Ilovethemoonmate - Allie - Tumblr Blog

Soap would hold up your pregnant belly.

You're pretty far along, and the extra weight is putting a strain on your back. It aches something fierce when you have to be on your feet for awhile. Today you're stuck in a long line at the bank.

Of course, Johnny notices the way you're rubbing at the small of your back, so is quick to help relieve the strain. Stepping behind you, he pulls you against his chest, then wraps his arms around you, big hands cupping the underside of your belly to gently lift it up. You instantly relax into his embrace, sighing in relief.

"Feel better now, bon?"

"Yeah, so much better."

He kisses your temple. "I'll give ye a good back rub when we get home."

You smile. "That sounds good."

"Aye, especially if yer naked."

"Johnny!"

Ghost who, under “orders” from his army therapist (and with Price’s encouragement), starts looking around for hobbies when he’s on leave.

Not sure what to do at first. Tries gaming but gets bored of it and the PS4 stays gathering dust in his flat. Plants don’t appeal to him because he won’t be around enough to take care of them. Thinks about knitting, but is a bit too embarrassed to walk into the local craft shop to start making doilies.

Finally goes to the library after seeing a flyer advertising a painting class and thinks, “Hell, why not.”

Shows up in his hoodie, black face mask, and black baseball cap. Gives most of the old ladies attending the painting session a good scare

Until he rolls up his sleeves to avoid getting paint on his good hoodie. Then those old ladies are ogling his forearms and the tattoos painting his skin.

Is very attentive to the hired artist leading the session. Hasn’t got an artistic bone in his body, but dammit, he’s going to report back to his therapist that he tried if it’s the last thing he does.

Two little old ladies, Mrs. Levine and Ruby, pluck up the courage to sit beside him and start chatting him up. Compliments his painting, talk about their grandkids, how one of Ruby’s grandsons is into heavy metal (assuming Ghost is as well). Ghost listens half-heartedly, just trying to get the brown right for the deer he’s putting on paper. They manage to weasel out his name:

“Simon,” he announces gruffly.

“Oh, what a good name,” Mrs. Levine says.

He goes to the next activity as well: polymer clay creations. His hands are big and meaty and he has to take more clay than is probably reasonable to make the little pig he’s got going.

Mrs. Levine and Ruby are there too and sit right next to him to chat with him again. They love his idea of a pig and make a cow and sheep to go with it. When the hired artist comes around to see how everyone’s doing, Mrs. Levine announces that the three of them “have a little farm going” and that “Simon’s the farmhand.”

He's glad he's got his face mask on. He can feel his ears going red at the look the artist gives him.

Again, he’s very attentive to the hired artist, watching her hands carve into the soft clay with her nails to get texture on her dinosaur. He tries to do the same, giving whispy little hairs to his pig. It’s not pretty, but he feels a smidge better about going when it’s all done.

Mrs. Levine and Ruby get more information out of him as time goes on and he attends more activities. Soon their friends join in on the conversation, and Ghost – Simon – is well-known at the library for being the military guy who attends every Saturday when he’s not deployed. The little old ladies love him, even if he “doesn’t say much.” He’s helped them carry their bags of books and crafts to their cars, listens to them prattle on about activities and their aches and pains, and even scared off some hooligans who were trying to disrupt their library activity.

(They’ve all got little old lady crushes on this big man who takes time out of his day to better himself, and they love his dry/dad jokey humor)

(And he won't admit it, but these are his little old ladies now. Clarice brought him brownies that he absolutely devoured when he got back to his flat they were so good, and he can't help but laugh at how often they try to set him up with their granddaughters. And how they "trip" often just to hang on to his big arms. Birds are birds, no matter their age.)

One of my favourite panels in the entire manga😂

What do you mean rulers of hell are kneeling before a sheep😂

what to expect | s.r.

in which you find yourself frustrated at the end of your pregnancy, and spencer talks you off a ledge

margotober

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (hurt/comfort) content warnings: pregnancy, lamaze classes, self-consciousness, boy dad spencer, spencer is perfect, birth talks, breastmilk mentioned, crying word count: 1.68k a/n: i'm writing all of these a/n's at the same time and i'm running out of interesting things to say to you. this was a request! i hope you enjoy!

“Now,” the instructor continued her presentation, “Our recommendation is the five-five-five rule.” The yardstick that she was using to emphasize the slides smacked against the projector screen, “That’s five days in bed, five days on the bed, and five days near the bed.”

Leaning back, you rested your back on Spencer’s chest and whispered, “If you try to keep me in bed for five days, we’ll have to start marriage counseling.”

Your husband hummed in response, “Why don’t we just see how you’re feeling after he’s here?”

Holding back a groan at his diplomatic answer, you turned your head back to the screen, anxiety already at an all-time high after watching video footage of a live birth. At a friend’s recommendation, you had signed yourself and Spencer up for Lamaze lessons, but you hadn’t anticipated how in-depth they would go.

It didn’t help that Spencer had been on a case when you were supposed to start, pushing back your start time. Now you were finishing your last lesson on the same day your OB had given you the ‘any day now’ speech. “Are you alright?” Spencer asked, noticing the way you didn’t respond to his suggestion.

Your head bobbed in confirmation, “Yeah, just tired.” The lights were dimmed in the classroom, between that and the warmth of Spencer behind you, you were ready to fall asleep.

Your sweet husband was beginning to toe the line of being overbearing, “Do you want me to take the rest of the day off?”

“No,” you answered. He had taken an extended lunch to be able to go to this lesson with you, there was only a week until his paternity leave officially started, and it wasn’t necessary for him to stay with you for the rest of the day.

Besides, having him around all day was only going to make your prenatal anxiety worse.

He was already the perfect father, his eidetic memory contributing to all of the facts that he listed about newborns and birth. He knew more about the changes happening to your body, and the worst part was that everyone knew it.

Cringing as the lights went up, you leaned back on your hands as Spencer stood up, packing up your bag before crouching down to help you up. Looking around the room, you watched all of the other couples in your class smiling and laughing with each other, the moms moving around the room with an ease that you no longer possessed.

You took a deep breath, placing one hand on your side in an attempt to brace yourself, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Spencer asked again, watching you zone out in the middle of the Lamaze studio.

“Mhmm,” you reassured him, “Braxton Hicks,” you added, trying to wave off some of his concern.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer gently placed a hand on the small of your back before the two of you started to make your way out of the room, stopping to grab the gift bag your instructor had put together for you. His hand dropped to hold yours before walking down the steps, leaving the two of you at the entrance to the parking garage, “Hey,” he nudged, trying to lift your spirits, “No more classes.”

Admittedly, the Lamaze lessons weren’t your favorite couple activity, and Spencer knew that the only reason you kept going was that they were non-refundable. “Right,” you agreed, knowing that now you’d have to face the next hurdle—actually giving birth.

“Okay,” Spencer said, gently herding you over to a park bench. He set the bags down on the seat before you sat down, leaving him squatting in front of you. “What’s wrong, honey? I know something’s wrong,” he insisted, knowing you well enough to be able to tell when you were burying your feelings.

You leaned back onto the bench, “I’m pregnant,” you shrugged as if that was answer enough.

Spencer frowned up at you, “Yes, this much I am aware of,” he confirmed, eyes flickering down to your bump before going back to your face.

“I just…” you struggled to find the right words, “I’m pregnant, and you’re doing all of this research into pregnancy and labor and birth, and I’ve done none of it. None of the research or the work and I’m— I feel useless!”

His expression softened at the sight of tears welling in your eyes, “You’re not useless. You’re so far from useless that it’s not even on the list of adjectives I would consider while describing you.” He rested his hands on you, one on top of your knee to maintain his balance and another on the side of the bump, skimming his thumb over the cotton of your t-shirt. “You’ve been growing our baby, and he’s beautiful and healthy and he’s going to love you regardless of how much research you’ve done about him.”

Huffing, you wipe at your teary eyes, “It’s so embarrassing though! Going to the BAU today and hearing everyone talk about how prepared you are, the stacks of books on your desk and on your nightstand and on the coffee table.” You paused to take a deep breath, “In those stupid classes where you knew so many of the answers that the instructor stopped calling on you to give everyone else a chance.”

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmured, “I like being prepared. Especially for big changes like this.”

You nodded, resting your hand on top of his, “And I love that about you, but I have never felt so unprepared for anything in my life,” you confessed, struggling to catch your breath.

It wasn’t like Spencer didn’t understand your frustrations, he just wished you had voiced some of these concerns sooner, “You don’t need to prepare like I do, though. Your maternal instinct? It’s inherent. It’ll immutably move you to sense and take care of the baby, okay? With dads it’s different. I don’t have any sort of physical connection with him like you do, I won’t develop a similar instinct until I actually spend time with him. So, technically, you’re ahead of me,” he explained, using all of his research to soothe you out of your panic.

“I just want him to love me as I love him,” you pouted, looking down at the bump, “but I ache all over, Spence. My boobs hurt. They’re not even tender anymore, they just hurt,” you complained.

Spencer chuckled lightly at your breast comment, “He will love you as you love him; I guarantee it. Your boobs hurt because they’re producing colostrum, and we can call your doctor later to see if it’s alright to pump. That’ll help relieve the pressure.”

Some of the tension in your body released, and you sniffled timidly, “I think those classes are designed to freak people out of ever having another baby. Oh my god,” your eyes go wide as you recall the live birth video, “You can’t watch.”

“Watch what, honey?” Spencer asked.

You looked at him with abject horror in your eyes, “The baby. You can’t watch me give birth. Is that why the dads always used to wait in another room? Should I be having you wait in another room while I’m in labor?”

He shook his head, “I’d like to be in the room with you, but if you’d be more comfortable having me somewhere else, then we can figure that out. However, we just went through twelve hours of birthing classes together, so if you’d rather I just refrain from actually watching you push the baby out, then I will promise to abide by your rules.”

Horror stories that you had heard from other moms about how their husbands wouldn’t touch them after birth filled your mind, and that type of rejection horrified you. With wide eyes, you looked at your husband and whispered, “I can’t do this.”

Spencer watched helplessly as tears filled your eyes once again, “Can’t do what?”

“Have a baby,” you answered, your voice tight with emotion, “What was I thinking? I never should’ve done this, oh no.” You continued muttering to yourself, sending your head into a tailspin as Spencer desperately tried to get you to come back down to earth.

“Hey,” Spencer crooned, “Y/N, hey,” he tried to get you to snap out of it. “Hey, we made this decision together, remember? Why didn’t you tell me you hated being pregnant?”

Your eyes snapped to his, “I don’t hate being pregnant. I’m just over it!”

Pushing your bags off to the side, Spencer sat down next to you on the bench, “You want him here, huh?”

Nodding melodramatically, you cover your eyes with your hands, “I just wish he could be in my arms instead of in my belly, and now that I’ve been told he could come any day it’s so much worse.”

“Thirty-seven weeks is any day now territory,” Spencer acknowledged, “but not today, I’m afraid.”

Dragging your hands down your face as you met his eyes, knowing that today was, in fact, not the day. “I miss hugs,” you told him mournfully, wiping at the fresh tears in your eyes.

Spencer casually put his arm around your shoulders, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your temple, “I hug you all the time,” he reminded you.

“It’s not the same with the bump,” you admitted, there was always an awkward lean involved, and you could never get close enough to him.

He raised his eyebrows at you curiously, “So, if I promise to give you a hug after the baby’s born, will you stop crying?”

Leaning your head back and using his arm as a headrest, your head bobbed slightly, “Yeah, I think that could fix me.”

“Honey,” he started, “I promise to give you the coziest, most rejuvenating hug of your entire life after the baby comes. I will hug you like you’ve never been hugged before.”

Turning to face him, a timid smile grew on your face, “Well, now you’re kind of laying it on thick, don’t you think?”

He sighed desperately, “I just really want you to stop crying.”

Useless

W.c.: around 500

Cw: reader's dad is a bitch, repercussions of verbal domestic abuse, redear is insecure, Spencer is a sweetheart (not betaread) (she/her reader!)

Masterlist

"He said- what to you?" Spencer's voice comes out too strong for your liking. You flinch, barely, but the expression on his face tells you it was enough for him to notice. You shrug, trying seem casual as you prepare yourself to bare your soul. Truth be told, you don't feel ready. Your fingers twitch and bend in your lap, you gently press fingertips in between fingertips, one at the time.

You don't really want Spencer to see... to know, that not even your father believed you worthy of all the love you're now receiving.

It's not like you did much improving from when it happened. 

You've matured, learned to do most of the things you put your mind to, but, at your core, you're still you.

And the you that at 15 years old was found faulty, has yet to be fixed. You look away from Spencer. His gaze is heavy on your face, you can feel your cheeks getting warmer. "It doesn't really matter, Spence."

You're met with silence. Part of you wishes he'd press for answers, so you could label him as pushy and flee the conversation, but you know he's too smart for that.

So he waits, and you wait.

You get more fidgety as the silence stretches in between you and fills up the room, suffocating you in the process. You've never done well in the silence under direct surveilance.

