it and in the way he struggled to peel his eyes open, like his eyelids were begging to stay shut.
“it’s okay, go back to sleep. i’ll take her,” you said, but felt a light tug on your wrist.
“c’mere,” he mumbled, scooting to the back of the couch and making space for you. you gave in, squeezing your way in and adjusting hazel on top of you so you don’t choke with her hair against your mouth. “had fun?” you felt spencer’s hand on your waist, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin, sneaking under your shirt.
“yeah. thank you, needed it,” you don’t know if it’s the busy day you had, or just the sight of your two loves sleeping that made you feel tired, too. you covered a yawn with the back of your hand. “you?”
“mhm,” he hummed in agreement, “hazey couldn’t decide on one thing. said you’d loved so many things. got you everything.”
“spence-” you scolded lightly.
“i know. but you should’ve seen her. too cute. too much like you.”
“like you, you mean.”
“hmm,” he opened one eye, pulling you closer, being careful with your girl on top of you. “like us. she’s got the best of us.”
and she does.
she’s funny and smart like spencer, kind and caring like you.
you don’t know where the sassiness came from, though.
(kidding, it’s all spencer, he wouldn't admit it)
“daddy, can i put a candle?” hazel asks, she’s done with placing the grapes into a bowl and looking for something else to add to your ‘mother’s day pavaganza’, a phrase she’d picked up from hearing auntie penny ask about your spa day, and had repeated to her spencer, who didn't have the heart to correct her when she sounded so adorable.
“i just know those little geniuses have a big mother’s day extravaganza planned for you,” she’d said, just as hazel entered the kitchen.
“on the pancakes?” spencer asks, she nods. “sure,”
the drawer slams a little louder than she’d intended, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ as her eyes widen in shock.
“sorry, daddy!” she runs to him, one hand on the stool she’s currently trying to climb, the other fisting spencer’s pajama pants. “here,” she hands him the pink birthday candle you’d used for her birthday cake.
“thank you, hazey,”
you chuckle as you listen to them, you can’t hear all of it, but you can tell she’s getting louder the more excited she gets. it’s only a matter of minutes before the chaos that had been in the kitchen joins you in your bedroom. you pretend to sleep, curling into spencer’s side of the bed, and closing your eyes.
“she’s asleep! daddy, can i wake her?” you hear her laughing when you fake snore.
“go ahead, haze, gentle,” he reminded her, even though he knew you were awake.
“mommy,” you hear her running to the other side of the bed, “mama,” she climbs in next to you, lying next to you, you feel her breath on your face. then she presses wet, sloppy kisses on your cheek, and you swoon.
“hmm, who's giving me such sweet kisses?” you ask, being met with a grinning hazel as you open your eyes.
“it's mommy day!” she exclaims, arms looping around your neck with a strength you hadn't expected, “love you mommy,”
“i love you too, my angel, so, so, so much,” you wrap your arms around your little girl and hug her tight, setting your back against the mattress. you kiss all over her face and head, her little hands sticky and stained in maple syrup and jam.
“made you mommy day food,” she laughed as you tickled her sides. “daddy!”
spencer has taken residence by the end of the bed, the tray filled with breakfast set carefully on his lap.
“happy mother's day, honey,” he whispered against your lips, once the tray has been set in front of hazel, who can't help but pick a few slices of fruit to help herself.
“thank you, love you,” you kissed him once more, running a hand through his hair as you turn to look at your girl. “is it yummy?” you ask her as she pops a grape in her mouth, she nods, “i bet it's cause you and your daddy made it.”
it's a few hours later, after you're all showered and dressed, that you go downstairs and find the living room all decorated, with balloons and strings and three pieces of paper stuck to the wall that read ‘happy’, ‘mommy’, ‘day’ in spencer’s handwriting, but drawings made by hazel surrounding the words.
“mommy close your eyes,” you're sitting on the couch, all the gifts that hazel couldn't choose from are now open and on the coffee table. turns out the other gifts had just been little trinkets, a headband, a small bracelet, a keychain. “it's time for the surprise!”
“what surprise? i didn't know there would be a surprise!” your heart melted at her laughter.
“daddy cover her eyes,” she orders, and spencer makes his way around the sofa, standing behind you, he leans down, tilting your head back and pressing his lips on your temple.
“i’ve got it, hazey,” he nearly purrs against your skin, and as spencer continues his soft attack on your face, you hear hazel running through the house, “we hid it in my office,” he pulls back a little, staring at you with so much love.
“thank you for today,” you whisper, your cheeks were now hurting from the permanent smile that had been on your face the entire day.
“it's nothing, you deserve the world, honey.” and he means it. when he was young he'd pushed the idea of love to the side, with his job and his lack of social skills it was hard to picture a future with a family, but here he was. thanks to you. “i love you so much, you've got no idea,” he leaned down again, this time kissing your lips, accomplishing two things at once.
kissing you, and getting you to close your eyes.
“ready mommy?” you'd been so wrapped up in your husband that you missed your daughter walking back to you.
you looked down to see a scrapbook (just a few colored paper sheets binded by ribbon), a picture of you and hazel on the cover, in the middle.
“angel, this is beautiful,” you coo through teary eyes, embracing her fully before you even looked at the rest of the book.
the three of you settled on the sofa, with hazel between you two as she explained why she picked the pictures, something she'd done with spencer’s help. the pages were decorated with crayon drawings, glitter hearts, and stickers.
the last picture brought even more tears to your eyes, you were sitting in a hospital bed, with spencer by your side, his hand wrapped around your back, the both of you staring down at the new little baby that had just been born.
hazel’s first ever picture.
“look at this, hazey, you were so tiny,” you swallowed a lump in your throat, “and look at you now, you're so big, my sweet girl.”
“daddy said this is the day you became a mommy,"
“technically i was a mommy when you were in my belly,” you patted your stomach, “but my entire life was changed the minute you were born, i loved you before i even knew you, and i didn't know i could feel that much love for someone so little. hazey-” you said, shuffling her around so she was sitting on your lap, spencer pressed your back against his chest. you looked back at him, kissing his cheek.
“your daddy and i love you so much. it's an honor being your parents. every day i thank the stars that you're our little baby, that we get to raise you and see you grow. thank you for making me your mommy,”
“love you, mommy,” she nestled against your neck, “love you, daddy,” she reached up, puckered lips against spencer's other cheek.
“love you, hazey, you're my wish come true,” spencer placed a kiss on the top of her head.
that night, as you get ready for bed, feeling tired from all the emotions of the day, you snuggle against spencer's side.
“thank you for today. for helping haze,”
“of course, sweet, i told you, you deserve the world,” his lips meet yours in a gentle, slow kiss.
“i already have my whole world with me,” you tell him, voice full of sleep and love. “thank you for giving me my world.”
and if spencer had a time travel machine he would tell his younger self to not lose hope. the best years of his life were yet to come, his world wouldn't end when members of his chosen family left the team, his whole world and family were on the way.
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#criminal minds oneshot#spencer reid fluff#x reader#criminal minds imagine
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SKIN LIKE PUFF PASTRY | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [6]
description: the ONE where you help him grieve another woman + the ONE with the promise
length: 8.04k
warnings: maeves death. grief. Spencer is a sad bby. HOWEVER maybe perhaps some fluff? healing journey! gun, blood, usual cm warnings.
author's note. HERE YOU GO POOKIES. I hope you enjoy now I've put you all out of your misery.
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'Lacy, oh lacy, skin like puff pastry,
aren't you the sweetest thing on this side of hell?'
The one where you help him grieve another woman.
It killed her walking up those stairs every day. She knew the gift baskets were piling up, had already had a terse conversation with his neighbour about leaving ‘clutter’ in the hallway, to which she thinks she might have swung at the eighty year old woman if she didn’t think it would cause Spencer problems.
He had enough on his plate already. Maeve had died, for fuck sake.
In fact, she almost entirely blew her top when she made it to the top of the steps to see every single one of Garcia’s gift baskets had been moved, the bunches of tulips she’d brought him every other day over the past two weeks gone with little trace other than browning petals scattering his door mat. Even the cookies JJ had baked him, the card Henry had drawn for his uncle Spencer had been moved.
Bugsy stopped for a second, her head snapping to the door to the right where his neighbour, Miss Cavanaugh, had shuffled out of her apartment in her pink dressing gown, her grey, wispy curls flat against her head as if she’d just rolled out of bed.
She blinked at the younger girl through thick, bubble-like glasses, her blue eyes annoyed the minute she saw her standing there.
“You can’t just take people's things, you know, I don’t care if it got in the way of your daily walk, Miriam, those were for Spencer-” Bugsy started, her voice as calm as she could get it even though her scowl spoke for itself.
“I didn’t touch any of his crap, little lady,” Miriam raised her mottled hand, crooked fingers shushing the outrage Bug had been ready to bark at her, and the women sighed when they realised they might just have another argument like their last one, “Kid was poking around at like six in the morning taking it all in, nearly woke up my dog,”
Bugsy rolled her eyes, “God forbid,” Miriam flipped her the finger which made Bugsy’s jaw drop wide open, shuffling back into her apartment muttering to herself, her mail in her mangled hands, “Old bag,” Bug murmured to herself, but her eyes quickly locked back onto Spencer’s door.
He had been out. Well, he had been into his hallway, but it was something.
Her legs felt like jelly when she took hesitant steps towards his doorway, her knuckles gently rapping on the wood, a frog crawling into her throat that she tried clearing with a cough.
“Spencer?” Her voice was soft, melodic, and it made him wince where he sat against the other side of his entrance, his own hair a state of disarray, “It’s me,”
Of course he knew it was her. He didn’t think a day could ever go by where he wouldn’t know her by the sound of her steps alone. Like he’d grown a sixth sense for these sorts of things, like they were linked by some weird Spidey powers like in the comics she’d brought over to his apartment and begged him to read, because even though he could devour a million words a minute (her words not his) it was the art in it she loved and that forced him to slow down and enjoy the pages.