The 15 y/o inside you wants to run away and never look back, but she can't. She's been thaught to stay meek under any circumstances, and to answer questions only when directed to her. So you sit, as still as you can.

You force your eyes upwards, to look at Spencer. You open your lips to speak, but your mouth is dry and your voice comes out weaker than intended.

"Just that no one wanted to be my friend because i wasnt useful." Bitter. The words leave a bitter aftertaste on your tongue. Taste Like bile.

Spencer frowns. A proper frown, with his pretty pink lips pursed and his eyebrows forming to angry question marks.

His voice vomes out fragmented. "What?"

You make yourself smaller, wishing for the world to stop spinning and for Spencer to stop caring so much for a minute. The words feel carved out on your forehead and you find yourself thinking about how now he'll never be able to look at you without knowing you aren't worth it. You aren't worth all the trouble, all the trials and tribulations that come with dating you.

Like a bad investment, you'll drag the life out of him, and make him regret that one, bad decision that damned him forever.

His hands are on your face before you can even realise what he's doing. He cups your cheeks, gently, tenderly. Your eyes shoot up to his face, to find his own eyes teary and glassy. His pretty pink lips are curled into a pout.

You're confused. He should be running away and blocking your number, he shouldn't be looking at you so heartbroken.

Before you can speak, his lips are pressed all over your face, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. "Oh angel, my sweet angel."

He kisses your lips, softly, gently, tenderly. It's as if you're delicate porcelain under his touch. "He's an absolute moron if he cant see how wonderful you are, angel."

Imagine 141 moving into a quaint little town post retirement and you’re the only baker in town. You love making sweets, breads, and desserts and own a cute bakery to show for it, know everyone in your town so these four new men who come early morning to try your breakfast deal immediately excite you because- new perspectives and tastes and opinions! It’s become a habit of yours to share bites of whatever new item you plan on adding to the menu, so the more diverse opinions the merrier in your opinion.

And you are glad you didn’t let their demeanor- big gruff men, especially the one with the black surgical mask- scare you away because they are sooo nice, calling you sweetheart, doll, birdie, and bonnie. So many nicknames, it has you blushing the sweetest pink shade. And they are all too happy to help taste-test for you, giving you lots of praise.

(Though you never quite notice their immense disappointment at seeing the little ring on your finger.)

Still, at the very least one of them comes over to your bakery once a day. Sometimes they come together, sometimes only two of them- but they come anyways and tip you every time despite you insisting otherwise. It’s a lovely friendship you build with them. But they do note you never mention your partner much.

Until Simon drops by one day, intent on buying one of your apple pies and maybe fluster you enough to turn the same shade as an apple, and he sees the bruises that peek out just so from your sleeves and the collar of your outfit. Puffy eyes, more makeup than usual, your smile not quite there…

And he understands. He knows this all-too-well. And the fact that it’s happening to an embodiment of sunshine like you? Unfair. Unbelievable. Unacceptable.

Simon gently takes your hands, squeezing them so lightly. “Everything’ll be well, luvie. Promise.” And that’s all he says.

And maybe it’s cruel of you to be happy when you receive a call a few days later, the sherrif of the town telling you your husband was found mauled to death by one of the bears that roam around the woods occasionally, but you just… don’t care.

A week later, when it seems appropriate enough, you open up the bakery again and your smile is blinding as you greet the 141 men and tell them for today, everything’s for free.

Question for the next part

The ceiling fan hums, a noise usually soothing now making your skin crawl as you toss and turn again.

Eddie’s gentle snores echo from beside you, making you wish to join him.

Yearning for sleep to turn off the thoughts flooding your head for the last hour now.

Tilting your head to the side, your eyes strain looking at Eddie. If it wasn’t so dark, you’d see the way his nose scrunches and eyes twitch with the dreams he’s conjured up tonight, a bit of drool making its way to his chin, the way his hand curls up next to his face, fingers lightly grasping strands of his hair.

You huff as you look up at the ceiling again, trying to focus on the ceiling fan going round and round.

It feels like no use as you turn onto your side again, facing away from Eddie, fingers curling under your pillow, pushing your face harder into the soft fabric.

Taking some more deep breaths, thinking maybe it’s time to crawl out of bed and try laying on the couch, maybe a change of scenery will help, the bed shakes and the sheets rustle with movement next to you.

Eddie’s arm curls around your waist under the heavy covers, pulling you into his chest as he glued himself to your back.

He hums with the press of a kiss to the back of your head, nuzzling his nose against your neck.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers together, pulling it against your chest before melting further into your pillow.

“Can’t sleep.”

It’s silent for a beat save for the sound of the ceiling fan as he continues to lazily rub his nose against the back of your neck like a cat putting its scent everywhere.

“Did I tell you what happened to the new guy at the shop today?”

Your brows twitch with confusion before you realize what he’s doing.

“You did not,” you whisper with a smile on your face and eyes closed, lightly squeezing his hand in yours.

For the next twenty minutes, Eddie regales what in fact happened to the new guy at the record shop that day, helping ease your nerves as you listened to the sound of his voice.

Party Planners | E.M.

You and Eddie discuss your ideas for bachelor and bachelorette parties, and your limits — eddie x fem!reader fluff with a hint of angst

warnings: a little angsty, worries about boundaries, mentions of sex work (not in detail at all)

words: 0.9k

“Okay, I’ll see you soon, Nance. I’m so excited! Bye!” Were your last words before hanging up the phone and walking out of the room with a giant smile across your face. 

You walked downstairs and found your fiancé on the couch watching cartoons and eating a bowl of cereal. He turned around after hearing the sound of your footsteps and immediately noticed your grin. 

“What’s got you all smiley?” He asked, already knowing most of it since the walls of the trailer were extremely thin, but wanting to hear you talk about it anyways. 

“I was on the phone with Nancy.” You sat down with Eddie, still smiling. “We were planning for the bachelorette party.”

He scooped up a spoonful of cereal and nodded. “Ah, so that’s what all the giggling was about.”

“It’s exciting stuff, Eds. You know too ‘cause you have your party coming up too.”

“I do, but it doesn’t sound as cutesy and fun as your party. What do you ladies have planned, exactly?”

You were reluctant to tell Eddie all of your plans. You weren’t hiding anything. In fact, it was a relatively calm plan as far as bachelorette parties go. Honestly, you just weren’t all too familiar with the concept of bachelorette parties and you weren’t sure how customary it was for the couple to tell each other in advance. 

Maybe it was like the way the groom isn’t allowed to see the bride’s dress before the wedding. But ultimately you decided that you would risk any potential bad luck for Eddie. 

You cuddled up against him, and Eddie put his bowl on the coffee table so he would wrap his arms around you. 

“We’re gonna go to Nancy’s place, she’s gonna make lunch and we’re gonna pregame a little while watching some John Hughes movies. Then we’re gonna go bar hopping until we get tired or one of us throws up.”

“Sounds fun.” Eddie shrugged. “Not as fun as my party with the guys, though.”

He was clearly leading you to ask more questions, so you followed along and did what he wanted. 

“And what are you boys planning?”

“I can’t tell you that! It’s bad luck.”

You rolled your eyes, yet he couldn’t even see them since your head was resting on his chest. “I told you! We already have bad luck if that’s true.”

“Well, I still can’t tell you. But it’ll be wild. You’ll hear about it when I come back home hungover and still on a high the next day.”

Eddie didn’t answer any further, just turned his gaze back to the screen across the room, watching the children’s cartoons he was playing because it was the best thing on when he sat down.

You told Eddie your plans, so why wasn’t he telling you his? Neither of you were leaving the city for the parties because of your budget, so you wondered what he could have planned. 

Your mind started going to dark places, imagining your fiancé going absolutely crazy during his bachelor party, and you didn’t like the mental image you had just conjured. 

“Eddie?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

He hummed in response and loosened his arms so you could turn yourself around in his lap and look at him in his mesmerising brown eyes. 

“I know we said we wouldn’t really have input on each other’s parties but can I make one request about yours?”

Eddie looked confused, but willing to listen and oblige nevertheless. “Yeah, what is it, baby?”

“No hookers.”

“What?” 

Eddie looked stunned, not expecting your answer. That detail only worried you more. Before you even started to elaborate, tears rimmed your eyes even though you were trying to be stern yet kind. 

“I know they’re kind of a bachelor party staple, but I’ve never liked the idea, and I don’t really want you doing anything with other women. Strippers, I think—”

Eddie cut you off as he could see you becoming closer and closer to crying with each word. 

“Sweetheart, I promise that wasn’t at all a part of the plan. I would never want that either.”

“Really?” You pouted. 

“Really. We were just going to get super wasted at The Hideout and then roleplay Lord of the Rings.”

A breath of relief escaped your lungs. It’s not that you didn’t trust Eddie, you were just worried that there was a difference in your visions for how you would commemorate the last bit of time before getting married. 

Eddie gently combed his fingers through your hair, pressing a few kisses on your forehead. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just teasing.” Eddie apologised softly. “Honestly, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. You’re the only woman I have eyes for.”

While Eddie was apologising, you took the time to gaze into his adorable button eyes—the eyes you hoped your children would have some day. For each second you watched him talk, you grew more appreciative of how sensitive and genuine he was being. 

“You’re so sweet.” You told him honestly. 

“You’re sweeter.” He replied just as sincerely. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

Hey my pookie!! Please do prompt 19 with Chandler Bing.. Dankie 😁🫶

19. Person B is insecure about their scars, person A makes them feel better about this.

Of course, random stranger- 👀

I’m not great at the advice…

You had been friends with Monica and Phoebe for ages. And by extension Rachel, Ross, Joey and Chandler.

It had been pouring with rain in New York and Chandler and I were soaked through. We ran into his apartment.

I saw chandlers gaze rather fixated on my chest, I glanced down at my white button up work shirt it was clung to my bare skin and rather see-through.

I flushed red and glanced around grabbed his blazer from the counter and put it on.

“Sorry-“ he said looking around. I shook my head with a small smile, brushing it off.

I looked out the window. “You mind if I camp out the storm?” I asked

“Yeah- yeah of course.” He nodded. He looked me up and down. He smiled a little

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. And I couldn’t help but smile. “It looks better on you.” He smiled nodding his head to the blazer. I blushed.

We talked a couple times but we were never as close as the other members in the group.

I was shivering from the wet clothes. “Do you wanna borrow something?” He asked tripping over his words a few times.

“I can just go get something of Monica’s-“ I say and he brushed it off. “She’s with Richard,” he said.

“I could-“ I started but he interrupted me. “It’s fine y/n really.” He said.

I smiled at him. “That would be nice.” I said and he went into his room closed the door and when he came back he had changed into pjs and handed me an old t-shirt and some blue plaid pajama pants.

“Thank you. Now I have my Halloween costume too.” I smirked, going into his room to change.

“Are you sure? I think there’s gonna be too many kids dressed up as awkward loser this year-“ he stopped his ramble when I walked out in his clothes. All a little big.

He stared “wow.” He let out.

“Not such a bad costume now is it?” I smirked.

“I should stop buying clothes, now that I’ve seen this they’ll look terrible on me forever.” He said.

My cheeks tinted pink. We were friends. He flirted with Monica and Rachel and phoebe too right?

“So what do you wanna do?” I asked

“We could-“ his eyes darted around the room.

Soon enough we were on the recliners facing each other. A little table in the middle. Trying to throw coins into the cup.

“Is this what you and Joey do all day?” I asked.

“Well n-“ he paused. “Yeah,”

I chuckled. I threw the last one in. I put my arms up and smiled. “I win!”

Chandler smiled at me. I sat back down. His face softened, and then turned into a frown.

I glanced around “what?”

He leaned forward and took my arm and pulled it towards himself. My face fell when I realised he was looking at my scars.

I pulled my arm away. I never wore t-shirts for this reason. With the rain and everything I just forgot. I wrapped my arms around my legs and looked away.

He was quiet for a long time. I sat there tears in my eyes.

“Hey-it’s okay.” He said softly.

“It’s not, it was a long time ago and I regret it. And god you were the last person I needed seeing this.” I wipe my face.

“What- what does that mean? I’m not gonna make some stupid joke about it-“ he said kneeling on the floor in front of me and turning my chin to look at him.

“That’s not it.” I said.

“Look y/n I know we’re not best buddies but I care about you and you can talk to me.” He put a hand on my cheek. “Why am I the last person-“

“Because I was stupid and thought you might actually like me- and now I’ve ruined it-“ I couldn’t help a tear rolling down my cheek.

Chandler froze. He used his thumb and wiped my cheek.

“I’m gonna go call a cab.” I say standing up and he scrambled to his feet.

“No y/n please don’t go! I’m sorry it’s just- you like me?” He asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked feeling insecure and pathetic.

“No no I don’t think you heard me you like me…” he smiled, poking at my sides. “You hear that I like you it’s no big deal but you, liking me.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “There it is!” He exclaimed. I rolled my eyes and it faded again.

I kept holding my arms trying to cover up now.

“You can talk to me about it when you’re ready, but just so you know…scars and everything you’re still like wayyy out of my league.” He exaggerated and I smiled.

“You really like me?” I asked softly.

“Really, really.” He squeezed his eyes shut. I smiled.

“Now can I kiss you? Because this whole soap opera, you in my clothes, and confessing your love, it has me a little antsy.” He spoke.

I nodded biting my bottom lip slightly. He leaned in and I pulled him the rest of the way by his shirt collar. Having to go on my toes. We kissed his hands in my hair and the small of my back.

We broke apart when the door opened and Joey stood there wide eyed. I flushed red. And he pointed at us.

“Joe! It’s Joey!” Chandler exclaimed

I stood frozen. Almost wanting to laugh. “Dude!” He exclaimed

I glanced at Chandler.

“It finally happened I’m so proud of you man!” Joey gave Chandler a hug.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You told him you liked me?” I asked.

“Oh you have no idea, I mean you’re nice, but the talking blah blah blah!” Joey exclaimed wide eyed.

I laughed. Chandler was now blushing.

He nudged Joey “right sorry.” He cleared his throat and went into his room giggling.

I leaned my head on chandler’s chest laughing. “You’ve got a crush.” I teased lightly.

“Oh shut up,” he put a finger on my lips. I smiled.

“Make me.” I smirked and quickly his lips were on mine and I laughed as he kissed me passionately.

Pretty bunny

PART 1 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Sub!Spencer x Playboy Bunny!Reader Spencer doesn’t know what to do when he recognizes you from his favorite adult magazine.

Content: (18+) 3k, boobjob, male oral, public space, and Spencer being insecure of his size but we love him just the way he is, right? a/n: "WE LOVE PRINCE CHARMING REID!" We say in unison while we hold hands and continue to chant over and over again

Issue number: 662. Date: June 2009. Centerfold, pages 36 through 42, draped in nothing but the iconic bunny ears.

Spencer shook his head. No. There was no way it could be you. There was no way the same Playboy bunny he had masturbated to was casually picking up a book in this quiet library. But there was something unmistakable about you. The familiar curve of your back, the subtle sway of your hips, the way your ass rounded perfectly as you reached further down the bottom shelf.

His pants tightened uncomfortably.

It really was you.

Dear god, what were the chances? Spencer had only come to this library on a whim. It was supposed to be a simple day—run a few errands on his free day, pick up groceries, maybe find a new book to keep himself occupied. But what he didn’t expect was to come face-to-face with the very woman he had spent far too many nights thinking about. The same woman whose body he knew too well, even if you didn’t know him at all.

He shifted nervously, trying to focus on anything else—the books, the shelves, the smell of old pages—but his eyes drifted back to you. His gaze lingered on the neckline of your blouse dipping low as you bent further, revealing the soft curve of your breasts.

His tongue swiped over his bottom lip.

“Can I help you?”

Spencer’s heart nearly stopped when he noticed you staring at him.

“No,” he rushed out, the word falling through his lips like autopilot. "I was, uh, looking for a book."

Your brow raised slightly. “I didn’t know I was part of the collection.”

He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, and he looked away, trying to think of a response that didn’t make him sound like an idiot.

“No, no, that’s not—of course you’re not… I—” He stopped, realizing he was only digging himself into a deeper hole. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You straightened up, and he took in a sharp breath when your hips shifted slightly, brushing against the shelf as you moved.

“I wouldn’t say uncomfortable. Curious, maybe.” You crossed your arms. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who goes around staring at women in libraries.”

“I don’t,” he blurted out, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended. The way your crossed arms subtly pushed up your breasts only made it harder for him not to gawk at your chest. His gaze briefly flickered downward before snapping back to your face.

“I don’t,” he repeated in a voice he hoped sounded more confident than he felt. “You look… familiar.”

“Familiar? Have we met before?”

Of course not. Well, to you at least. He, on the other hand, had seen you more times than he could count. In photos, in dreams, in moments he’d rather not admit. “I… might have seen you in passing.” It was the truth. Sort of. “I didn’t expect to see you in a library.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I guess I don’t seem like the reading type to you, do I?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I just didn’t expect to run into someone like you here.”

“Someone like me?”

"You know, someone who’s, uh, famous.”

He instantly winced when the words tumbled out, regretting how awkward and clumsy it sounded.​

“Ah,” you said with a knowing smile. “So you do recognize me.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes darting to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but directly at you. “I… yes, I do. And I’m sorry,” he added, his second apology in less than five minutes. “I didn’t mean to make this weird.”

Your smile deepened, clearly enjoying his discomfort, but not in a cruel way—more in the sense that you found his awkwardness oddly charming. “It’s fine, I’m actually used to it,” you told him, uncrossing your arms. “And I don’t mind being recognized by someone as cute as you.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly. “…cute?”

“Adorable,” you emphasized. “What’s your name?”

You called him cute. Cute.

What was his name again?

Oh. Right.

“Spencer.” He cleared his throat nervously. "I’m... Spencer."

“Spencer,” you repeated, and he could hear the way your voice softened, almost breathless, like you were savoring the sound of his name as it slipped from your lips. “It suits you.”

His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. “It does?”

“Mm-hmm. It has a nice ring to it.” Your eyes flickered down to his mouth for a split second before meeting his gaze again. "Strong, but gentle. You seem like the type of guy with those traits."

Spencer felt a wave of heat run through him. “I—I wouldn’t say that...”

“Well you are,” you continued, leaning in just slightly. “You seem gentle, but there’s more to you, isn’t there?”

“I… I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

"Oh, come on," you said with a teasing grin, your eyes flickering over his features as if trying to read the depths of his thoughts. "You've got that sweet, quiet thing going on. Like you're trying to be all polite and proper... but there's something else, isn't there?"

His eyes darted at the edge of the bookshelf. “No. I’m just… me.”

"Just you? Somehow, I don't believe that. I think there's a side to you that doesn't come out very often. Maybe you're not so innocent as you let on. Or maybe..." Your voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe you're not as gentle as you seem."

There was a flicker of panic in his eyes as he tried to laugh off your words, the sound coming out strained and awkward.

“I’m really not that…”

But you didn’t let him finish. You leaned in closer, just enough that he could feel the heat of your body, your breasts brushing lightly against his chest.

“Not that what?” you pressed. “Not that innocent, or not that gentle?”

His pulse pounded visibly at his throat. “I... don’t know what you mean,” he said, but you could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

“I think you do,” you replied softly, your fingers brushing just barely against his. You watched as he stiffened, his shoulders momentarily tensing as if the slightest touch sent a shock through his whole body. You smiled, leaning in just a fraction closer. “I like you.”

You felt his breath hit your face as he let out a strangled sound, almost a gasp, and the warmth of it urged you on. Your hand gently found its way to his arm, fingers tracing a path down to his wrist.

“And I think,” you continued, looking up at him with wide eyes. “You might like me too.”

Spencer couldn’t find the words to respond, he couldn’t even breathe properly. How could he when your sweet scent filled his senses? How could he when he had imagined what it might be like to touch you, to have you this close, and now it was real?

He took a deep, calming breath to steady himself, but his heart was pounding violently against his ribcage, and his mouth had gone completely dry. Your fingers trailed down his arm, lingering for a moment before slipping under his hand to guide it firmly to your waist.

He was sure he could combust right on the spot.

“Tell me something, Spencer,” you murmured. “Did you like my pictures? The ones in the magazine?”

He tenses under your touch. His pupils dilated even further, his grip tightening on your waist involuntarily.

“I—uh,” he breathed out, his voice almost breaking, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze. But you didn’t let him retreat. You shifted slightly, pressing your soft breasts more firmly against his chest. His gaze flickered back to your cleavage.

“Come on, I bet you did. I bet you… enjoyed them.” You let the implication linger. “Didn’t you?

His eyes fluttered close. Enjoyed felt too innocent for what he'd felt, what he'd done. He didn't just enjoy those photos—he devoured them. He touched himself, imagining you sprawled in front of him in that same pose. He fantasized about you, dreamt of your pretty face, the sultry look in your eyes, the way those cute bunny ears framed your hair but left everything else bare.

He grew even more painfully hard at the thought, and you could feel his his arousal pressed against your hip. A soft laugh escaped your lips.

"Spencer,” you cooed, his name rolling off your tongue effortlessly. "What ever are you thinking?"

He tried to shift away.

“I-I’m not—” he started, but every word he tried to speak died on his lips the moment your hand brushed against his stomach. He felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

“You’re not?” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles clenched under your touch, before drifting even lower. “Because it seems like you've got something on your mind. Or..."

Your fingers passed over his belt buckle, grazing the edge of his waistband.

“Somewhere..."

You hovered over his bulge.

“…else."

Without hesitation, you palmed his erection, feeling the full hardness straining against the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath. “W-What are you—”

You brought your lips to the shell of his ear, letting your breath tickle his skin. “I think you know what I'm doing."

Spencer's eyes glanced to the side, as if anyone might appear around the corner at any second, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when your hand was moving slowly along his length.

“We… we can’t,” he managed to choke out. “Someone could—could see us."

“Hmm? Should I stop then?” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Do you want me to stop, Spencer?”

The hesitation in his eyes was unmistakable, but so was the desperation. Brown orbs stared helplessly back at you. He couldn’t bring himself to say yes when every part of him screamed no. So he opted for silence, hoping that his lack of protest would tell you everything he couldn’t put into words.

You understood him clearly, so you pressed your hand more firmly on his bulge, fingers teasing the sensitive outline through his pants. The shape of him grew even more defined as you moved slowly, teasingly, with just enough pressure to make him gasp.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

His grip on your waist tightened.

“Y-yes,” he managed to breathe out, eyes half-closed as he gave himself over to the sensation.

"I bet I can make you feel even better.”

Without breaking eye contact, you began to sink slowly to your knees, hands sliding down his body. You let your fingers trace down his hips as you came face to face with the unmistakable outline of his arousal, your gaze still locked on his as a smirk danced on your lips.

An IQ of 187 was hardly enough to process what was happening now. Every neuron in his brain fired wildly, trying to make sense of the rush of sensations, the heat of your touch, the intensity in your eyes.

How was this even real?

You let your lips hover for a moment, teasing him with the anticipation before you pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his cock. He let out a muffled cry.

“Shh,” you whispered soothingly, your fingers working at the straps of his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle was faint as you loosened it, pulling it free with a soft hiss of leather. “We don’t want anyone to hear us, do we?”

Your fingers brushed against his waistband, eyes looking up at him all doe-eyed, wide and innocent, though everything about your touch was far from it.

He was going crazy. You looked so sexy, so pretty, yet so impossibly cute in that moment, like the very picture of temptation wrapped in innocence. His mind couldn’t help but flicker back to those pictures—the pictures—where you wore nothing but those bunny ears, your gaze so similar to the one you were giving him now.

He watched as you slowly peeled down the fabric, and found himself holding his breath. The cool air met his hot skin as his cock sprang free, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

Because Spencer knew he was different. He wasn’t like the other men you’d surely encountered, who knew their way around a woman like you, who were confident, who didn’t hesitate. And then there was the matter of size. He couldn’t help the thoughts rushing through his mind, wondering if you’d find him lacking, if he measured up to whatever experiences had shaped you into the woman that knelt before him now.

But a smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you wrapped your hand around his cock.

“You’re so…” You let out a small, appreciative laugh, your thumb brushing over his tip. “God, everything about you is cute, isn’t it?”

Spencer struggled to steady his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as your touch made it impossible to think clearly. You leaned closer, eyes still locked on his, and your tongue darted out to give a teasing kitten-lick along the base of his cock.

“Not too big,” you teased, dragging your tongue up the underside, tracing every ridge.

“Not too small…”

You let your tongue travel upward until you reached the tip, where you sucked gently, swirling your tongue around him in circles that had his legs shaking.

“You’ll fit perfectly.”

A pained groan fell through his lips. “Fit… where?”

You let go with a wet pop, his cock twitching as the cool air replaced the warmth of your mouth. Holding his gaze, you let your fingers move to your blouse, slowly undoing the buttons one by one. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you staring.”

Then in one sudden, fluid motion, you tugged your bra down, letting your breasts spill free. The movement made them bounce slightly, the soft curve of your flesh catching the light, and Spencer’s eyes went wide.

His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out, just a strangled groan as his cock twitched visibly. The sight of you was too much for him to bear. He couldn’t decide where to look, his gaze flickering between your breasts and your face, like he was afraid to miss a single second of this moment. He followed your movement with wide, hungry eyes as you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, guiding him to your chest.

“See?” you teased, pressing his length firmly between the soft, warm flesh of your breasts. “Perfect fit.”

His pupils dilated with full-blown lust as you started to move, slowly at first, letting him feel every inch of your warm, soft flesh sliding around his cock. You squeezed your breasts tighter together, the pressure creating a delicious friction that had him biting back a groan, his eyes glued to the way he disappeared and reappeared between your curves.