He wanted to tell her to go away, but he couldn’t find it in him to ever be so cruel, to dig himself a bigger trench of regret than he already felt. He couldn’t save Maeve, physically could never get the image of her dying from his ginormous, genius brain that held onto every detail, and on top of it, he knew he deserved none of the kindness Bugsy showered him with. He’d heard her come stand outside his door every single morning, heard her knocking with the same worried call of his name at the same time before breakfast. He heard her sigh after ten or so minutes and leave, her retreating footsteps clunking down the stairs sadly.
She was too good for him. He’d only solidified it that she was so beyond what he deserved, that he could never treat her the way she deserved to be treated, the same way he hadn’t with Maeve.
Spencer’s self loathing was a poison, slowly devouring him every time he heard her voice, felt her approach through the floorboards, when he’d seen the little notes she’d left on the books she’d dropped off outside his door. Usually they were her reviews on them, a list of pros and cons, her general musings, all things they would have chatted over a bagel if things had been normal between them. But he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had breakfast together the way they had like clockwork since she joined the BAU. That was a lie. He could remember, of course he could, it had been four months, three weeks and five days ago, a Monday. He thinks she knocked around 10am. Something like that.
It was the day before she’d flown to London, actually. She had dropped the boys (the boys being Niko and Sergio) off to his apartment, thanked him a bunch of times for looking after them, given him five months worth of cat litter and kibbles and immediately unwrapped a to-go bag of their favourite pastries from the bakery downtown. He remembered it was close to October because she’d bought over maple buns and they only sold at the beginning of Autumn, and he’d asked if she’d be doing anything for Halloween seeing as their usual plans of a horror movie marathon were being put on pause while she was in England. She wasn’t, and she’d asked to call him instead so they could discuss their favourite trick or treating outfits they’d seen.
He’d promised her a call, only another case popped up by the time the thirty-first rolled around, and it had never happened.
Spencer hated how he was able to remember every detail of her face the day she’d left, the warmth of her hug he’d clung onto for months. He hated that day she’d surprised him and he hadn’t even thought to wrap his arms around her because he’d been so stuck feeling the overwhelming shock of seeing her. He hated that he’d made her frown like that, that she had ever doubted that he wanted to see her. But it had felt like he’d been caught cheating, why had it felt like cheating?
He knew why. He knew why seeing her when he was going out to call Maeve had felt like he was double-crossing her.
Not that it mattered anymore, he thought bitterly. Because Maeve was dead. And Bugsy had every right to hate him. But she didn’t. Because she was too good.
He hated himself more than he’d ever thought was possible.
He heard her sigh, but she didn’t repeat herself. Nor did she leave. Instead, he felt the door rattle behind his own spine as she slumped against the wood, sliding to the floor until she unknowingly leaned against him, little more than a few centimetres from his warmth.
He heard her pull out something from her bag, and the tell tale slip of paper over paper told him she’d brought a book with her, pre-empting staying longer this time. Spencer wanted to tell her not to bother, because if he got brave enough to open the door to her and see her face, smell her clothes, feel the softness of her hugs, he thinks if he told her every thought bouncing around that aching skull of his, it would all come crashing down around him, and he wouldn’t ever be able to stop telling her how sorry he was. For all of it. For letting her pull away from him when she was grieving. For letting her kiss him that night Derek brought her over, because it was obvious she wanted to forget the whole thing. For pushing her away when she came back from London. For being rude and cold when she wanted answers. For trying desperately to completely detach himself from her, which had only ever made him want to scream in frustration because it hadn’t worked anyway.
Maeve had died because of him, an innocent woman he’d seen himself falling for if they’d been given the chance had died, and he was still head over heels in terrible, stupid love with Bugsy.
They stayed there, her reading and him aching from the inside out, for about seven minutes before her phone rang. He heard her huff, letting it go to answer phone and settling back down with her novel. That is, until her dial tone sprung back to life and she half growled under her breath, assuming she pressed the answer button, and he heard her voice again.
“Hello?” She said, the slight annoyance bleeding into her words, and Spencer already knew that duty was calling by the way her book thumped to the floor and he could just picture her rubbing over her temple in frustration. “I have an appointment, Hotch, I can be there in a couple hours,” Silence, where he guessed Hotch was chiding her on her tardiness, “No, I know I’m supposed to book these things off- it’s just- it’s a contraceptive implant removal, yeah I really busted my IUD when I broke my arm, it’s not settled since,” Spencer almost smiled on instinct, almost, though he thought even if he did it would look like a bitter grimace because he’d not moved his face in over ten days. But she was a really good liar, and he’d always found that part of her charm. She huffed again, “God, you sound like Emily, yes I’m being safe- we are not having this conversation, Aaron, I’ll get there when I get there,”
With that, perhaps the only person who would ever be allowed to slam the phone down on Aaron Hotchner in a huff did, and they were left alone in silence again.
“You shouldn’t ignore their calls for my sake,” He found his voice, even if it was groggy with misuse. He felt her straighten against the wooden door, her shock palpable through the brief moment of silence that seemed to stretch on for just a second too long, as if she was scrambling not to say something else than what came out.
“Pot, meet kettle,” She murmured back, loud enough he could hear it, and she felt him shuffle behind the door, wanting to smack herself in the face for not feeling him there sooner.
“New case?” He asked, his eyes heavy, his pyjamas days old. He knew he needed to shower, but the minute he’d walked into his apartment everything had felt pointless.
“Yup.” She breathed in, her shoes brushing against his welcome mat with a scratch as she pulled her knees up to her chest, “Although I think Hotch will stick to Penelope making the calls after today,”
Something between a scoff and a sigh came from his throat, something she couldn’t tell if it was good or bad.
“What is it?” He replied, and she remained quiet for a second, picking the skin around her nails.
“I’ll tell you if you open the door,” She bartered, wondering for a second if she’d gone too far and had pushed him back into the hole she was coaxing him out of.
“Blackmail,” Spencer said, all emotion gone from his voice, and Bugsy winced, “A little on the nose for someone who’s grieving,”
But she could sense it. The way his syllable raised on the last word, that he was being cynical, not cruel like she’d worried.
“Think of it as a trade deal,” She humoured him, though she kept her voice soft so he knew she meant no harm, just to cheer him up if it was even possible, “You get your answer, and I get to give you this incredibly boring book that I know you can devour in a half hour and give me the summarised version,”
He smiled. Weakly, and only for a brief few seconds, because if there was anything that warmed him up from the cold, dark, nothingness place he’d found himself in it was her.
He wished he could dislike the fact she did it so easily, wish he could dislike how simple it was to like her, to feel himself wanting her even in that nothingness place he was crawling through as a lone ranger. He wanted to pull her into him tightly, wanted to let her fuss over him, to apologise until his voice ran even more hoarse, but he couldn’t. He feared if he touched her, she’d be marked for death right then and then; that he’d taint her somehow. And that he could never do.
Yet, he bent to her will. He stood up, prompting her to do the same, leaving his door on the latch as he pulled it open a crack, enough for her to jimmy the book through, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, by Leo Tolstoy.
He had read Tolstoy before, of course he had. War and Peace was one of the first books he ever owned in Russian, ironically enough one that he’d read only a few days before they’d driven to Baltimore and he’d met Bugsy for the first time. Yet it was this one she’d given him of all of Tolstoy’s works; the one where the protagonist goes on a journey of acceptance that he’s dying with no explanation as to why.
He thought she might just be the only person who knew how to crawl into the mess of his brain and find something familiar in there. Because this was the same book he’d read when Emily had died.
He would never tell her he already owned it, however. Nor would he call her out for the fact she most certainly didn’t find it boring considering she was so far into it with annotations already scribbled in the margins. He just took it with a lump in his throat, his eyes burning with the idea she was so incredibly her that it felt like he had no option but to drown in it.
“Body’s been found in San Francisco,” She said gently, and he knew she wished he would open the door fully so she could at least see him. Yet he kept the door on the latch. Because if there wasn’t a barrier between them, he wasn’t sure how else he would keep it all in, “You get to know more when you finish the book,”
He sighed, holding the book tight to his chest, and they stood there for a second, the air turning stifling as they both held back a million words behind brave faces, “Will you be gone long?”
“No, only a few days, I hope,” She replied, zipping her bag up and slinging it on her back judging by the sounds coming from her side of the door. She hovered, not wanting to say the wrong thing, but wanting to stay here on his welcome mat because this was the closest they'd been physically and otherwise in months.
“Be safe,” He murmured, and her hand shot through the gap in the doorway, her pinky finger raised to the heavens.
“Promise,” Bugsy said, her heart jack hammering against her ribcage when a long, warm finger wrapped around hers, and they squeezed them together. It was just a little touch, but it was a start. She wished he would open the door so she could beg him to talk to her, even if it meant crawling to her knees, she wasn’t above it whatsoever.
Reluctantly, she let him go, though she noted the way he had held onto her until she did so.
“I have to go,” She said sadly, drawing her hand to her chest like she’d received a Midas touch, and her hand was suddenly valuable after gracing his own.
Her skin felt electric, her breaths felt laboured. She wanted more, but she couldn’t have it.
And with that, it took every ounce of resolve to turn on her heels and head back down to her car.
–
Bugsy stared at the artwork with a grimace, picking hard at her cuticles because the metallic smell was making her stomach turn. Their UnSub had taken to painting with his victims’ blood, canvasses upon canvasses of leeched ichor brushed out to make out an image of the bodies.