Up. Down. Up. Down. The head of his cock glistened as it emerged at the top again, only to slide back down into your cleavage, leaving a hot, wet trail along your skin.

“God… oh god,” Spencer choked out, his voice strained as his hips bucked slightly with each thrust. His eyes squeezed shut briefly, only to flutter back open as if afraid to miss a second of what was happening. His mind was a mess of disjointed thoughts, desperately trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before him. But all rationality was drowned out by the way you moved, the soft squeeze of your breasts around him, and the warm, slick glide of your sweat-kissed skin against his length.

He felt himself spiraling, the pleasure climbing higher, and all he could think was how good you looked, how perfect it felt, and how badly he wanted to paint his cum all over your face.

“Look at you all worked up.” You leaned forward slightly, letting the tip of his cock brush against your lips as it emerged, just the barest whisper of a touch. “You’re already so close, aren’t you?”

His fingers dug even deeper into the shelf, nails scraping against the wood. His voice was raw, almost desperate, as he let out a strained, “Please.”

With a satisfied smile, you lowered your head just enough to let your tongue flick out, circling around the head of his cock as it emerged from between your breasts, tasting the salty-sweet bead of arousal that had formed there. His hips slammed forward.

“Mm,” you hummed softly. “You wanna use me now, Spencer? Is that what you want?”

His grip on the shelf finally faltered, and you could hear the whimper in his throat, the way he bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound that would echo in the library. “Yes,” he gasped. “Please, I… I need to…”

“Go on,” you coaxed him, squeezing your breasts tighter around his length. “If you want it, take it. Use me.”

The moment those words left your lips, his hips jerked forward. The movement was sharp, desperate, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He fucked himself into the tight, slick warmth of your breasts. He stammered incoherently, half-formed words falling from his lips, barely audible over the sounds of his ragged breaths and muffled whimpers.

“Please, I—I can’t… I can’t—oh god…”

He finally snapped, his body trembling violently as the sensation ripped through him, the pressure too intense, too overwhelming. His hips bucked wildly, thrusting desperately into the warmth of your body, lost in the heat, in the wetness, in the need to let go completely—

And then, everything vanished in an instant.

He jolted awake, eyes snapping open, his chest heaving as he took in his surroundings. No longer surrounded by warmth, no longer on the brink of release. Just the quiet stillness of his bedroom, sweat beading on his forehead, heart pounding in his chest, sheets tangled around his body… and the magazine lay open beside him, your image staring back at him mockingly.

Bunny ears perched on your head, delicate breasts spilling over, legs spread wide apart.

It took a few seconds for Spencer to catch his breath. He glanced down at himself, his eyes trailing to his painfully hard arousal, noticing the wetness seeping through his boxers and sticking to his skin. The rush of disappointment and adrenaline twisted sharply in his chest as reality hit him.

It was just a dream.

An embarrassing, all-consuming, impossible dream.

Pretty bunny

PART 1 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Sub!Spencer x Playboy Bunny!Reader Spencer doesn’t know what to do when he recognizes you from his favorite adult magazine.

Content: (18+) 3k, boobjob, male oral, public space, and Spencer being insecure of his size but we love him just the way he is, right? a/n: "WE LOVE PRINCE CHARMING REID!" We say in unison while we hold hands and continue to chant over and over again

Issue number: 662. Date: June 2009. Centerfold, pages 36 through 42, draped in nothing but the iconic bunny ears.

Spencer shook his head. No. There was no way it could be you. There was no way the same Playboy bunny he had masturbated to was casually picking up a book in this quiet library. But there was something unmistakable about you. The familiar curve of your back, the subtle sway of your hips, the way your ass rounded perfectly as you reached further down the bottom shelf.

His pants tightened uncomfortably.

It really was you.

Dear god, what were the chances? Spencer had only come to this library on a whim. It was supposed to be a simple day—run a few errands on his free day, pick up groceries, maybe find a new book to keep himself occupied. But what he didn’t expect was to come face-to-face with the very woman he had spent far too many nights thinking about. The same woman whose body he knew too well, even if you didn’t know him at all.

He shifted nervously, trying to focus on anything else—the books, the shelves, the smell of old pages—but his eyes drifted back to you. His gaze lingered on the neckline of your blouse dipping low as you bent further, revealing the soft curve of your breasts.

His tongue swiped over his bottom lip.

“Can I help you?”

Spencer’s heart nearly stopped when he noticed you staring at him.

“No,” he rushed out, the word falling through his lips like autopilot. "I was, uh, looking for a book."

Your brow raised slightly. “I didn’t know I was part of the collection.”

He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, and he looked away, trying to think of a response that didn’t make him sound like an idiot.

“No, no, that’s not—of course you’re not… I—” He stopped, realizing he was only digging himself into a deeper hole. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You straightened up, and he took in a sharp breath when your hips shifted slightly, brushing against the shelf as you moved.

“I wouldn’t say uncomfortable. Curious, maybe.” You crossed your arms. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who goes around staring at women in libraries.”

“I don’t,” he blurted out, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended. The way your crossed arms subtly pushed up your breasts only made it harder for him not to gawk at your chest. His gaze briefly flickered downward before snapping back to your face.

“I don’t,” he repeated in a voice he hoped sounded more confident than he felt. “You look… familiar.”

“Familiar? Have we met before?”

Of course not. Well, to you at least. He, on the other hand, had seen you more times than he could count. In photos, in dreams, in moments he’d rather not admit. “I… might have seen you in passing.” It was the truth. Sort of. “I didn’t expect to see you in a library.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I guess I don’t seem like the reading type to you, do I?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I just didn’t expect to run into someone like you here.”

“Someone like me?”

"You know, someone who’s, uh, famous.”

He instantly winced when the words tumbled out, regretting how awkward and clumsy it sounded.​

“Ah,” you said with a knowing smile. “So you do recognize me.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes darting to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but directly at you. “I… yes, I do. And I’m sorry,” he added, his second apology in less than five minutes. “I didn’t mean to make this weird.”

Your smile deepened, clearly enjoying his discomfort, but not in a cruel way—more in the sense that you found his awkwardness oddly charming. “It’s fine, I’m actually used to it,” you told him, uncrossing your arms. “And I don’t mind being recognized by someone as cute as you.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly. “…cute?”

“Adorable,” you emphasized. “What’s your name?”

You called him cute. Cute.

What was his name again?

Oh. Right.

“Spencer.” He cleared his throat nervously. "I’m... Spencer."

“Spencer,” you repeated, and he could hear the way your voice softened, almost breathless, like you were savoring the sound of his name as it slipped from your lips. “It suits you.”

His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. “It does?”

“Mm-hmm. It has a nice ring to it.” Your eyes flickered down to his mouth for a split second before meeting his gaze again. "Strong, but gentle. You seem like the type of guy with those traits."

Spencer felt a wave of heat run through him. “I—I wouldn’t say that...”

“Well you are,” you continued, leaning in just slightly. “You seem gentle, but there’s more to you, isn’t there?”

“I… I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

"Oh, come on," you said with a teasing grin, your eyes flickering over his features as if trying to read the depths of his thoughts. "You've got that sweet, quiet thing going on. Like you're trying to be all polite and proper... but there's something else, isn't there?"

His eyes darted at the edge of the bookshelf. “No. I’m just… me.”

"Just you? Somehow, I don't believe that. I think there's a side to you that doesn't come out very often. Maybe you're not so innocent as you let on. Or maybe..." Your voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe you're not as gentle as you seem."

There was a flicker of panic in his eyes as he tried to laugh off your words, the sound coming out strained and awkward.

“I’m really not that…”

But you didn’t let him finish. You leaned in closer, just enough that he could feel the heat of your body, your breasts brushing lightly against his chest.

“Not that what?” you pressed. “Not that innocent, or not that gentle?”

His pulse pounded visibly at his throat. “I... don’t know what you mean,” he said, but you could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

“I think you do,” you replied softly, your fingers brushing just barely against his. You watched as he stiffened, his shoulders momentarily tensing as if the slightest touch sent a shock through his whole body. You smiled, leaning in just a fraction closer. “I like you.”

You felt his breath hit your face as he let out a strangled sound, almost a gasp, and the warmth of it urged you on. Your hand gently found its way to his arm, fingers tracing a path down to his wrist.

“And I think,” you continued, looking up at him with wide eyes. “You might like me too.”

Spencer couldn’t find the words to respond, he couldn’t even breathe properly. How could he when your sweet scent filled his senses? How could he when he had imagined what it might be like to touch you, to have you this close, and now it was real?

He took a deep, calming breath to steady himself, but his heart was pounding violently against his ribcage, and his mouth had gone completely dry. Your fingers trailed down his arm, lingering for a moment before slipping under his hand to guide it firmly to your waist.

He was sure he could combust right on the spot.

“Tell me something, Spencer,” you murmured. “Did you like my pictures? The ones in the magazine?”

He tenses under your touch. His pupils dilated even further, his grip tightening on your waist involuntarily.

“I—uh,” he breathed out, his voice almost breaking, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze. But you didn’t let him retreat. You shifted slightly, pressing your soft breasts more firmly against his chest. His gaze flickered back to your cleavage.

“Come on, I bet you did. I bet you… enjoyed them.” You let the implication linger. “Didn’t you?

His eyes fluttered close. Enjoyed felt too innocent for what he'd felt, what he'd done. He didn't just enjoy those photos—he devoured them. He touched himself, imagining you sprawled in front of him in that same pose. He fantasized about you, dreamt of your pretty face, the sultry look in your eyes, the way those cute bunny ears framed your hair but left everything else bare.

He grew even more painfully hard at the thought, and you could feel his his arousal pressed against your hip. A soft laugh escaped your lips.

"Spencer,” you cooed, his name rolling off your tongue effortlessly. "What ever are you thinking?"

He tried to shift away.

“I-I’m not—” he started, but every word he tried to speak died on his lips the moment your hand brushed against his stomach. He felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

“You’re not?” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles clenched under your touch, before drifting even lower. “Because it seems like you've got something on your mind. Or..."

Your fingers passed over his belt buckle, grazing the edge of his waistband.

“Somewhere..."

You hovered over his bulge.

“…else."

Without hesitation, you palmed his erection, feeling the full hardness straining against the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath. “W-What are you—”

You brought your lips to the shell of his ear, letting your breath tickle his skin. “I think you know what I'm doing."

Spencer's eyes glanced to the side, as if anyone might appear around the corner at any second, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when your hand was moving slowly along his length.

“We… we can’t,” he managed to choke out. “Someone could—could see us."

“Hmm? Should I stop then?” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Do you want me to stop, Spencer?”

The hesitation in his eyes was unmistakable, but so was the desperation. Brown orbs stared helplessly back at you. He couldn’t bring himself to say yes when every part of him screamed no. So he opted for silence, hoping that his lack of protest would tell you everything he couldn’t put into words.

You understood him clearly, so you pressed your hand more firmly on his bulge, fingers teasing the sensitive outline through his pants. The shape of him grew even more defined as you moved slowly, teasingly, with just enough pressure to make him gasp.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

His grip on your waist tightened.

“Y-yes,” he managed to breathe out, eyes half-closed as he gave himself over to the sensation.

"I bet I can make you feel even better.”

Without breaking eye contact, you began to sink slowly to your knees, hands sliding down his body. You let your fingers trace down his hips as you came face to face with the unmistakable outline of his arousal, your gaze still locked on his as a smirk danced on your lips.

An IQ of 187 was hardly enough to process what was happening now. Every neuron in his brain fired wildly, trying to make sense of the rush of sensations, the heat of your touch, the intensity in your eyes.

How was this even real?

You let your lips hover for a moment, teasing him with the anticipation before you pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his cock. He let out a muffled cry.

“Shh,” you whispered soothingly, your fingers working at the straps of his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle was faint as you loosened it, pulling it free with a soft hiss of leather. “We don’t want anyone to hear us, do we?”

Your fingers brushed against his waistband, eyes looking up at him all doe-eyed, wide and innocent, though everything about your touch was far from it.

He was going crazy. You looked so sexy, so pretty, yet so impossibly cute in that moment, like the very picture of temptation wrapped in innocence. His mind couldn’t help but flicker back to those pictures—the pictures—where you wore nothing but those bunny ears, your gaze so similar to the one you were giving him now.

He watched as you slowly peeled down the fabric, and found himself holding his breath. The cool air met his hot skin as his cock sprang free, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

Because Spencer knew he was different. He wasn’t like the other men you’d surely encountered, who knew their way around a woman like you, who were confident, who didn’t hesitate. And then there was the matter of size. He couldn’t help the thoughts rushing through his mind, wondering if you’d find him lacking, if he measured up to whatever experiences had shaped you into the woman that knelt before him now.

But a smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you wrapped your hand around his cock.

“You’re so…” You let out a small, appreciative laugh, your thumb brushing over his tip. “God, everything about you is cute, isn’t it?”

Spencer struggled to steady his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as your touch made it impossible to think clearly. You leaned closer, eyes still locked on his, and your tongue darted out to give a teasing kitten-lick along the base of his cock.