Her nose scrunched when another wave of hot, iron wafted up her nose, and she thought about asking Hotch if she could step outside for a moment, knowing he likely wouldn’t question her perhaps ever again after their little phone call.
“What other reasons would he have for separating plasma from the blood?” Hotch asked, and her brow furrowed, her mouth opening to speak before another voice cut her off.
“It’s a habit,”
She swore she gave herself whiplash with how fast her head snapped to the side. She would know his voice anywhere. It sounded lost and desolate, yes, but her eyes swirled with relief when she saw him standing there, looking skittish and tired but alive.
“Reid,” Morgan breathed, the same level of surprise she felt as JJ darted towards him, her arms wrapping around his middle before he could protest.
“Spence,” She said, and they hugged one another tightly, his eyes following over Jennifer’s shoulder to where Bugsy seemed to watch him unsurely, like she was waiting for him to tell her what to do, how to make it better, how to fix it. A girl who had always been so sure of herself now reduced to pining from afar for answers.
“I didn’t expect you back this soon. You sure you're ready?” Hotch asked, an almost identical look of hesitance on his face as Bugsy had on hers, and it was no wonder half of the department said they were two sides of the same coin.
“No but I think I figured something out,” He breathed, moving out of JJ’s embrace towards the boards where the victim profiles were, and he began speaking in that slow, cold tone he’d taken on.
Spencer, to no one's surprise, was able to all but fit their disjointed puzzle pieces together in the space of an hour's flight, and with just a few pointers in Garcia’s direction, they’d got their UnSub.
“And bingo was his name-o, actually his name is Bryan Hughes, he is an AB positive haemophiliac who works as a janitor at the Bay Area Museum of Art. And before you ask, yes his address has been sent to your phones.” Penelope rushed, pinging the information to their phones just as fast as it had appeared on her screen.
“You’re the best baby girl,” Morgan said into the speaker, hanging up the phone as the team stood from their place at the desk, Hotch assigning them tasks as everyone strapped on their kevlars and guns.
She held back for a moment, her eyes assessing him like man approaching a wounded wolf.
“I’m okay-” He was about to say, because he knew what she was going to ask before she thought to do it, except she simply nodded at him, turning on her heel to follow the others, despite him expecting something more Bugsy-like.
It wasn’t like her to leave him without some final word, some final stand, and he was right. Because no sooner had she gotten all of three paces, she whirled back around, heading back towards him with a timid expression, and she all but launched herself into his arms.
He held her tight, the warmth of her body making his eyes well up, because if there was anything that could have made him crack his resolve, it was her touch alone.
She carded her fingrs through his hair, tucking her face into his neck and breathing in deeply.
“I’ll see you when I get back,” She murmured, stopping herself from saying anymore as she released him, well aware of the fact he had tried squeezing her tighter before she’d had to let him go, like he hadn’t wanted her to go. But neither did she.
“Stay safe,” He said on instinct, and she nodded, her eyes trailing over his empty eyes and sallow skin.
She wanted to kiss away every trace of sadness there, but she couldn’t. Wanted to wrap him into a hug so tight she might just stop breathing, but it would have been worth it. Wanted to tuck him into bed and stroke his hair and feed him tea and chocolate and make sure he was kept well, because she’d do anything to make him better.
But she couldn’t. They had a case.
It took every scrap of resolve to let go of Spencer Reid, sheepish and mourning, and leave him in that room alone.
–
She sighed, scrubbing at the back of her hand with the shitty aeroplane soap they had on the jet, the tiny basin doing nothing to help the fact she was all but peeling off the top layer of her epidermis.
Catching Bryan had been messy; he had come at her with a scalpel, she had shot, his blood had sprayed over her arms, soaking right through. Spencer had all but gone white when she’d gotten to the runway, hoping to make it back to Quantico by midnight.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He fretted, despite the fact it was the closest he'd come in weeks to an emotion that wasn't sadness, and he stood little more than a few centimetres away, his fingers twined together, wanting to check her over himself.
She waved him off, “It’s not mine. I’m going to wash up on the plane, don’t worry,” She replied, her expression exhausted, twitching on the spot to stop herself pushing his hair behind his ear. She knew he’d washed it because it looked particularly fluffy, the way it always did when he hadn’t bothered to style it before he left the house, “Are you okay?”
He nodded wordlessly, and took her mini suitcase from her side, wheeling it along the tarmac for her, his face a worried scowl as they boarded the jet.
She thanked him as she stepped past him putting it in the overhead luggage, heading straight for the toilets to wash up, Morgan and JJ ducking out of the way when they saw Carrie 2.0 passing by them.
It wasn’t until they were already in the air did she emerge, her change of clothes on her skin that had been rubbed raw, her uniform in a biohazard bag that she swiftly dumped at the back of the jet to keep it out of sight. She threw herself down on the nearest seat, her entire body aching from the long few days, but she didn’t miss the hazel eyes that bore into the side of her head to her right.
She turned to meet their gaze, even though she already knew who it was before she’d even looked. Spencer looked like he was caught between about five different sentences to start with, his eyes trailing down her arms and to her hands that were now squeaky clean.
“You sure you’re okay?” He murmured, and she flipped her palms over for him to see for himself. No cuts. No abrasions. Except her usually marred cuticles she’d been picking at all day.
“Pinkie promised, didn’t I?” She teased, but no humour met his face. He just looked back at her, like he didn’t quite believe her still, like she was a ghost where his best friend should be sat, or a trick of the light. She turned her knees towards him, her sleepy eyes buttery and genuine, as if she was trying to make herself as relaxed as possible, just so he would stop worrying, “Spencer, I’m fine. Didn’t even knick me,”
He stayed quiet for a moment, looking down to his satchel bag where he played with the buckle, the brown leather cold in between his fingers, “I’m sorry I’ve been weird and distant and ignoring you- I just…”
“Spencer,” She tried to interject with a honeyed voice, but he shook his head, a crease forming between his brows when he heard her say his name like that.
“I just worry I’m letting everyone down, but when I saw you covered in blood-” He gulped, willing his eyes not to burn up again with unshed tears.
“Spence, it’s okay,” She cooed, shuffling closer to him in her seat, her hand migrating to his knee, because she didn’t know if he’d want to touch her after she’d had someone else's blood all over her hand. She liked her chances, yet the last thing she wanted was to push him. “No one’s expecting you to go back to normal, I just want to know you’re safe. I owe you as much, I mean you looked after me when Emily was gone,”
“You don’t owe me anything, Bug,” He shook his head again, his brows furrowing and she was quick to correct herself, “Besides, I loved living with you,” He rested his palm over her hand and gave her what he hoped looked like a small smile.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Spence,” She said, flipping her hand over to squeeze his fingers gently, “Did you not think I loved living with you too? I just want to take care of you for me,”
He looked at her, her eyes hopeful as she roved over his clean clothes, his freshly washed hair, his satchel he’d kept tight in his lap, as if checking him over for bruises despite the fact he hadn’t been in the field. The crushing weight over his chest like a fallen log seemed to shift, and with it, her hand soothed the wound, her smile dried his eyes, her warmth engulfed his very core in a blanket.
Spencer knew he was going to be okay if it was him and her. He knew the world was livable again if she was fighting in his corner. But then, when hadn’t she been?
Sensing his ease in attitude, or perhaps she just knew his eyes so well to notice the way they seemed to carry less burden as soon as she’d spoken, she leaned back in her seat, “Besides, the boys miss you. They said you gave them more treats than I do and Niko appreciated you brushing his fur for him,”
He smiled over at her bashfully, his head dropping down to lean on her shoulder as she pressed her cheek to his head.
“Well, if the boys miss me, I guess I have no choice,” He murmured, his eyes heavy the second he rested against her, like she’d sprayed a sedative over him, and he couldn’t help think that her new perfume wasn’t nearly as them as her old one had been. Not that he disliked this one, just that the other one reminded him of morning breakfasts, and movie marathons, and nights when they would bake apple cake at twelve in the morning because she made it how he liked it to a tea.
She chuckled, and it sounded like a hum in his ear, as he curled up to her side, “Get some sleep, I’ll wake you up when we land and I’ll drive us home,”
And it didn’t take much for him to do so, even if something had been right on the tip of his tongue; his apartment had only felt like home when she said it like that.
+1. The one with the promise.
He’d had that dream again.
It had been four months since Maeve died, but he’s had that dream again.
He’d start out in a restaurant, the walls lined top to toe with books, the chandelier the perfect amount of dust that it had character but not tackiness. A waiter would bring him over a menu and an iced tea, his favourite. He’d go to look up to ask why he’d been sat at a restaurant he had no recollection of getting to, and he’d see her staring back at him.
Maeve. Looking healthy and happy, like he hadn’t watched her brains sprayed across that warehouse floor.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” She would say, a glass of some kind of white wine swirling in her hand, her teeth straight and white and pretty when she smiled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you,” He’d say, though he couldn’t feel his mouth moving, he just knew it had come from him. “Where are we?”
“You promised me a date, so this is it,” Maeve said, a glint in her blue eyes, “First and the last. Let’s make it count,”
His heart would give a jump then, because he’d remember this was the only time he’d ever get to see her. He’d remember that she was dead, that he had never seen her in person like this until the day she’d died.
He’d open his mouth to apologise, to beg for an explanation or forgiveness, whichever one he thought was more pressing, and then the door would swing open.
And Bugsy would walk in.
Donned in the same bluebell dress she’d worn at JJ’s wedding, only her arm wasn’t broken. And she’d walk right up to him, that smile on her face that said she was excited to see him.
And Maeve would look at her, and instead of scowling or sneering like a woman soaking in jealousy would, they would look at one another and grin like they’d known each other decades.