“Not too big,” you teased, dragging your tongue up the underside, tracing every ridge.

“Not too small…”

You let your tongue travel upward until you reached the tip, where you sucked gently, swirling your tongue around him in circles that had his legs shaking.

“You’ll fit perfectly.”

A pained groan fell through his lips. “Fit… where?”

You let go with a wet pop, his cock twitching as the cool air replaced the warmth of your mouth. Holding his gaze, you let your fingers move to your blouse, slowly undoing the buttons one by one. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you staring.”

Then in one sudden, fluid motion, you tugged your bra down, letting your breasts spill free. The movement made them bounce slightly, the soft curve of your flesh catching the light, and Spencer’s eyes went wide.

His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out, just a strangled groan as his cock twitched visibly. The sight of you was too much for him to bear. He couldn’t decide where to look, his gaze flickering between your breasts and your face, like he was afraid to miss a single second of this moment. He followed your movement with wide, hungry eyes as you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, guiding him to your chest.

“See?” you teased, pressing his length firmly between the soft, warm flesh of your breasts. “Perfect fit.”

His pupils dilated with full-blown lust as you started to move, slowly at first, letting him feel every inch of your warm, soft flesh sliding around his cock. You squeezed your breasts tighter together, the pressure creating a delicious friction that had him biting back a groan, his eyes glued to the way he disappeared and reappeared between your curves.

Up. Down. Up. Down. The head of his cock glistened as it emerged at the top again, only to slide back down into your cleavage, leaving a hot, wet trail along your skin.

“God… oh god,” Spencer choked out, his voice strained as his hips bucked slightly with each thrust. His eyes squeezed shut briefly, only to flutter back open as if afraid to miss a second of what was happening. His mind was a mess of disjointed thoughts, desperately trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before him. But all rationality was drowned out by the way you moved, the soft squeeze of your breasts around him, and the warm, slick glide of your sweat-kissed skin against his length.

He felt himself spiraling, the pleasure climbing higher, and all he could think was how good you looked, how perfect it felt, and how badly he wanted to paint his cum all over your face.

“Look at you all worked up.” You leaned forward slightly, letting the tip of his cock brush against your lips as it emerged, just the barest whisper of a touch. “You’re already so close, aren’t you?”

His fingers dug even deeper into the shelf, nails scraping against the wood. His voice was raw, almost desperate, as he let out a strained, “Please.”

With a satisfied smile, you lowered your head just enough to let your tongue flick out, circling around the head of his cock as it emerged from between your breasts, tasting the salty-sweet bead of arousal that had formed there. His hips slammed forward.

“Mm,” you hummed softly. “You wanna use me now, Spencer? Is that what you want?”

His grip on the shelf finally faltered, and you could hear the whimper in his throat, the way he bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound that would echo in the library. “Yes,” he gasped. “Please, I… I need to…”

“Go on,” you coaxed him, squeezing your breasts tighter around his length. “If you want it, take it. Use me.”

The moment those words left your lips, his hips jerked forward. The movement was sharp, desperate, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He fucked himself into the tight, slick warmth of your breasts. He stammered incoherently, half-formed words falling from his lips, barely audible over the sounds of his ragged breaths and muffled whimpers.

“Please, I—I can’t… I can’t—oh god…”

He finally snapped, his body trembling violently as the sensation ripped through him, the pressure too intense, too overwhelming. His hips bucked wildly, thrusting desperately into the warmth of your body, lost in the heat, in the wetness, in the need to let go completely—

And then, everything vanished in an instant.

He jolted awake, eyes snapping open, his chest heaving as he took in his surroundings. No longer surrounded by warmth, no longer on the brink of release. Just the quiet stillness of his bedroom, sweat beading on his forehead, heart pounding in his chest, sheets tangled around his body… and the magazine lay open beside him, your image staring back at him mockingly.

Bunny ears perched on your head, delicate breasts spilling over, legs spread wide apart.

It took a few seconds for Spencer to catch his breath. He glanced down at himself, his eyes trailing to his painfully hard arousal, noticing the wetness seeping through his boxers and sticking to his skin. The rush of disappointment and adrenaline twisted sharply in his chest as reality hit him.

It was just a dream.

An embarrassing, all-consuming, impossible dream.

he’s sooo silly :(

he’s sooo silly :(

Imagine going to the human world for a vaccine and coming back tired. Cause you know they put some amount of the sickness into the vaccine so your body can figure out how to defeat it. So, imagine that you tell the boys that, like so casually.

Satan: so what do they put in the vaccine

Mc: It's a minute amount of the actual sickness and......

Lucifer: Wait, they make you sick?!

Mc: What no, it doesn't-

Satan: So they are making you sick?!

Mc: What no?!

Asmo: how is that even allowed?!

Mc: oh my, it's FDA approved, I goes through lot of test for it be okay for the population to use!

Levi: WTH IS THE FDA?!

I can just imagine their disbelief, given their privileges as demons with almost absolute immunity, and Mc simply explaining that we have a vaccination card, that antibodies from some people are used to make them, that the first vaccine was made from a pustule from a cow…

Mc: Guys, guys please, it's a very common thing, vaccines have helped to eradicate diseases!

Belphie: I don't believe it, how is injecting you with a disease going to help eliminate it?!

Mc: Because your body learns and -

Mammon: Not if it kills you before!!!!

Mc: *watching them wearily*

Satan: I don't think that's a safe way to treat a human.

Mc: Not you Satan, not you too... the death rate has gone way down since they were invented!!!

Levi: I'm sure that FDA is planning something bad!!!

Lucifer: You are forbidden to go to the human world to treat yourself from now on, we can't leave the health of a fragile human in the hands of those crazy people.

Mc: But- *staring at them* you know what? I'm going to sleep, I'm too tired for this *leaves*

Asmo: What the hell is wrong with nowadays humans injecting themselves with diseases?!!

Beel: Maybe *worried* it's a sacrifice in exchange for that decrease in mortality that Mc said?

Satan: I'm quite confused, the last time I studied human medicine they used leeches….

Lucifer: Anyway Mc is banned from going to the human world *very serious* or consuming anything from the human world until further notice.

.

.

This really is funny, although Satan surely knows about these things, or maybe he stopped reading about that subject 1000 years ago and doesn't believe that medicine has advanced so much in that short period of time 🙄. Thanks for the suggestion, I had a lot of fun 🩷

.

.

Imagine going to the human world for a vaccine and coming back tired. Cause you know they put some amount of the sickness into the vaccine so your body can figure out how to defeat it. So, imagine that you tell the boys that, like so casually.

Satan: so what do they put in the vaccine

Mc: It's a minute amount of the actual sickness and......

Lucifer: Wait, they make you sick?!

Mc: What no, it doesn't-

Satan: So they are making you sick?!

Mc: What no?!

Asmo: how is that even allowed?!

Mc: oh my, it's FDA approved, I goes through lot of test for it be okay for the population to use!

Levi: WTH IS THE FDA?!

I can just imagine their disbelief, given their privileges as demons with almost absolute immunity, and Mc simply explaining that we have a vaccination card, that antibodies from some people are used to make them, that the first vaccine was made from a pustule from a cow…

Mc: Guys, guys please, it's a very common thing, vaccines have helped to eradicate diseases!

Belphie: I don't believe it, how is injecting you with a disease going to help eliminate it?!

Mc: Because your body learns and -

Mammon: Not if it kills you before!!!!

Mc: *watching them wearily*

Satan: I don't think that's a safe way to treat a human.

Mc: Not you Satan, not you too... the death rate has gone way down since they were invented!!!

Levi: I'm sure that FDA is planning something bad!!!

Lucifer: You are forbidden to go to the human world to treat yourself from now on, we can't leave the health of a fragile human in the hands of those crazy people.

Mc: But- *staring at them* you know what? I'm going to sleep, I'm too tired for this *leaves*

Asmo: What the hell is wrong with nowadays humans injecting themselves with diseases?!!

Beel: Maybe *worried* it's a sacrifice in exchange for that decrease in mortality that Mc said?

Satan: I'm quite confused, the last time I studied human medicine they used leeches….

Lucifer: Anyway Mc is banned from going to the human world *very serious* or consuming anything from the human world until further notice.

.

.

This really is funny, although Satan surely knows about these things, or maybe he stopped reading about that subject 1000 years ago and doesn't believe that medicine has advanced so much in that short period of time 🙄. Thanks for the suggestion, I had a lot of fun 🩷

.

.

close to home | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x reader

a/n: this has been rotting in my brain for days now i hope you enjoy the angsty comfort this brought me <3 my requests are open (guidelines in pinned!) or if you wanna just chat hop in my ask box :) gonna hopefully work on a smut fic in the next week so keep an eye out hehe

cw: angst, hurt/comfort, protective!spencer, afab!reader who uses she/her pronouns, non bau!reader, cm type violence, reader sustains injuries from unsub, vague description of injuries, maeve mentions, derek being a good friend, spencer being so in love with reader, this takes place probably a year after maeve, inconsistencies with tls and characters but who cares

wc: 2.4k

summary: the bau is working a local case when their unsub strikes again mid investigation, hotch tells reid and morgan to go check it out but spencer finds the address of the crime to be a little too familar

_______________________________________________

whenever the bau has a case based in the dc area, it’s always a little easier on the team. familiar stomping grounds, ease of resources, no major time difference, and everyone can sleep in their own beds. the hard part about home cases is knowing there’s a serial killer in the place they know deeply, with people they cared about deeply.

spencer and callahan are in the middle of the bullpen staring at the giant white board with all the evidence they have so far. the unsub has been killing women in their mid 20s in the local dc area, with the mo currently unknown. there had already been two victims, both killed in their homes. spencer was currently trying to analyze all the information the case had alongside with what garcia was able to provide, and he was still hitting a dead end. morgan had joined them at some point too, trying to offer what he could remember from the crime scenes but to no avail. he felt his eyes straining and dropping so he decided to get more coffee, but was stopped by hotch and garcia entering the bullpen.

“police just got a 911 call about a break in, but there’s a witness this time. she was home when it happened and it looks like he didn’t expect that and tried to knock her out before escaping. i think it sounds like our unsub. morgan and reid i need you to go check out the scene and interview the witness, see what she remembers.” hotch explained.

morgan and reid nodded as garcia spoke up, “i just sent the address to your phones, it’s a house on hillcrest so it's not that far from here.”

spencer froze. he had to have heard wrong, she did not say hillcrest, “did you say hillcrest?”

“yeah hillcrest drive. it’s like, a 15 minute drive it’s not that bad.”

he felt his heart drop to his feet, a sinking feeling building in his gut. that was the street you lived on. he tried to ground himself with logic, the probability of it being your house is only 10%, but he was dreading asking the fated question.

“garcia, what’s the house number?”

“reid, i already sent it to your pho-“

“garcia, what is the house number,” he spoke again. 

please don’t say 1159 please don’t say 1159 please don’t say-

“1159.”

fuck. the color drained from his face, and the nausea was building to a head quickly. spencer hurriedly tried to think through the last time he spoke to you, last night? this morning? he doesn’t check on you as much as he does when he’s not on a case, but oh my god why can’t he remember the last time he saw you.

“reid,” hotch bellows, finally breaking spencer out of his trance, “what is it? what do you know?”

he shook his head,  “nothing. morgan, let’s go.” he grabbed his jacket and booked it out the door.

morgan, garcia, and hotch all looked at each other in concern, before morgan spoke up, “i’ll see what’s up.” the latter two nodded softly, though the worry didn’t let up in their eyes.

morgan walked up to the car to find spencer repeatedly trying to call someone on the phone, clearly unable to get through and getting really frustrated.

spencer was alerted by morgan’s presence hearing the car unlock but he didn’t even look at him, just immediately got in the car and strapped his seat belt. morgan joined him in the drivers seat giving him a wary look before turning the car on and pulling out of the bureau.

“okay reid, spill it. it’s obvious you know who lives here.” morgan speaks up.

“just drive, please.”

“because if you know something, something that could help the case, it would be helpful if we knew.”

“morgan, just drive.” he borderline yells.

he raises his eyebrows at his raised voice, “listen kid, i’m just trying to help you. i can see you’re upset but we’re on the same side, you know that.”

spencer takes a shaky breath, feeling another shade of guilt at yelling at one of his friends, for something he didn’t even know about. he’d kept you a secret for many reasons— your relationship with him was still new, and he just wanted to keep you to himself for a bit. after what happened with maeve, he felt especially more responsible at keeping you safe and making sure you didn’t get tangled up in his line of work.

some job he did of that.

the one thing he regrets about how he handled the maeve situation, was not asking for help until it was almost too late. for not doing anything about her stalker when he was part of one of the most famous fbi teams built to find people like that. he’d always live with that guilt, but he vowed not to do that with you.

he loved you so much. you were so kind, and smart, and beautiful. a breath of fresh air after feeling lost in a dark tunnel for so long. you were so understanding when he explained what he did for a living, and what had happened to him and people he cared about as a result. he still remembers what you said to him when he told you that you could have an out, if you wanted.