“Car’s out front when you guys are done,” Bugsy would chirp, her eyes warm when she looked down at the dead woman, satiated in genuine happiness to see her, “Don’t keep him too long,”
“One dance, Agent Prentiss, and he’s all yours,” Maeve would reply with a giggle, her brunette locks falling like a waterfall over her shoulder when she’d stand, offering a hand to him to sweep him onto the dancefloor, “You coming, Spencer?”
And his eyes would snap open, returning him back to the horrible reality of his darkened bedroom, his apartment silent other than the sound of Bugsy tossing in the spare room, the way she did when she got too warm in her sleep, and he threw his legs out of bed to go get her some cold water.
But the dream never left him. The same one he’d had for months, since she’d moved in with him to take care of him, make sure he was eating and keeping as happy as he could be.
The sight of her in that blue dress, waiting for him to finish his dance haunted him almost as much as Maeve did.
–
“Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t been sleeping?” She asked, cornering him in the kitchen once they’d both dropped their go bags in their room and he’d jumped for the kettle to make them both coffee.
He blanked, the mug nearly slipping from his grasp as he plonked it down on the counter in front of her, “Why would you think-”
“Spencer,” She said as a warning, her lip quirking between her teeth as she gnawed at it worriedly.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” He confessed too quickly, scratching the back of his neck the way he did when he was nervous, “I know you worry about me, especially right now, and when you worry, you don’t sleep, and I just thought what’s the point in both of us running on nothing,”
She huffed, and he shuffled around the island to meet her where she stood by the bar stools, looking like she wanted to be cross with him but she couldn’t find it in herself.
“You should have told me, I could have stroked your back the way you liked, or, I don’t know,” She shrugged, looking anywhere but his guilty looking hues, “Smuggled night nurse in your tea,”
“Drugs. Cause that’s way better than my thing,” He teased, and she snickered, and he sighed in relief that she wasn’t really mad at him. He hated lying to her, he’d just wanted to keep his odd dream to himself until he could make sense of it, “Did Dave tell you anything else?”
She shook her head, and he knew she was telling the truth because she seemed to immediately be the one assessing him for anything else she should have been told much sooner.
“Is your head okay?” She asked, putting a gentle hand to his forehead to check for migraine heat, “I know they get worse when you don’t sleep-”
“My head’s fine, Bug,” Spencer replied, grabbing her hand with his long fingertips, pulling them from his face to squeeze at her side with a warming smile, “Promise. I’ll tell you if it gets bad,”
She watched him sceptically for a moment before she leaned over to grab her coffee, taking a long sip, and sighing in delight when it tasted perfect, “I love your memory, did I ever tell you that?”
He chuckled, dodging a rogue Niko that bobbed between his feet because it was almost dinner time for the two miscreants, moving back over to the sink to tidy the granules of sugar he’d spilled, “Many times. But I’d remember your coffee even if I had a normal brain,”
“Humble as always,” She remarked, smiling devilishly when he shot her a glare over his shoulder. It was then that Sergio jumped up onto the counter, the way Spencer had tried scolding him for a million times because of the germs, only for the onyx black cat to flick his tail in his face as if to flip him a middle finger, yowling in the man’s face for his usual dinner of kibble and water.
“Alright, alright,” Spencer sighed, reaching into the cabinet to grab their food, two fluffy bodies immediately weaving in between his long legs with mews and head bumps, because those boys knew how to wrap him around their little finger, “You ought to start being nice to me, boys. One day it’ll probably just be me and you guys, and then you can’t just bat your tails at me like you do your mom-”
“I know I’m turning twenty eight but I still got a few years left kicking, Spence,” Bugsy protested, her brows furrowing when she heard his murmurs, which she hadn’t found entirely odd since he always spoke to the boys when he fed them, except this time it had made her draw back in confusion, “Where am I in this hypothetical bachelor pad you got going on?”
“You’ll be with whatever guy is lucky enough to talk his way into dating you, maybe engaged, maybe married,” He said like it was nothing, despite the fact he’d been thinking about that exact scenario for months. Since Penelope had mentioned just how good British men were in bed, in fact. Because he felt both sick and curious as to whatever it had been that had come out of her mouth in return, “And I’ll look after the boys while the two of you move on, because you’ll feel sorry for taking my only friends away from me when you leave, and I’ll be forced to become a lonely, old cat man,”
“That’s not true,” She said, her face warming when he chuckled cynically, running a hand through his hair, “Spence, you can’t actually believe that?”
“Yes it is, Bugsy, you don’t need to try and make me feel better,” He brushed her off, wiping his knuckles over heavy eyelids, “You and I both like facts, right? It’s a quantifiable fact that zero women except Maeve have ever fallen in love with me in thirty years. Even if we call it twelve years to remove the factor of less meaningful relationships developing before adulthood, that means I’ll be forty two by the time I next get a shot, at which point I’ll be too old and washed up for anyone to find me attractive. Let’s face it, no one is ever going to love me like that again,”
“That’s not true,” She repeated, her chest hammering, her face scrunched into a scowl, “You’re wrong. Quantifiably wrong.”
“You have no data to back that statement up, Bug,” He replied with a dark snicker, and maybe it was the lack of sleep or the idea of her engaged to some other bonehead that had made him so crass, “Can’t make a conclusion without drawing on your evidence, to which you have none,”
“Yes, I do, asshole. I know for a fact that someone is in love with you,” She snapped, and it was like a bolt of lightning had cut through their conversation, blowing up in her face, her entire body freezing the second the words had left her mouth.
She looked at him, her eyes panicked, and all teasing had dropped out of his expression, leaving something confused, “Bug-”
“I don’t know why I said that,” She cut him off, jumping into action and avoiding his burning gaze. But he was fast, and he was pushing off the counter just as quickly as her.
“Bugsy, what do you mean? I don’t understand,” He persisted, darting only a pace behind her when she moved towards the living room to grab her cardigan off the back of the sofa.
She shook her head, “Ignore that, it doesn’t matter,”
“No, what did you mean by that?” Spencer asked, his voice tense because he had never seen her cower away from him like that, her body moving entirely into a state of flight. She shook her head, snatching the white fabric in her fingers and spinning on her heel to head for the doorway. But there he was, blocking her escape, his impossibly tall body stopping her right in her tracks, and she didn’t need to look up to know he had that special Spencer brand of Puppy Eyes.
“I’m going to the store-”
“Bugsy,”
“It doesn’t matter, Spence, just leave it,” She said shakily, trying to duck around him only for him to dodge to the left and stop her advance, “Spence, leave it, please,”
“What did you mean? Just tell me,” He begged, his cadence wary, the sound of it flushing her entire chest with a heat she’d never known. She swore she was going into cardiac arrest, her heartbeat was in her throat, and it made it difficult to swallow, let alone push him away, “Do you know something?”
Her breaths were deep, begging her chest to behave as it damn near spun her vision into dizziness. He was just a man. He was just a boy. How could he have so much control over her entire body when he had barely even touched her? When he had just asked her one tiny little question?
It was unethical, how her stomach rippled with butterflies the second she dared to look at his hazel eyes, round and intense where they never left her face. It should have been illegal for begging to look so good on him.
She took a sigh, shaking her head and looking back to his mismatched socks, chuckling bitterly, and putting her head in her hands. She couldn’t escape from this, her only defence mechanism was to curl into herself like an armadillo against a predator, her attacker being the god's honest truth that he was owed years ago.
“I really,” She cleared her throat, her eyes starting to burn with unshed tears, “I really messed things up with you,”
“What?” Spencer’s hot hands wrapped around her wrists, pulling them away from her face so he could hear her every word clearly, “I thought we were okay now, I thought we were friends again,”
She laughed emptily, her bottom lip quivering, her hands shaking under his touch. He was so warm, he always had been, but it felt as if he was everywhere when he was only really touching the skin of her pulsepoint. She hoped he couldn’t feel just how it beat for him, beat so loud and fast all for him.
“That’s the problem,” She whispered, her glassy eyes meeting his as she gave an unsure breath, gulping loudly. It was like he stared right at her soul, and pleaded it to speak to him. And she had never been able to say no to him, not when he looked like that, “When I came back from London, I came back to tell you that…”
She breathed again, because she felt like she was holding it while she confessed, she knew it was no wonder she felt so dizzy, but she couldn’t look away from him, where his face was morphing into realisation.
“I came to tell you that.. I-I’m in love with you, Spencer,” A single tear dribbled down her cheek, but he let go of her hands quickly to catch it, his lips pressing together in a silenced word, most like ‘oh’. His brows quirked above his nose, his eyes turning into devastation as soon as she’d said it. But it was out there now, so there was no use in trying to keep it in anymore. “I have been, for a while I think, and I wanted to tell you because I thought you might-might-” She gulped, the finger that had brushed the first tear stroking down until it rested under her jaw, the feeling of it damn near making her whine, “I don’t know, I just hoped you would feel anything back- but you don’t have to say anything, I know you’re hurting and so I just kept it in, but every time I see you I feel like I’m choking and I don’t know how to make it stop-”
“Tell me you’re lying,” Spencer said with a biting tone, his eyes honey comb gold and glistening when he looked at her. It couldn’t be true. He never got this lucky. It couldn’t be, he refused-
She shook her head frantically, her eyes pleading and wet, “Never, Spencer. I would never lie to you. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you- I know you’re hurting, I know you’re grieving and I shouldn’t have assumed-“
“I love you too,” He whispered, and it was like her words came to fruition as her voice was robbed, the air leaving her lungs. Her jaw dropped, her wet eyes boring into his chest, his hands skirting up to hold her face in his hands, thumbs stroking over her tear ladened skin, “God, Bug, I’ve loved you for so long, I thought you didn’t want anything like that after that kiss-”
Her expression dropped, eyebrows scrunching together, “What kiss?”