“any risk is worth taking if getting to be with you is the consolation prize.”

tears welled up in eyes thinking about the memory. if you were willing to take any risk, then he should be able to as well.

he cleared his throat, and morgan’s ears perked up, “my uh, my girlfriend lives there. where the unsub, at- attacked.” he voiced softly.

morgan looked at him for a beat while driving, spencer missing the way his face dropped. he tightened his hands on the wheels, and didn’t hesitate to turn the lights and siren on and shift gears to speed up.

__

the car pulled onto your street and the first thing spencer sees is the flashing light of the ambulances. morgan doesn’t even put the car in park before spencer’s bolting out hoping he can find you quickly.

he’s asking all the paramedics he’s passing if they’ve seen you or know if you’re being treated, were you transferred to a hospital and he didn’t know, the tunnel vision slowly overtaking him until he hears a voice breaking through like sunlight call out his name.

he whips his head in the direction he heard it come from, and he’s never been more grateful to be met with the beautiful sight of you. you watch his eyes widen and let out a sigh before running over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance. he’s definitely not thinking when he goes in to hug you, not even knowing the extent of your injuries. he’s overtaken by the desperate need to hold you in his arms so he knows you’re safe and okay.

“hi,” you choke out muffled, “funny seeing you here.”

he pulls back to inspect your face, taking note of a small cut above your left eyebrow and the beginning splotches of a bruise forming on your lower jaw. his heart aches so much looking at you, knowing what happened to you and who did this to you.

“hi, honey,” he lets out tearfully, “are you okay? i mean, of course you’re not. but what did the paramedics say? did they give you anything? are you sure they checked all your injuries? you know what, let me go call the guy over. i’ll be literally two seconds.” his panicked ramble fading off as he rounds the truck you’re sat in to find the emt.

upon his extensive questioning of the man who treated you, he found out that you had sustained a minor concussion from when the unsub swung at you with an umbrella, superficial cuts caused by a broken vase you threw to defend yourself, and a dislocated shoulder from getting shoved into the wall.

you were okay, but at what cost.

the emt leaves you two and spencer sits himself next to you on the rig. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you as tight as he can and the other hand cradles your head into the crook of his neck, holding you so tight he’s hoping he can squeeze the bad memories out of you. it’s at this moment of feeling safe and sound in his arms when the adrenaline of your attack wears off.

spencer hears a small whimper and feels a few hot tears trickle down his neck, your breathing gets faster as you’re attempting to beat your body’s fear response. the slow build up of sobs starting to rack your chest, and he immediately holds you tighter.

“it’s over, baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. i promise.”

you sniffle, “i know, i just can’t believe this happened. to me, to us. it’s not fair to you.” trailing off the last two words.

“to me? wh- what do you mean?”

you take a deep breath, “i don’t mean to bring it up again, i just know how eerily similar this is to a past experience you’ve had. and i hoped that i wouldn’t be in a position to make you feel that way again. i don’t know why this happened, i'm sorry.”

he looked down at you incredulously. genuinely unable to believe that you were sitting next to him on an ambulance, beaten up with bruises and scars after a home invasion attack, worried about how he would feel when he got to you. it was enough to finally let the swell of tears saved up in his eyes fall.

“oh sweetheart,” he chokes out, realizing you’ve been trying to be brave for him this whole time, “what happened is not your fault, do you understand me? my job is to always worry about you and your safety. when garcia said the address i…i couldn’t even process it, i don’t even know how i got to the car,” he shook his head, “but i am the last person you need to push your emotions down for. i will always take them in stride and love you even more for that, okay?”

“okay,” you take a shaky breath, “i love you.”

“i love you.” he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

both of your heads look up at an approaching figure, who you quickly recognize to be ssa derek morgan. you knew spencer hadn’t told the team about you yet, so you tried to sit up independently as fast as you could before he came over and suspected something.

spencer’s grip didn’t let up when he bent down and whispered, “it’s okay, he knows.” you look up at him with wide eyes when derek finally reaches you.

“reid, i already talked to the detectives and we’re good to go when you’re ready,” he turns his body to you and gives you a comforting smile, “hi sweetheart, i’m derek morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”

spencer rolls his eyes at the nickname while you giggle softly, “hi derek, i’ve heard so much about you. it's nice to finally meet you too.”

“i wish it were under better circumstances,” he sighs, “listen, i know it’s all still really fresh for you, but it might help the case if you’re able to come in for a cognitive interview, or even talk to a sketch artist.”

spencer doesn’t miss a beat before protesting, “absolutely not. we can do it later, it’s fine.”

“reid-“

you look up at him placing your hand on his chest, “spence, it’s okay. i want to help, please.”

he rests his hand on top yours and gives it a light squeeze, “okay, but i’m not leaving you alone for a second.”

“i didn’t think you would.” you smile.

“alright lovebirds, you can have your private time later, we should go now.” derek teases.

spencer groans, “see this is why i didn’t say anything.”

“you think i’m bad? wait till penelope meets her.”

__

the three of you pile into the car before starting the drive to spencer’s apartment so he could get you a change of clothes and other things you might need. you end up falling asleep in the back seat, the final stage of your shock sinking in like a rock. spencer checks on you from the rear view mirror and sees you passed out, and smiles.

“she’s cute,” derek starts, “can i ask how long?”

“nine months.” he replies, fishing for something out of his pocket.

“pretty boy hid a girl from all of us for nine months? maybe we’re not as good profilers as we thought.”

“imagine that,” he laughs, and gestures to the item in his hand, “look.”

spencer’s holding out a well loved photo booth strip with three pictures, of you and spencer from the time you went to a local county fair. you’re sitting in his lap, mostly due to the cramped space and the expansive limbs. the first picture is the two of you holding up finger guns attempting to be as back to back as you can. the second picture, you intended it to be a normal one where you both smile at the camera, but spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you and the picture captured the love struck gaze he had on you. the last one you were about to tell him the idea for it, when he grabbed your face and pulled you closer to kiss you, neither of you knowing when the final picture snapped.

the edges were worn out and frayed, clearly broken down by the oils on his fingers from pulling it out frequently. it was his most treasured item, a constant reminder of what was always waiting for him when he got back from grueling cases, and how lucky he was to have you in his life.

“you look really happy, kid.” derek says, thinking about the many times he’s seen his friend at rock bottom, the things that have been so brutally taken from him, and the suffering he’s had at the hands of his job. his heart warms for his friend, who seemed to finally catch a break.

“i am.”

close to home | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x reader

a/n: this has been rotting in my brain for days now i hope you enjoy the angsty comfort this brought me <3 my requests are open (guidelines in pinned!) or if you wanna just chat hop in my ask box :) gonna hopefully work on a smut fic in the next week so keep an eye out hehe

cw: angst, hurt/comfort, protective!spencer, afab!reader who uses she/her pronouns, non bau!reader, cm type violence, reader sustains injuries from unsub, vague description of injuries, maeve mentions, derek being a good friend, spencer being so in love with reader, this takes place probably a year after maeve, inconsistencies with tls and characters but who cares

wc: 2.4k

summary: the bau is working a local case when their unsub strikes again mid investigation, hotch tells reid and morgan to go check it out but spencer finds the address of the crime to be a little too familar

_______________________________________________

whenever the bau has a case based in the dc area, it’s always a little easier on the team. familiar stomping grounds, ease of resources, no major time difference, and everyone can sleep in their own beds. the hard part about home cases is knowing there’s a serial killer in the place they know deeply, with people they cared about deeply.

spencer and callahan are in the middle of the bullpen staring at the giant white board with all the evidence they have so far. the unsub has been killing women in their mid 20s in the local dc area, with the mo currently unknown. there had already been two victims, both killed in their homes. spencer was currently trying to analyze all the information the case had alongside with what garcia was able to provide, and he was still hitting a dead end. morgan had joined them at some point too, trying to offer what he could remember from the crime scenes but to no avail. he felt his eyes straining and dropping so he decided to get more coffee, but was stopped by hotch and garcia entering the bullpen.

“police just got a 911 call about a break in, but there’s a witness this time. she was home when it happened and it looks like he didn’t expect that and tried to knock her out before escaping. i think it sounds like our unsub. morgan and reid i need you to go check out the scene and interview the witness, see what she remembers.” hotch explained.

morgan and reid nodded as garcia spoke up, “i just sent the address to your phones, it’s a house on hillcrest so it's not that far from here.”

spencer froze. he had to have heard wrong, she did not say hillcrest, “did you say hillcrest?”

“yeah hillcrest drive. it’s like, a 15 minute drive it’s not that bad.”

he felt his heart drop to his feet, a sinking feeling building in his gut. that was the street you lived on. he tried to ground himself with logic, the probability of it being your house is only 10%, but he was dreading asking the fated question.

“garcia, what’s the house number?”

“reid, i already sent it to your pho-“

“garcia, what is the house number,” he spoke again. 

please don’t say 1159 please don’t say 1159 please don’t say-

“1159.”

fuck. the color drained from his face, and the nausea was building to a head quickly. spencer hurriedly tried to think through the last time he spoke to you, last night? this morning? he doesn’t check on you as much as he does when he’s not on a case, but oh my god why can’t he remember the last time he saw you.

“reid,” hotch bellows, finally breaking spencer out of his trance, “what is it? what do you know?”

he shook his head,  “nothing. morgan, let’s go.” he grabbed his jacket and booked it out the door.

morgan, garcia, and hotch all looked at each other in concern, before morgan spoke up, “i’ll see what’s up.” the latter two nodded softly, though the worry didn’t let up in their eyes.

morgan walked up to the car to find spencer repeatedly trying to call someone on the phone, clearly unable to get through and getting really frustrated.

spencer was alerted by morgan’s presence hearing the car unlock but he didn’t even look at him, just immediately got in the car and strapped his seat belt. morgan joined him in the drivers seat giving him a wary look before turning the car on and pulling out of the bureau.

“okay reid, spill it. it’s obvious you know who lives here.” morgan speaks up.

“just drive, please.”

“because if you know something, something that could help the case, it would be helpful if we knew.”

“morgan, just drive.” he borderline yells.

he raises his eyebrows at his raised voice, “listen kid, i’m just trying to help you. i can see you’re upset but we’re on the same side, you know that.”

spencer takes a shaky breath, feeling another shade of guilt at yelling at one of his friends, for something he didn’t even know about. he’d kept you a secret for many reasons— your relationship with him was still new, and he just wanted to keep you to himself for a bit. after what happened with maeve, he felt especially more responsible at keeping you safe and making sure you didn’t get tangled up in his line of work.

some job he did of that.

the one thing he regrets about how he handled the maeve situation, was not asking for help until it was almost too late. for not doing anything about her stalker when he was part of one of the most famous fbi teams built to find people like that. he’d always live with that guilt, but he vowed not to do that with you.

he loved you so much. you were so kind, and smart, and beautiful. a breath of fresh air after feeling lost in a dark tunnel for so long. you were so understanding when he explained what he did for a living, and what had happened to him and people he cared about as a result. he still remembers what you said to him when he told you that you could have an out, if you wanted.

“any risk is worth taking if getting to be with you is the consolation prize.”

tears welled up in eyes thinking about the memory. if you were willing to take any risk, then he should be able to as well.

he cleared his throat, and morgan’s ears perked up, “my uh, my girlfriend lives there. where the unsub, at- attacked.” he voiced softly.

morgan looked at him for a beat while driving, spencer missing the way his face dropped. he tightened his hands on the wheels, and didn’t hesitate to turn the lights and siren on and shift gears to speed up.

__

the car pulled onto your street and the first thing spencer sees is the flashing light of the ambulances. morgan doesn’t even put the car in park before spencer’s bolting out hoping he can find you quickly.

he’s asking all the paramedics he’s passing if they’ve seen you or know if you’re being treated, were you transferred to a hospital and he didn’t know, the tunnel vision slowly overtaking him until he hears a voice breaking through like sunlight call out his name.

he whips his head in the direction he heard it come from, and he’s never been more grateful to be met with the beautiful sight of you. you watch his eyes widen and let out a sigh before running over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance. he’s definitely not thinking when he goes in to hug you, not even knowing the extent of your injuries. he’s overtaken by the desperate need to hold you in his arms so he knows you’re safe and okay.

“hi,” you choke out muffled, “funny seeing you here.”

he pulls back to inspect your face, taking note of a small cut above your left eyebrow and the beginning splotches of a bruise forming on your lower jaw. his heart aches so much looking at you, knowing what happened to you and who did this to you.