He blanked, for once speechless. Only the kiss he’d torn himself to pieces over for weeks and weeks. “The night- that Derek brought you over when you’d had…” He trailed off, wanting to throttle himself for how dumb he’d been in retrospect, “When you’d had the Molly,”
Her hand slapped over her mouth, his own hands flying to palm at his eyes, because how could he be so incredibly stupid. Ecstasy was a memory suppressant. He knew, he knew better than most, that taking recreational drugs like that robbed you of even the most life shattering moments.
She didn’t remember. How could she? She was so out of it she could barely walk without stumbling over a flat surface. And instead of asking her, instead of simply growing a pair and seeing what she remembered, he’d gotten a girlfriend.
This was all wrong. This was so wrong. The guilt from Maeve dying was a wound that had cut him deep, and yet having Bugsy in his arms so placid and warm and adoring was a salve he had never dreamed would feel so numbing.
“We kissed?” She asked, her eyes blazing with embarrassment, her hand running through her hair in shock horror, “I don’t- how don’t I remember that- that’s all I dreamed of for months-”
“Technically you kissed me,” He explained, despite the fact his cheeks had set on fire hearing her confess even the smallest bit more to him. She loved him. She was in love with him. She had been for months, she said. She loved him. “It would have been wrong if I did anything even if it was all I’d thought of too. And I just thought, because you never mentioned it, that you didn’t want to remember it at all,”
He felt like he’d taken some sort of truth serum, like he should shut himself up any second now because he was spilling his longest kept secret to the one person who should have never been privy to it. But it was okay if she knew. Because she loved him.
She looked at him, and he swore he’d never seen eyes so beautiful, but then he’d always loved her eyes. But the way they looked at him, as if he’d had a bag pulled from over his head, or his glasses had been given the correct prescription, because it was like he suddenly saw just how adoring she looked when she watched him like that.
And despite herself, she laughed.
It was girlish, and carefree, and happy. So, so happy. And he started laughing too. She fell into his chest, her face hot with embarrassment, and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her giggling into his shirt, shaking her head.
“We’re so fucking stupid,” She said, and it was mumbled, and the sound of it made him smile wider.
“I’m a stupid, stupid man. I’m so sorry, Bug,” He replied, his large hand stroking down the back of her hair though a sour taste crawled up his throat.
He still owed Maeve that dance. Just as he’d told Rossi. Who had told Bugsy, because he knew she had some magic way of getting her way with everyone.
She pulled away, her eyes young and so incredibly pretty when she smiled at him like that. Sensing his hesitation, she tried to pull away from his embrace, worried like it was second nature to her by now that she’d overstepped. Only he didn’t let her. He kept his hand at the back of her head, one under her arm to pin her close to his body, because he wasn’t going to be stupid enough to let her go twice.
“You said you tried to tell me when you got back from London?” He said softly, and she nodded, like her confession had taken everything out of her, “But then when you got here… I was with Maeve,”
She swallowed, worried where he was going, and nodded again wordlessly.
He chewed the inside of his lip, taking a deep breath for courage, “I’m still- I feel terrible if-”
“You can still grieve, Spencer,” She cut him off, knowing what he was struggling to say, and his eyes crawled back up to meet her gaze, “It’s not heinous to need time to think, I know it’s a lot to ask, I never expected you to-”
He cut her off with a kiss to the apple of her cheek, warm and angelic, the feeling of it forcing her mouth shut, because she worried she might just whimper in delight if she didn’t. Her hand flew up to his forearm that moved around to cup neatly under her ear, his fingers weaving into her hair as he kissed again down near her jaw, her eyes fluttering shut. And when she thought it was done, when she thought her luck was spent, he kissed her again, on the cusp of her lips, a ghost breath slipping from a parted mouth, because she thought she might have just died and gone to heaven.
“Bugsy, I love you,” Spencer said, and her heart felt full, so full her eyes welled up all over again because it was everything she had ever wanted, “I just need a little time,”
Her eyelids flicked open, and the bliss written over her face took a knock, her head reeling back like he’d burned her. But, as before, he didn’t let her go, He refused to let her run away again. Not when he had everything he wanted, “That’s not a ‘no’. It’s just a very stupid man who has loved you for longer than you’d know hoping on everything that you’ll be willing to give me a month or two. I want to do this right, you deserve to have this done right, and I want to give you only the best version of myself,”
Spencer’s heart pounded against his slender ribcage as he waited for her response, because he knew he was pushing his luck. But he’d meant every word of it, and he figured if he had any chance at being the guy he’d always told himself she needed, he’d need to be honest with her. They’d need to be honest with each other.
But she smiled at him, sweet and besotted beneath his palm, and he didn’t know why he’d ever doubted her.
“I waited six years, what’s a few months on top of that?” She smirked, her face glowing when he pressed another gentle kiss to her forehead, and he felt how hot her blood ran under his touch. He hoped she couldn’t feel how his did the same.
“I promise. Just a few more months, bug,”
And he meant it. With everything in him, Spencer meant it. He wouldn’t let her go ever again.
--
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#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fic#matthew grey gubler x reader
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༉‧₊˚. 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 || 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
— pairing: professor!spencer reid x bimbo plus size ta!reader
— summary: there's no denying the bubbling tension between you and professor dr. spencer reid.
— warnings: unspecified age gap, the reader is a teacher's assistant, this is a whole fluff fest, and there are some sweet kisses!
— wc: 639
⋆ a/n: hi hi hi @deadbolted!! so i hope you don't mind but i changed the reader from being a student to being a teacher's assistant! this whole fic turned out to be very sweet and i appreciate your request! :]
masterlist | AO3
You stare at the professor in amazement, your chin resting on your palms as you watch his lithe hands grade papers with a swiftness you could never obtain.
“I like that you know stuff.” You murmur mindlessly, your eyes tracing the path of the red ink until the paper was stained with a 98%.
“Oh yeah?” Spencer asks with a tiny smile on his face, his focus still on the tests in front of him.
If he was going to be honest, you were supposed to be helping him grade said papers, seeing as though he had chosen you to be his teacher's assistant. It wasn't that you were dumb per se, just more… prone to distraction. He was pretty sure it was his fault if the heart eyes you were giving him was anything to go by.
Usually unwanted affection would make Spencer uncomfortable, but there was just something about you that piqued his interest.
You didn't throw yourself at him or flirt shamelessly. Of course you fawned over him and he pretended he didn't hear the soft whisper of your voice squealing about how handsome he looked in his suit combo – which was something Spencer had been kind of unsure about when he had put it on in the morning.
“Mm-hm.” You hummed. “I think it’s cool.” Spencer could almost laugh, but he didn’t, instead his bottom lips rolled between his teeth to hold back a large smile. “I teach seminars, I kind of have to know stuff.”
“Whatever,” You respond with a shrug. “You still know more than me.”
That stopped Spencer’s scribbling, the man’s eyes now fully settling on you. The movement was unexpected and it caused you to flinch slightly, your gaze that was once fiercely set on him fluttered in a way that signaled you were flustered.
“I’m going to have to disagree.” His voice was almost a whisper and your faces were a lean away. “Really?” You asked brainlessly, your tone almost breathless sounding. “Really. I think you’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met.” Your cheeks heat and your eyes fall on his beard that is growing darker and thicker with each passing day. Then, they trail towards his lips.
“I- I don’t know.” Your tense shoulders loosen and you pull away. “Hey, no, don’t do that.” He chides softly. Spencer leans his head down in an attempt to search for your eyes. “I swear that I’m not lying. I’ve seen some of the work you’ve done for other classes, and you are brilliant.”
“You promise?” You ask meekly. “Yeah,” He nods. “I promise.”
There was a beat, then two, then three, before Spencer found himself leaning down and gently brushing his lips against yours.
You freeze and for a moment he fears that he may have read the situation wrong, but then you press into him, your lips finally locking. It’s not hungry or urgent, just sweet and experimental, mouths moving unsurely to try to find a pace that’s right for the both of you.
Sure this was wrong, so very wrong, but if you ask Spencer there’s a lot of things wrong about his life, and for the first time since his imprisonment, this is the only thing that actually felt right.
Your hands shyly place themselves on his stubbled cheeks, his own hands reaching up to do the same. His thumbs paw at your cheeks when he tilts his head to side slightly, his tongue brushing your bottom lip asking you for entrance.
Your mouth opens up shyly and your tongues dance together languidly, and you pull away when a small moan bounces between you.
You both are breathing heavily – quietly – all the while still holding each other.
For the first time in a long time, Spencer doesn’t know what to do, but he knows he’ll figure it out.
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okay but teaching inexperienced!reid the ways of risky sex!! like leaving a party early or something but you can’t wait because he’s just so cute and just pulling over somewhere quiet and absolutely fucking him in the backseat !!
nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | car sex, unprotected sex, p in v, i rushed this 😔😔
after a party at the bureau, you and spencer were driving back to your apartment. you were dressed in a beautiful red dress that shimmered with each street lamp that you guys drove past while spencer was dressed in a suit. neither of you drank, not wanting to make a fool out of yourselves in front of your co-workers. however, to say you were horny was an understatement.
spencer looked g o o d. his curls framed his face so nicely, looking messy while also looking perfect. his suit seemed as though it was tailored to his frame, accentuating his small muscles. it was why you guys had left the party early, neither of you could wait to get your hands on each other.
“i can’t wait any longer,” spencer sighed as he pulled over on the quiet road. it was semi-late, almost midnight so no one was on the roads at all. “i need you now,” he said as he put the car in park.
“god i need you too,” you exclaimed, unbuckling your seat belt. and within a few movements, spencer’s seat was pushed back while you crawled onto his lap, straddling him as he kissed your lips.
the two of you have never had sex anywhere else other than the bedroom. however, recently, you have been teaching spencer how to be more adventurous with sex and boy was he a quick learner. you had, in passing, mentioned the idea of car sex at some point. but you hadn’t expected it to be tonight. though you most certainly were not complaining.
you kissed spencer heatedly, making out with him as his hands explored your body through your dress. you reached a hand between the two of you, moving it down to his belt buckle as you began to undo it. “i need you inside me, spence,” you whispered.
spencer let out a small whimper at your words. he looked down at his hard cock through his trousers before looking back up at you. “i need to be inside of you, baby,” he whispered back.
you unzipped spencer’s pants, undoing them just enough to expose his cock. spencer grabbed your dress, bunching it up. “neither of us decided to wear underwear, huh?” he whispered to you.
you let out a breathless chuckle, nodding your head. “i guess not.” you grabbed the base of spencer’s cock, causing him to whimper from the touch as you guided his member to your cunt. you eased yourself onto his cock, letting out a small whine.
“oh fuck,” spencer moaned as he finally felt your wet and tight walls around his cock, closing his eyes in pleasure.
when his cock was all the way inside of you, you stayed still for just a moment, adjusting to having him inside of you. you looked around outside the car windows, ensuring that no one was around. and the finally, you started moving up and down spencer’s length. “oh my god,” you gasped, putting your hands on his shoulders.
spencer’s hands went around your waist as you rode his cock. he leaned forward to bury his face in your neck. “you feel so fucking good, so good.”
“you fill me up so good, spence,” you said breathlessly as you moved faster on his cock. you closed your eyes in pleasure, throwing your head back as you rode him. his cock was hitting deep inside of you, making you see stars pretty much. it always did. and you always loved spencer’s cock. just as much as he always loved your pussy.
spencer began to babble into your skin, giving you praises about how good your pussy was, how you’re always so good to him, you absolutely beautiful you were. and it all spurred you on. you let out a choked moan as you angled yourself so his cock hit your g-spot repeatedly.
“am gonna cum, oh my god, i’m so close, baby,” spencer moaned, meeting your hips with his own thrusts.
“o-oh fuck,” you whined, grinding your hips. “me too, spence. please cum for me, need you to cum inside me.”
and with your words, spencer let out a pained sounding chuckle and a “holy shit,” as his cock stiffened and he came inside of you. he filled you up with his cum, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. you let out a high pitched moan, his orgasm making yours happen as well. your walls clenched around his cock as your thighs started shaking.
when the both of you finally, the two of you breathed heavily. the desire that you both felt had finally been satiated. you eased off of spencer’s cock, maneuvering yourself back to the passenger seat. the both of you relished in the post orgasmic glow, not speaking a word.
and after about five minutes, spencer tucks himself back into his pants before turning the car back on. “i’m going to fuck you again when we get to your apartment,” he stated, glancing at you with a grin. he then turned back to the road, driving once more.
you laughed, tugging your dress down. “sounds like a fantastic plan to me.”
#criminal minds#spencer reid#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds smut#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid x you#criminals minds x reader#🌸 — min’s asks#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x y/n
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Hello, i would like to request a short little spencer reid x reader, since spencer is kind of autistic coded and he is shown to not understand some jokes or takes things literally, can you do one where reader is the same way, and somebody says a joke that neither of them get and everyone else around is like... wow they are perfect for eachother... and they are just so confused
Drabble: Sweet Like Sugar
A/N: I love this idea! Thanks for requesting! The only joke I could come up with is one from an episode of FRIENDS. Here's a lil dabble before I go into finals. I’m so mentally done with school and can’t wait for summer vacay in a week.
~560 wc
It was early in the morning and your coworkers were just showing up for work. You quickly dropped your stuff off at your desk before practically running towards the coffee maker.
When you approached the counter Morgan was there preparing a fresh batch of coffee. “Hey sweet thing, how’s your morning been?”
“Ask me after I have caffeine in my system. Maybe then my eyes will stay open,” you answered plainly as you reached for your mug.
Morgan chuckled at your answer as he grabbed the coffee pot. “Well feel free to take the first cup.”
The corners of your mouth turned up as you handed him your mug. “Thanks Morgan.”
The two of you continued to make your coffee as Spencer approached looking for caffeine. When he saw you his eyes brightened.
You and Spencer had just started dating and were feeling the buzz others might call “the honeymoon phase.” Spencer however would argue that what he was feeling was more than that. What he felt for you he felt long before you started dating.
“Morning,” he greeted with a small smile reaching for the coffee pot.
“Morning Spence,” you replied gleefuly.
Morgan raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk. “How come he gets a warm welcome?”
You pointed at your cup, “I told you, ask me when I have coffee.”
He chucked, “That or your boyfriend?”
Your eyes squinted at him as you tried to hide a smile.
“Do you guys know if there’s any extra sugar?” Spencer asked.
You turned back around to face him. “There isn’t any in the cabinet?”
“No, it’s empty,” he replied as he pushed away things in his search for sugar. That small pout on his face you found to be adorable.
“Hold on, let me look for some.”
“Maybe stick your finger in his coffee, that’ll sweeten it up,” Morgan joked before taking a sip of coffee.
Both you and Spencer froze to look at him with confusion plastered across your faces. Morgan could practically see the gears turning in your heads.
“Why would she stick her finger in my coffee?” Spencer asked with a puzzled look.
“That’s so gross. I wouldn’t do that to him, he hates germs,” you grimaced.
“I didn’t mean it literally,” Morgan defended.
The joke was still lost on you both. You stood there trying to make sense of what Morgan said.
“It’s because you have such a sweet personality that touching his coffee would sweeten it up. Especially because he likes an ungodly amount of sugar,” he explained.
A look of realization dawned on you both with quiet “oohs.”
Morgan couldn’t help but smile at the reaction. He always knew you and Spencer would end up together. You were both so similar; your chemistry undeniable. You two acted like love sick puppies around each other, and it happened more often now that you started dating. Morgan would never complain though, he was pleased to see you both happy and with your person.
“Wow, you guys really are perfect for eachother,” he remarked before walking away from the kitchen.
You and Spencer both turned to each other and shrugged, not fully grasping what he was insinuating.
“Hey Spence?”
“Yeah?”
You finished stirring your creamer in your coffee, “Would you say I’m sweet? Like Derek said?”
He wrapped his arm around you and leaned down to kiss your temple before whispering in your ear.
“The sweetest.”
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid headcanon#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid x you#criminal minds fanfiction#spencer reid drabble
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andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)
a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.
note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five, five being the most recent part. read part five here
18+
warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance
a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!
Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.
The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list.
He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying.
Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist.
“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him.
Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up.
“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”
“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”
It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now.
“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”
“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”
“Alright. Got your phone handy?”
It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.
“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”
Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you.
Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone.
He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself.
But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.
So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much.
Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy.
Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine.
Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol.
So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is.
“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”
He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her.
“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”
She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall.
“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance.
She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that.
But god, does he think about you like that.
His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee.
Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—
He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand.
Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought.
But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.
“Found it okay?”
Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her.
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse.
There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom.
It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.
At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again.
But.
That’s all contingent.
No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same.
The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.
In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies.
Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him.
And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him.
The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.
Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back.
If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.
And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out.
Not again.
But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.
Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can.
Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is.
It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too.
He sends you a text—the third message in a row.
The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years.
I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you.
#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid smut#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid angst#dr spencer reid#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds imagine
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ruining him | s.r x fem!reader
ꨄ requested: anonymous
ꨄ genre: smut
ꨄ summary: basically just ruining spencer…
it was one of those days where spencer had gotten back from a horrible case and he needed to clear his mind, you helped the best way you could. spencer was useless at the moment, only barely being able to hold his own weight as you practically fucked him into the bed.
you had a grip on his waist that allowed you to hold him up and pull him back into you. his cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking a copious amount of precum.
all he wanted to do was cum, having been on the brink for a while, but the cock ring that was wrapped around the base of his cock kept him from doing so and it didn't help that it vibrated too. his body was completely flushed, a shade of red coating his skin and making him look even prettier.
you leaned over his body and pressed your lips to his cheek, wrapping your arm around him and placing your hand around his cock.
"gotta be quiet, baby. you don't want the neighbors to hear you, now do you?"
spencer shook his head quickly, a whimper falling from his lips at the new combination of your hand stroking his cock in time with your thrusts. "please just- please let me cum, please!"
you hummed as if you were thinking about it but you already knew your answer, the poor boy had tears running down his face from being denied an orgasm for so long. you voiced your permission as you took the cock ring off of his cock.
spencer buried his head in the pillows as you sped up your pace, you sat up and placed your hand back on his waist. spencer was quick to replace your hand with his, stroking his cock much faster than you did.
it wasn't long before he was making a mess underneath himself, his cum shooting up his stomach and pooling under his body on the sheets.
you slowed your thrust down but still gave a few shallow thrusts to help him ride out his orgasm, eventually you pulled out when he let out a small whimper. spencer fell down onto the bed, not caring about the small pool of cum on the sheets.
"m'gonna run a bath for you, spence." you announced as you got off the bed. you took the strap-on off and placed it to the side to be cleaned later before heading to the bathroom.
#golden1u5t#myrarants#spencer reid#criminal minds fandom#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fandom#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x you#sub spencer reid#sub!spencer#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid x fem!reader smut
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Technically, I didn't stay up.
Just you and Spencer being fluffy when he comes home from work and falling asleep in each other's arms.
Spencer Reid X GN! Reader.
DISCLAIMER
This story is completely SFW, minors do not interact regardless!
You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: None.
Word count: 1K. See notes at end for authors note, any spoilers & update schedules.