“hi, honey,” he lets out tearfully, “are you okay? i mean, of course you’re not. but what did the paramedics say? did they give you anything? are you sure they checked all your injuries? you know what, let me go call the guy over. i’ll be literally two seconds.” his panicked ramble fading off as he rounds the truck you’re sat in to find the emt.

upon his extensive questioning of the man who treated you, he found out that you had sustained a minor concussion from when the unsub swung at you with an umbrella, superficial cuts caused by a broken vase you threw to defend yourself, and a dislocated shoulder from getting shoved into the wall.

you were okay, but at what cost.

the emt leaves you two and spencer sits himself next to you on the rig. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you as tight as he can and the other hand cradles your head into the crook of his neck, holding you so tight he’s hoping he can squeeze the bad memories out of you. it’s at this moment of feeling safe and sound in his arms when the adrenaline of your attack wears off.

spencer hears a small whimper and feels a few hot tears trickle down his neck, your breathing gets faster as you’re attempting to beat your body’s fear response. the slow build up of sobs starting to rack your chest, and he immediately holds you tighter.

“it’s over, baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. i promise.”

you sniffle, “i know, i just can’t believe this happened. to me, to us. it’s not fair to you.” trailing off the last two words.

“to me? wh- what do you mean?”

you take a deep breath, “i don’t mean to bring it up again, i just know how eerily similar this is to a past experience you’ve had. and i hoped that i wouldn’t be in a position to make you feel that way again. i don’t know why this happened, i'm sorry.”

he looked down at you incredulously. genuinely unable to believe that you were sitting next to him on an ambulance, beaten up with bruises and scars after a home invasion attack, worried about how he would feel when he got to you. it was enough to finally let the swell of tears saved up in his eyes fall.

“oh sweetheart,” he chokes out, realizing you’ve been trying to be brave for him this whole time, “what happened is not your fault, do you understand me? my job is to always worry about you and your safety. when garcia said the address i…i couldn’t even process it, i don’t even know how i got to the car,” he shook his head, “but i am the last person you need to push your emotions down for. i will always take them in stride and love you even more for that, okay?”

“okay,” you take a shaky breath, “i love you.”

“i love you.” he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

both of your heads look up at an approaching figure, who you quickly recognize to be ssa derek morgan. you knew spencer hadn’t told the team about you yet, so you tried to sit up independently as fast as you could before he came over and suspected something.

spencer’s grip didn’t let up when he bent down and whispered, “it’s okay, he knows.” you look up at him with wide eyes when derek finally reaches you.

“reid, i already talked to the detectives and we’re good to go when you’re ready,” he turns his body to you and gives you a comforting smile, “hi sweetheart, i’m derek morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”

spencer rolls his eyes at the nickname while you giggle softly, “hi derek, i’ve heard so much about you. it's nice to finally meet you too.”

“i wish it were under better circumstances,” he sighs, “listen, i know it’s all still really fresh for you, but it might help the case if you’re able to come in for a cognitive interview, or even talk to a sketch artist.”

spencer doesn’t miss a beat before protesting, “absolutely not. we can do it later, it’s fine.”

“reid-“

you look up at him placing your hand on his chest, “spence, it’s okay. i want to help, please.”

he rests his hand on top yours and gives it a light squeeze, “okay, but i’m not leaving you alone for a second.”

“i didn’t think you would.” you smile.

“alright lovebirds, you can have your private time later, we should go now.” derek teases.

spencer groans, “see this is why i didn’t say anything.”

“you think i’m bad? wait till penelope meets her.”

__

the three of you pile into the car before starting the drive to spencer’s apartment so he could get you a change of clothes and other things you might need. you end up falling asleep in the back seat, the final stage of your shock sinking in like a rock. spencer checks on you from the rear view mirror and sees you passed out, and smiles.

“she’s cute,” derek starts, “can i ask how long?”

“nine months.” he replies, fishing for something out of his pocket.

“pretty boy hid a girl from all of us for nine months? maybe we’re not as good profilers as we thought.”

“imagine that,” he laughs, and gestures to the item in his hand, “look.”

spencer’s holding out a well loved photo booth strip with three pictures, of you and spencer from the time you went to a local county fair. you’re sitting in his lap, mostly due to the cramped space and the expansive limbs. the first picture is the two of you holding up finger guns attempting to be as back to back as you can. the second picture, you intended it to be a normal one where you both smile at the camera, but spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you and the picture captured the love struck gaze he had on you. the last one you were about to tell him the idea for it, when he grabbed your face and pulled you closer to kiss you, neither of you knowing when the final picture snapped.

the edges were worn out and frayed, clearly broken down by the oils on his fingers from pulling it out frequently. it was his most treasured item, a constant reminder of what was always waiting for him when he got back from grueling cases, and how lucky he was to have you in his life.

“you look really happy, kid.” derek says, thinking about the many times he’s seen his friend at rock bottom, the things that have been so brutally taken from him, and the suffering he’s had at the hands of his job. his heart warms for his friend, who seemed to finally catch a break.

“i am.”

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

the goodness, love, i still carry for you ; 101

Spencer Reid x Non-BAU Reader

TLDR: Spencer contemplates the future of your relationship after the death of Haley Hotchner - 5.5k - angst, comfort

Warnings: long established relationship (start season 2+), almost break up (it doesn't happen, i can't do sad endings), spoilers for S5E9, talk of death and grief, religious imagery probably, some swearing, me going off on one about italy and the universe's inherent desire to breed because this is my fanfiction and IM in charge, existential crisis but reader's vibing, spencer is in hospital (not narcotic related) because of injury that is in like the whole of season 5, the tiniest tiniest tiniest mention of spencer not taking painkillers, maybe a tiny tiny reference to reader liking spencer's fingers in her mouth and being submissive i'm sorry arrest me

Notes: Second Person, no y/n. Fem reader. Specifically set following the immediate events of episode 100.

One thousand one hundred and sixty-two days ago, you had crossed through a public park on your way to work in a vain attempt to avoid the blistering sun burning down on Virginia. You sought the trees for relief. That, and you could watch dogs sniff around flowerbeds and skip happily on cool grass, chasing bright tennis balls and using their brilliant senses to embrace the last of the summer far better than humans can.

Your clothes were too thick for the season but you’re not good at adjusting – at handling change – and so, the sun did not take you by surprise, but rather held you entirely accountable for your attire. The gravel crunched under your dawdling feet and the trees stood tall and protective around the park, some rounded by children in giggling games of hide and seek, and the sparse benches found themselves bunched with families and picnic blankets, couples embracing each other, friends that tip their heads back with laughter, and solitary elderly people with books in their grasp. You stepped aside as a series of cyclists passed, some thanking you for your movement, and you traded a smile in exchange.

On any other day, your passing of a public chessboard would’ve been an innocuous, inconsequential act. Many people around the world – even just in Virginia – pass a public chessboard surrounded by players of varying skill and passion every day, and have this barely be anything worthy of attention on their route, let alone have an infinite impact on their whole life.

That day was different.

That day, Doctor Spencer Reid had been in attendance of a chess game. He stood in the back – being one of the tallest – in his glasses and a white speckled shirt and dark tie, his hand balled into a fist under his chin as he watched the game curiously. You noticed him because he was mumbling to himself and his eyes were flicking about the board, like he was playing his own game alongside it.

The odds of him noticing you were between seventy-five to eighty-five percent. They were good odds.

You saw him, and he saw you.

Your eyes flicked away then flicked back together again, like the millisecond of perception had pitched your brains to one radio frequency. The same song played. You wondered what song. Spencer awkwardly smiled, and you did too – albeit a little smoother, though you would later learn you could do anything smoother than Spencer Reid – and then you passed him.

You looked back. He did too. That’s always how you know.

Your face reddened and you blamed the heat as you resumed your walk to work, your steps unwavering, and you applauded yourself silently for getting the attention of someone you wanted attention from.

Still got it.

And though you hadn’t exactly sought the park for shade over the next few days, the weather remained hot and, therefore, an excuse. I deserve some refuge, you told yourself.

He wasn’t there. Not the day after. Or the day after that.

You grew a little embarrassed.

Until the Friday, when he was back, and you were thinking about all the religions you studied back in school and wondered which God or philosophy you owed your luck to.

And for a while, that was the extent of your relationship; nervously glancing at each other in the park like children on a playground, wishing you had a friend to beg to ask him if he likes you. Sometimes he’d be playing and not notice you, but if he wasn’t completely fixed on the game, then he was absolutely waiting for 8:24am when you would pass through.

You realised you were very obviously on your way to work, and it was manners that he hadn’t approached – that, and chasing down a woman in a park is the opposite of Spencer’s ethos.

In your infinite genius – and sick of your month of noticing but never doing – you leave your apartment early one day to get a coffee from the park, and prayed your morning crankiness wouldn’t be completely off-putting.

The early hour had you wishing you hadn’t and you were entirely counting on the universe’s uncanny irony to have this mystery chess player be absent on this day.

But the universe showed mercy.

He was there. He was saw you. And he watched you head to the park café – a small green building with baristas serving from windows, and old people slouched with newspapers on benches.

You felt his presence – saw his shadow – before you saw him.

“Hi.” he said.

You looked up.

“Hey.”

It was all very shy, and very sweet, and you glanced up at him – so much closer than he had ever been – and returned to standing in line for a coffee you were craving.

In realising he’d approached and had made the first big move, you decided it was on you to resume it.

“How’s the game going?” you asked then, nodding to the chessboard.

Spencer – the stranger, to you – smiled, blushed, and looked at his shoes.

“Nothing like Ivanchuk versus Yusupov.”

Spencer would later teach you exactly what he meant over game after game of chess, played miserably albeit amicably on your part. He admired your willingness to lose just for the sake of the game. You’re a good sport, and a winner in other ways.

Every time Spencer strokes your cheek and kisses your forehead, you win.

Every time Spencer utters a pet name, you win.

Every time his fingers trail the line of your back in the chalk-white sheets of his bed, you win.

Your fingers combed through his ever growing hair, inches longer than it had been when you’d met. God, how the time had passed – how you’d both decayed and flourished, how you’d changed and transformed.

You understand what love is now – love is the willingness to accept death, both inside you and in front of you. To fathom time. To say, okay, this won’t be forever, but I will grasp every moment like splitting glass, until my palms are torn and my heart is spent. Love is sameness. Recognition. Rest.

“Actually…”

Your eyes roll as you toy with Spencer’s hair in the hospital bed, gazing up at him in the dim light, casting your skin in a volcanic glow. Even with his leg shot to bits, he has to correct your factual inaccuracies.

“Love is more about psychology, chemistry, and biology.” his voice is raspy and quiet, as comfortable as he can be, brows knit and raised as he absorbs the multitude of your expression; the worry, the adoration, the annoyance, and he smiles, “Chemically, love is oxytocin and dopamine and-,”

“Yeah, and serotonin – everybody knows that.”

Spencer laughs, and you grin, and your face gets all warm like the muscles of Spencer’s thigh haven’t been ripped through. Resting on the bed, on your stomach and facing him as he slumps, you toy with the crisp, thin bed sheets draping his sore frame.

“All right... smart girl." he tuts, "Biologically, it’s more about mating and attachment-,”

“I don’t get why every living thing is – like – predisposed to wanting to reproduce; of all things to want to do, why that? Plants. Bugs. Germs. Even fire spreads.” you ponder, and Spencer’s smile widens at your tangent – your brilliant mind, your keenness to discuss and divulge and tear the human race to shreds, “I don’t want more of me. I suck.” you grumble.

“You don’t suck.” his head shakes, “And the fire-,”

“It was an analogy.” your brows pinch.

“More like a metaphor..." he hums, "look, genes want to survive. That’s the baseline. The way they do that is… producing offspring. It’s all evolution, really, most things come back to that in the end.” Spencer sighs, “But I think you’re branching more into the philosophical, colourful way of thinking.”

“I just wanna know why everything insists on spreading.”

“Because that’s life.” Spencer hums, almost laughing, “If nothing ever spread, as you so eloquently put it, there would be no life. The only other options are extinction or immortality.”

“That’s it? We either fuck, die, or live forever?”

Spencer’s head shakes.

“So crass.”

“You like my crass mouth.”

He reaches up. You think he might caress your cheek. His thumb, however, strokes your lower lip, tracing the well-kissed skin, and your jaw grows slack as you let him toy with you a moment, the salt of his touch lingering on your lips. It's far more intimate than he usually is with you in public. You shiver. You're torn between gazing into his brilliant eyes and shying away from them.

“I much prefer it when you’re muttering your soft little metaphors about love being sameness.”

You beam. You kiss his chest through his gown. His hand comes to stroke over your head.

“You and I are the same.” you tell him, very simply.

Spencer wonders how he ended up as lucky as he did; to go through a drought of love in all its forms to stumble one day, a few years ago, on someone so willing to give all of it to him.

Perhaps God had some making up to do.

“Psychologically, love is about mutual understanding and shared values and a… cognitive commitment,” he swallows, “a… recognition, then, of some kind. And you can explore attachment theory too, I suppose there are some merits in that – I’d be a fool to deny the impact on early development and how it leads to later expressions of emotions.”

“Is that why you love me the way you do?” you ask.

“How, exactly, do I love you?”

You tsk and sigh, rolling on to your back, and the movement sends a jolt of pain through Spencer’s ruined leg, desperately hoisting it away from your jostling. His hand returns to you as soon as possible with no mention of the harm you’d caused.