I was listening to Margaret when I initially started writing this:
Spencer’s abnormal work hours were something you were entirely used to. You never knew when he was going to be called away and although he would text you when a case wrapped up, it was never a guarantee that he was going to make it home. Actually more often than not, he was usually hauled right back in for another case. What could you do? Serial killers didn’t really care about his convenience. Regardless, you always insisted on being present to greet him at the door, even if it meant testing your sleep schedule.
from: Spence ❤️
20:42 | The jet took off not too long ago. We should land in roughly five hours. Please don’t force yourself to wait up.
20:42 | I love you!
You were quick to respond to everything except the not waiting up part. Your plan hadn’t actually gone that smoothly, you’d fallen asleep on the couch not long after making yourself comfortable there. You didn’t hear him unlock the door. He took extra care to be as quiet as possible when abandoning his shoes and satchel at the entrance. He even put a lot of thought into making his steps as light as possible when he began to make his way to the bedroom, only to spot you curled up on the couch.
He smiled to himself at the sight in front of him. The only lighting was a small lamp in the corner of the room, but to him, you were the brightest presence in the room. Your expression was neutral and your breaths shallow as you lay dead to the world. You looked so peaceful, he considered it to be almost criminal if he were to disturb you. He couldn’t just leave you there though. It wasn’t good for your body to be curled into a cramped position.
Spencer made his way over to you, crouching down next to your face. He couldn’t help but admire whatever features were visible. He brushed a strand of hair out of your face and leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Honey?” he whispered when he pulled away. His voice was so soft. He didn’t want to disturb you, but he wanted you to be comfortable in your own bed. “Hmm?” Your brain registered his voice, but it took your body a second to register his presence.
Spencer still had a hand in your hair, lightly stroking it. Your eyes fluttered open momentarily before they shut again. “You’re back!” You mumbled groggily, reaching out to brush your fingers against his hand. “I am!” He whispered gleefully. Your other hand made its way to his face so you could stoke his jaw. You could feel a little bit of stubble coming in. Spencer’s ears perked up at the little giggle that came out of you when you dropped from the couch into his lap and wrapped yourself around him.
“I’m sorry to wake you. I did tell you not to stay up.” His long arms swallow you into his embrace as he speaks.
“Technically, I didn’t stay up.” You counter letting your hand make its way into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Sleeping on a surface that isn’t firm enough can contribute to back pain and because the surface of a couch tends to be softer than a mattress, it might not offer enough support for your back. Also, falling asleep while sitting up on a couch could result in your head pushing forward, which puts stress on the neck. Sleep posture is an important predictor of stiffness, back pain, and neck pain, according to several studies.”
“Thank you Doctor. I remember why I missed you so much.” You pull back as you speak. “Who else is going to be as concerned about my sleep posture as you?”
“I missed you too.” He scoffs in amusement and smiles into the kiss you lean in for.
You nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck when you feel a yawn coming. “Let’s go to bed, okay?” He whispers, sensing your sleeping demeanour.
“Only if I can take you with me.” You whisper into his skin. He huffs a small laugh as he pushes you off him so he can stand and offers his arms down to you. You grab them and he pulls you up. Neither of you let go of each other's hand as you walk into the bedroom. “I’m just going to brush my teeth first, then I’ll be right with you.” Spencer announces. Still ever the germaphobe.
“I’m gonna join you, that nap made my mouth all dry.” You follow behind him. Spencer grabs both of your toothbrushes and holds them out, as you grab the toothpaste and squeeze an equal amount on each brush. You then take yours out of his hand and the two of you begin brushing. You’re both trying to make up for his time away by leaning into each other, stealing glances in the mirror and smiling if you get caught.
When you both finish up in the bathroom, you make your way back to the bedroom together. It's like both of you are incapable of being away from each other right now, even for a second. Spencer decides against changing into more comfortable clothes, wanting nothing more than to hold you. He joins you under the comforter, immediately pulling you as close to him as possible.
Neither of you have enough energy in you for conversation right now, you’re still sleepy from your previous nap and Spencer is entirely drained from the case. Still, you acknowledge each other through light touches and kisses. Spencer’s hand now makes its way to your hair while you draw little patterns against his chest.
‘I missed u’
‘I <3 u’
‘♡’
‘:)’
He doesn’t recognise the little messages, but he appreciates the feeling all the same. You begin drifting off into sleep, revelling in the warmth emitting from him. Spencer smiles when he hears light snores coming from you. He truly considers himself the luckiest man alive. You don’t hear it but before he drifts off himself, he makes his feelings known to the universe in a light whisper.
“I love you so much you know. I’m gonna marry you someday.”
Spoilers: Fluff, Domestic! Spencer, entirely fluffy & domestic. Literally a comfort blurb for the people who take hot showers for too long and just need a hug.
AN - Hey so sorry for any errors, I drafted this in like 20 minutes to make up for the fact that my originally planned story for today would not be complete in time. Enjoy this short blurb. I was in a salty mood and made an entirely angst blurb too, but decided fluff was what society needed today. Also sorry for the shitty fucking title, my brain is shutting down.
Also side note - I’m a WHORE for domestic! Spencer. I just loveeeeee when everyday tasks become so cute and fluffy and romantic. PLEASE recommend domestic Spencer stories!!!
Update Schedule: Original plan drops Monday or Tuesday (Sunday or Monday night EST time).
Feel free to drop helpful constructive criticism, I’m always looking to improve. Remember to stay real and respectful :)
Thank you for reading!
#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fandom#ssa spencer reid#bau team#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fluff#domestic spencer reid#fluff#fluff fic#blurb#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid x gn reader#gn reader#Spotify
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lemon poppy seed cake for me, please! Post prison Spencer and shy!reader who gets so nervous around him that they become the clumsiest person ever
You don’t mean to be a clutz, but it happens every time Spencer is around. He just happens to witness your worst moments and it makes you want to avoid him.
Your most recent clumsy moment while Spencer was around, was you rushing to the ME’s office and slipping on something on the bottom of your shoe and almost hitting your head right into the door jam.
Spencer catches your arm before you can, steadying you with a concerned look. “You’re going to end up needing stitches if you’re not careful.” he murmurs, you shake your head.
“I’m careful, you just always witness my clumsiest moments.” your voice is soft and you can’t bring yourself to meet Spencer’s eyes. They’re too brown, warm and kind and it makes you feel like your entire body is a live wire that will result in your combustion. It’s made even worse when he trails his hand from your upper arm to your wrist. Spencer must know what all this closeness does to you.
He hides a smile, stroking his thumb over your inner wrist. “C’mon, let’s go see what the ME has.” The little shit doesn’t drop your hand and you both walk at a much slower pace than you’d been going at before.
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i hope this is how to send a request cuz this is my first time requesting anything. but i wanted to ask if you could do a story of spencer x reader of when he comes back home from prison in season 12? i don't know if i want it to be girlfriend and boyfriend or if they're married i don't really know, sorry. but i don't really mind either way. hope you can write something like this, thank you :))) <333
tysm for trusting me with your first request and sorry this took so long, it's also kind of rushed and I'm not too confident with it but I hope you like it <3
Home is whenever I’m with you
Category: angst, hurt, comfort, gn reader ~1.7k words
He’s back. Your boyfriend is back. There's a tangle of nerves in the pit of your stomach at the mere thought of seeing him again, especially after all that’s happened. You get to hug him, to kiss him, to feel the softness of his thick, beautiful hair under your fingers again.
But not now. His mother is missing. Those are the words Emily spoke to you over the phone after she called to let you know he’s released. It’s ironic, to hear such wonderful news just to be followed by something so disheartening. And the guilt creeps in, that nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, if you had gone to visit his mom as planned, this nightmare could've been avoided.
“Do not blame yourself,” Emily adds, her voice is a lifeline in the chaos of emotions. It's as if she can read your thoughts, know exactly what you're feeling without you saying a word. “Just stay where you are, okay? I've got agents keeping an eye on your building. I'll keep you updated."
You're left with no choice but to accept. Your boyfriend may be back, but you still can’t see him.
And you get it. His mom comes first, always has, and always will. A child's love for their parents is unbreakable, and if you were in his shoes, you'd move heaven and earth to keep your parents safe. So, naturally, you do what any loving and supportive girlfriend would do—you wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait. Each passing second stretches into agonizing minutes, and those minutes drag on into long, uncertain hours. One skipped meal turns into two, and suddenly, you're lying in bed in the dead of night with an empty stomach. You know you should take care of yourself, but your mind is fixated on him.
What is he doing? Has he eaten anything? Is he taking breaks at all? Has he managed to get any sleep? And most importantly, has there been any news about his mom?
Your mind is racing, flooded with countless unanswered questions. You try to find comfort in sleep, but every ring of your phone feels like a cruel interruption, each time hoping it's him—or at least a word from his friends. But it's always a disappointment, just meaningless notifications and distant messages from your friends about mundane plans.
Eventually, exhaustion overtakes you, but your sleep is restless, it's as if your mind refuses to grant you a moment of respite. Then, in the quiet hours of the night, at two in the morning, you're jolted awake by the familiar sound of a new message on your phone.
His mom is safe.
A sigh of relief escapes you, almost audible in the silence. You type out a response to Emily with trembling hands.
That’s good to hear. Is he fine?
Not great, but he's managing.
That's all you need to hear. His mom is safe, and though he's not doing great, he's managing well enough. With a weight lifted off your shoulders, you finally allow yourself to relax. At least now you can drift back into sleep knowing that he's partially okay.
You wake up again later that night by a rapid knocking. At first, you try to brush it off as just noise from the neighbors, but as you slowly come to your senses, you realize it's coming from your apartment.
Half-worried and half-curious, you reluctantly peel yourself from the comfort of your bed, your mind racing with possibilities as you approach the door. When you glance through the peephole, you're met with a sight that instantly jolts you awake. Without a second thought, you fumble with the lock and swing the door open.
And there your boyfriend stands, but he's a far cry from the man you remember. His hair is wild and unkempt, and his eyes, usually bright and lively, are now dull and tired, shadowed by exhaustion. He's dressed in his usual suit and tie, a combination you've always admired for its professional and polished look. But today, his shirt is half-tucked, half-untucked, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck
“Spence, what are you—”
Before you can finish, he bursts through the door, wrapping his arms tightly around you.
"I'm sorry," he breaks, his voice strained with emotion. "I—I wanted to come here as fast as I can—"
“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” You wrap your arms around his waist and take in a deep breath. Despite his disheveled appearance, he smells exactly as you remember—warm, familiar, like home. “It’s all good, honey, I don’t mind.”
“It’s not alright. I should’ve answered your calls—”
“Spencer, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, running your fingers soothingly down his back. “After all the time you’ve been away, a few more hours hardly matter.”
“Well, it should matter,” he mumbles against your skin, his voice muffled as he buries himself in the crook of your neck. “I shouldn’t have left you like this.”
You hold him tighter, feeling his weight against you, his breath warm against your skin. “Shh,” you murmur, rubbing his back in comforting circles. “You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”
He nods against your neck, his grip on you tightening as if he's afraid to let go.
“How’s your mom?”
He lifts his head slightly, meeting your gaze with tired eyes. “She’s... she’s okay,” he replies. “We found her. She’s safe now.”
You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, relief flooding through you. “I’m glad to hear that,” you say, cupping his cheek gently. “Are you okay?”
He hesitates for a moment as if considering the question carefully. “I’m fine, just… tired.”
Your fingers traced the lines of exhaustion etched on his face. “Let’s get you inside and comfortable, okay?”
He nods, and you usher him inside, relief flooding through you as you close the door behind you. Your fingers naturally intertwine with his as you guide him towards your bedroom.
“Do you want anything? Water, food?”
He shakes his head, falling into step with you. “Maybe later,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “How have you been?”
"Well," you begin, your voice filled with warmth. "'I've been keeping busy while you're gone.”
You lead him to the edge of the bed, sitting him down while you stand between his legs, your eyes meeting his tired gaze. "Work has been... work," you say with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “And I managed to put up the shelf I bought online. Look.”
You gesture towards the bookshelf nestled in the corner of the room and he follows your gaze. “You did that all by yourself?”
"Yeah, I did," you reply, your smile widening. "It wasn't easy without having you constantly nagging me how to do it, but I figured it out."
He nods, a hint of regret shadowing his features. “I'm sorry I wasn't here to help you.”
You shake your head, moving closer to him and placing a comforting hand on his cheek. "Don’t apologize.”
He leans into your touch, his gaze meeting yours with a vulnerability that tugs at your heartstrings. His eyes, wide and brown, look up at you, and you can’t help but compare him to a puppy—sad, yet undeniably endearing, with an innocence that melts your heart. You brush a thumb gently across his cheek, noting the subtle change in his appearance.
“You grew out your facial hair.”
A faint blush colors his cheeks as he shifts under your gaze. "Yeah, I guess I did," he replies, his voice tinged with self-consciousness.
You can't help but smile at his bashfulness. "I like it," you assure him. "It suits you."
“Really?”
“It’s growing on me.”
His expression softens at your words, a warmth spreading through his tired features. "Maybe I'll keep it.”
You nod in agreement, a smile playing on your lips as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer. He sighs contentedly as he leans into your chest, and you gently stroke his hair, soothing him with your touch.
"It's good to be back," he murmurs, his voice muffled against your shirt.
"It's good having you back," you reply softly, brushing a strand of his hair away from his face.
“I thought I was never going to see you again.”
"Why would you think that?”
He hesitates for a moment. "After everything that happened... I wasn't sure if I'd make it back to you.”
You gently tilt his chin up, meeting his gaze. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that.”
His eyes glisten with unshed tears as he nods, his vulnerability laid bare. "I was also afraid that I might lose you,” he adds. “I was afraid you’d get tired of waiting for me.”
“Oh, honey…”
“Everyone I care for always leaves, sooner or later. And I can’t bear the thought… the thought of not coming home without you in my life,” he admits, his voice trembling with emotion and you feel a lump form in your throat as you listen. "I feel… so different right now. I don’t feel like my usual self, and I-I was afraid you wouldn’t like this version of me.”
You pull back slightly, cupping his face in your hands, your gaze locked with his. "I would never think any less of you.”
He sniffs, and that's when you notice a tear escaping down his cheek. Your heart aches even more. “I might not be the same person you last saw me.”
You shake your head, brushing away his tears with your thumb. "It doesn't matter," you reply earnestly. “You're still the person I fell in love with, and nothing will ever change that.”
He looks at you in disbelief, as if he can't quite comprehend how you could love him so unconditionally. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because I see you," you reply. "Beyond the surface, beyond the changes, I see who you are—the kindness, the strength, the love that has always been a part of you. And that's something that remains unchanged, no matter what."
He exhales softly, his features softening as he absorbs your words. But you aren’t finished, not until he realizes how worthy of love he is.
“You’re still the man who loves silly magic tricks, you’re still the man who asks for jello every time we have dessert,” you tease, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips. He cracks a small smile at your playful words. “You’re still the man who loves books, who loves learning. You're still the man who loves helping other people.”
You lean closer, your breath mingling with his as your lips almost touch.
“And I’ll be the one to love every version of you,” you whisper. “The person you were, the person you are, and the person you're becoming.”
He grips your hips and pulls you closer. Without a word, you understand what he needs, what he's asking for, and you close the distance between you, your lips brushing against his.
You never truly understand the meaning of bittersweet until this very moment. His tears carry the saltiness of sorrow, but his lips offer a sweetness that lingers on your tongue. You feel the weight of his pain, the heaviness of his grief, yet you also sense a comforting warmth in the way his lips move gently against yours.
You can feel his uncertainty, and it’s clear that getting back into his old routine won't be easy after everything he's been through. But you’re here for him and you're willing to support him in any way you can.
Because he’s back. Your boyfriend is back. You can hardly believe you get to hug him, kiss him, and run your fingers through his thick, beautiful hair once more. You can’t believe you get to hold him again in your arms, and you hope to do so for a very long time.
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid angst#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x fanfiction#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid fanfic#criminal minds fanfic#spencer x reader#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fic#criminal minds
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Spencer Reid is very ticklish, you first found this out wrapped up in a mess of limbs and soft blankets on his bed. His arm slinks around you as he holds you close to his chest. The pair of you are engrossed in some sci-fi movie that plays on Spencer's crappy TV that you need to hit in order to turn it on.
You trail your nails along his bicep unconsciously, completely taken away by the action on the TV screen. However, your attention is soon turned to Spencer when you feel his muscles tense underneath your fingertips, his skin breaking out in goosebumps and the breathy giggle that escapes his lips.
“Are you ticklish?” You can’t help but tease him, looking over at him with a playfulness that gleams through your eyes. Spencer shakes his head with an adamant 'no'.
“What? No, I’m not ticklish.” He says but you can tell by the way his voice wavers that it’s a clear as day lie. His eyes meet yours and he knows you don’t believe a word he’s saying. “I’m serious… I’m not ticklish.”
You’d test him again, later in the week when he’s reading Sherlock Holmes to you. Your head rests against his chest as you listen closely to the way he tells the story.
The warmth of his arms wrapped around you and the sound of his voice blankets you in a calmness that can only be found with him. You can’t help but nuzzle yourself closer to him, after-all Spencer is practically a human radiator.
You look up at him as he reads, watching the way his lips move with the words. That’s when the idea hits you, a sly smirk painting your face with mischief and Spencer is none the wiser.
Until he feels the feather-light kisses that you pepper along the underside of his jaw. His voice falters, quivering ever so slightly as he tries so hard to grasp at the last bits of his composure.
“You’re definitely ticklish…” you whisper, trailing your lips down his neck barely grazing the sensitive skin. He can’t help it, the giggle that bubbles up within his throat as you continue to kiss him.
The sound that escapes him is wonderful, something about it makes your chest ache with love and you can’t stop yourself from joining in. The pair of you giggling breathlessly as your lips map out the ticklish areas of his skin.
“Alright… okay… you win!” He breathes, succumbing to you as he abandons the book that was in his hands and gives in to you with a loving expression.
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raaah ticklish Spencer Reid… raaah
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid fic#spencer reid blurb#spencer reid oneshot#dr spencer reid#spencer reid cm#cm spencer reid#criminal minds fic#criminal minds drabble#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds oneshot#criminal minds self insert#criminal minds spencer reid#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds x y/n#criminal minds x you#criminal minds fluff#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds blurb
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you were crying, admittedly over something silly, but spencer didn’t care that it was silly. he had his arms wrapped tightly around you in a hug while your head was buried in his chest, your arms tucked inside the safe cocoon he had wrapped you in. when he felt your sobs subside he loosened his hold on you, pulled back slightly, and put one of his hands underneath your chin to tilt your face up towards him. you reluctantly obliged and allowed him to get a look at you, but you kept your gaze down, embarrassed. when you finally lifted your eyes to meet his you were met with the softest expression, his concern for you apparent in his big, brown eyes. “you’re okay,” he said softly. he used his thumb to wipe away the leftover tears on your face and then moved his other hand to your face so that he was holding your head gently on both sides. he leaned down towards you and as your eyes fluttered shut he gave a soft kiss to each of your eyelids and then the tip of your nose before pulling back. you couldn’t help but smile and when you opened your eyes, he was looking down at you with a smile that matched yours.
#spencer reid#criminal minds#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fic#criminal minds fic#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds fanfiction#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x self insert#drabble
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