Spencer thinks you could’ve fired the shot yourself and he’d still find a way to stroke your cheek and tell you about love.

Saviour. Saviour.

“Very well.” you mumble contently, “Like ‘m the only thing in the universe worth loving.”

Spencer smiles at your theatrical little statement, adoring your moments.

“Maybe you are.” he hums, more to himself than anything.

“Quit your job, then.” you suggest, peering up at him, “Run away with me. We’ll go to Italy; all the best, most important lovers were there. We’ll eat too much pasta, and you can get sunburnt, and I will finally learn the language, and we’ll be happy.”

“You’ve really thought about this…”

“I like to think, in some other universe, I did it.”

You stare at the white squares of the tile ceiling above you, dirtied and grey with their age, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, lost in thought as always.

“That we did it – that you said, okay, baby, let’s run away together…”

Free will is not as free as people assume, and sometimes, when you look at the board of life, you find only white squares.

It's why you dream. Why you lose yourself. Why the greatest high is when your eyes glaze over and your inner storyteller unleashes their darkest fantasy.

Spencer’s smile softens into a sympathetic line. Your acknowledgement of some other universe evidences your understanding that he’s not going to do that – that the BAU is his crown and the bullpen is his throne, and he’s right at home there.

It’s probably all Spencer’s ever wanted, you figure. A home.

“Maybe that’s a better definition of the purpose of life,” you say, “that it’s not about life itself but what lies in it, and… to experience that, everything must keep going. Endure and survive. Because how will you have pasta in Italy if wheat doesn’t pollinate and tomatoes don’t have seeds?”

Spencer’s hand caressing the soft dips and curves of your forehead and the slope around your ear pauses, and he adores you, and he knows that Darwin was right and Dawkins’s The Selfish Gene outlined all about the innate impulse to reproduce, but he decides you’re right too.

It’s a much nicer sight, he thinks, to decide love - that 'spreading', that life and birth - is about eating pasta together.

You’re his Library of Alexandria. Beautiful. Impossible.

"You and I are the same." he says.

Minutes and metres.

The space between Haley and Aaron had been minutes and metres, but it may as well have been millenniums and lightyears. Loss is loss no matter how much distance and time might have prevented it.

Cane in hand, Spencer stops at the door to his apartment building.

Metres and minutes. The space between you and him.

No doubt, you will be waiting for him inside, bright as ever, gazing at him like he’s the milky way – the very thing the whole universe revolves around.

There had been a period in Spencer’s life when all he wanted was for someone to look at him – to feel about him – like that, but as he stares at the door to his building, it only brings him motions sickness. The sunset burns against the back of his head, curls stroking his neck, cane in his calloused hand, and hovering there in that liminal space, in the minutes and metres, Spencer realises he loves you too much to love you.

The thought you might befall the same fate as Haley ravages him from the inside out, from his delicate strands of DNA to the cells of his skin, and as his jaw tightens and he blinks, sighing into the cool evening air, Spencer decides he has no choice but to leave you.

Your loss would be the ultimate tragedy; for your sake, for all you would and could have done.

Spencer clambers the stairs, cane supporting his leg, and he stops outside the front door.

He hears you inside.

The soft mumble of a television left on even though you’re not watching. Music playing from the kitchen where you’re engrossed in some thrown together recipe. Your steps galloping across old wooden floorboards. You’d brought so much life to someplace that had been so quiet.

Spencer opens the door.

He finds you leaning on his kitchen counter, laptop on the table, engulfed in an old jumper and thick socks on your feet, stroking the sleeve across you bottom lip as you stare at the screen. Images of vineyards and Tuscan kitchens flash across your vision and you smile. You and Spencer are in definite need of a vacation, and now he’s back on his own two feet – with some help – you figure it’s time to satisfy that little fantasy of yours just a little bit.

Even if it’s not real. Even if you know it won’t be.

Swamped in basil and garlic, the kitchen summons Spencer forward, one hand tucked into his pocket. He turns the television off as he passes, and he admires you distantly for a moment. You hadn’t heard the door close behind him, too busy in your own little world and your ginormous, all-encompassing thoughts. Dinner cooks away behind you, and he hears the same playlist you always listen to – Spencer swears he’s memorised the order of songs.

You’re so beautiful. And so human.

With another step forward, you blink and catch Spencer coming in.

“I didn’t hear you.” you grin.

Your warmth and smile, usually melting Spencer’s slightly cold exterior, are forced to reach Arctic temperatures instead.

His lips press into a fine line but he does try to smile. Dressed in dark colours, Spencer clashes the marigold ambience burning everything into beauty.

“You okay?” you ask, “Is your leg causing you trouble again?”

Spencer spies the vacation deals you’d been stalking on the internet but says nothing. He shakes his head. He hadn’t been paying much attention to how his leg had been feeling. It probably hurt.

“No, no, I’m fine, thank you…” he says.

Gingerly, he steps to you, almost chest to chest, and presses a kiss to your forehead. I'm home. Something about the way he hesitates and then lingers fills you with unease.

You stand there like a pawn, waiting for the next move.

When Spencer pulls away, he gazes down at you, forehead almost brushing yours, and one hand raises to your cheek, stroking along the warm curve of your complexion.

Then, he steps away, leaving you in his cold and comes to stand further away, leaning against the counter.

Your tight jaw sends ripples of tension through your body and you close your laptop, heading to the oven, turning the heat off and shifting your food off the flames.

“What’s wrong, Spence?” you ask.

Spencer doesn’t like to worry you.

The problem is, on this occasion, he doesn’t have much of a choice. The man has never deemed himself to be the perfect partner. He figures he worries too much, or is a little – a lot – insecure, and, because he’s swept away at any moment, leaves you with more than half the chores and errands. In the last few hours, Spencer’s come to find the only way for him to be your perfect partner is to not be your partner at all; to not sign you up for a demise like Haley, to not ruin your life with his drought, to have you waiting all the time.

To promise you everything. To give you half. To make you feel guilty for craving the rest of what he’d offered in the first place.

“Haley Hotchner died today.” he tells you.

It’s simple. It’s not sugar-coated. It’s not beautiful like most things he tells you. He starts as he means to go on.

The marigold haze pales to beige. You understand the coldness.

You knew Haley. Her smile was phenomenal. The kind of smile people do fall in love with. Haley Hotchner was sunshine. She was good.

She was dead.

Brain buffering, you do your best to process the information as it’s handed to you. It can’t find a place to settle so it remains in front of you instead; not in anger, not in sadness… just… there, and you hold it.

“What?” you ask.

“Haley… she…” Spencer swallows, brows wrinkling, “she was killed by – um – the Boston Reaper, he… he tracked her and Jack down, and… and he killed her-,”

“W-what are you saying, wh- no, no, that’s- I saw her last week-,”

“He shot her.”

Still, the news cannot find a home inside you.

Spencer watches the cogs turn – or rather, not turn – in your head and you go into reset mode; not smiling, not talking, not thinking, just standing there as you try to process the information. Haley had always been nice to Spencer. She didn’t have much of a bad word to say about anyone; especially not Spencer, and especially not you.

She’s a firecracker, Haley had once said about you, smirking over a glass of wine at dinner, eyes flitting between you and Spencer as you wandered off to join Jack with his new space toy set.

“Oh my god…” you mumble as the penny drops, “h-wh-how’s Jack? Is Jack okay?”

“He’s alive. So’s Aaron.”

“Spence…” you murmur, not meaning anything by it – reciting his name as if to ground yourself.

He powers through your shock. He’d have preferred to have dinner instead, but dinner tonight isn’t worth the loss tomorrow.

“We’d been… tracking the Boston Reaper… he was one of ours, ‘nd he’s dead now.” he explains, “He’d formed a… a real grudge against Hotch, and… took it out on Haley… probably Jack too if he could’ve, but… Jack hid…”

“Oh, Spence… are… are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“You can not be fine, Spence, I… I know you were fond of Haley.”

“We all were.”

You nod, coming to stand in front of him, fingers tracing over his blazer and encouraging it from his shoulders, and he lets you take it off him, draping it over the kitchen counter instead. Gazing down at you, Spencer catches the twinkle in your eye as you peer up at him.

Unlike Haley, he has this horrible feeling that you’d wait and wait and wait until you hated yourself, and still, you would stand there – an angel sculpture in the centre of a town long abandoned. Birds would rest on your stone wings. You were built to stand still until Spencer came back, and he'd done that whether he realised it or not.

Spencer sighs.

“Come sit with me.” he rasps, voice gentle all of a sudden.

You figure he wants comfort in the warm temple of your embrace, and you nod, taking one of his hands as he hobbles to the couch.

He goes to sit down but winces and can only make it as low as the arm of the couch, so settles there, with you standing between his legs in front of him.

Pushing his hair from his face, he allows you this moment of softness – you’re not the problem after all. He even manages to smile at your sweet gesture; you offer your tenderness to him so freely.

What a cruel act it would be to allow that to be taken from the world.

“What happened today… was barbaric…” he mutters, your fingers still trailing his locks, “and it can’t ever happen again.”

Your brows pinch as you run his words over and over again through the meadow of your mind.

“And I love you so much.” he tells you, “Love you in every way.”

“And… and I love you…” you say, your tone spoiling the anxiety pooling in your stomach.

He smiles. He relishes in the feeling of your love until it makes him sick with stress. Kind eyes burning gold in the dying sunlight, his gaze flicks about your expression, just making sure it’s entirely fixed to memory.

“And if I – if the world – lost you, if you lost life… because… because of my work, because of what I do, I-,”

“Spence, you can’t think like that.”

He licks between his dry lips, eyes flicking away for a moment before returning to yours just as scalding.

“But I have to… because it happened.” he swallows, “It’s not some nightmare, baby, it’s… it’s real… and if it can happen to Haley then it can happen to you. There is no second you, there is no second chance, I-,"

His jaw tightens.

“And I can’t sit back and watch.”

The truth sinks like the Titanic. It starts slowly, then breaks in half and plummets to your depths, taking screams with it.

You step back. Your hands fall.

Spencer reaches to hold you but doesn’t force you into his grasp, so when your arm slips from his fingers, he lets it. Part of you burns hot at the thought of him wanting to comfort you when he’d caused such anguish in the first place.

“No.” you mumble, more disbelief – more of that displacement, of not knowing where to put this feeling, of how to swallow it.

“Baby-,”

“No.” you retort louder, “No, that’s not- no, I-, go get into comfy clothes and come eat dinner – I made dinner, I worked really hard on it, a-and I found this vacation-,”

“Sweetheart-,”

“Florence, you know, I wen-, it’s beautiful, ‘s beautiful…”

“Baby,” he stands then, wincing, and gazes down at you, “I can’t go to Italy with you.”

“Not with that shitty knee…” you frown, brows pinched, biting back the cry crawling up your throat.

Spencer smiles. Actually smiles. It breaks your heart.

It goes quiet. You breathe out a sigh. The clock ticks and the sun cools and the world spins on as it always had, and you can’t help but feel that everything, everywhere, should be on lockdown just like you.

More of that suffering. More of that silence.

“You can’t break up with me because Haley died.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t, because… because it’s… it doesn’t make any sense, it’s for all the wrong reasons-,”

“I love you. That’s the only good reason for doing anything.”

Spencer’s hands clasp your jaw, cradling your face, trying to steady you, encouraging you into eye contact you’re desperate to resist. You curse the magnetism that’s pulled you from the very first day; that naturally makes you submit, that quiets you and your rambling and turns you into nothing but wide, teary eyes.

“So… what, you’re just never gonna love anything ever again? Never gonna have anything, or want anything, or hold anything… on the chance something might happen to it?” you ask, “Never gonna love anybody else, never gonna have children or a family or a dog because you might lose it?” your eyes flick between his, “That’s life, Spence.”

“No, it’s not - what happened to Haley, this is not normal; I am… a bad apple… for you.” he says tenderly, like he’s reciting poetry about your majesty.

His softness, he hopes, distracts from how difficult he’s finding this whole thing. He knows it’s for the better. He prays so, anyway.

“We’re not apples, Spencer, we’re people.”

You push him away, putting metres between you, trying to find the right distance in order to withstand the cold.

Spencer’s tether snaps far before he expects it to – perhaps it’s the grief or the fear or the tension in loving you so much and hurting you because of it.

“Do you have… any idea… how much I must love you in order to put us both through this?”

The worst part of this whole thing, you decide, is that it is so full of tenderness and affection. Every part of your surrounding world suffocates you with undeniable love, and it hurts so much.

Spencer continues.

“Do you have any idea… how hard it would be to… look at the world every day – wake up, eat breakfast, see the sun, walk around the park – do all that… knowing what I took from it?”

Heart thundering in your chest, you curse the sunset for being so bright and the room for being so warm. You’re not at home in it at all – you’ve embodied all the wrongness that you’ve tried to swallow. It had to go somewhere.

You break.

“Oh, so you blame Aaron then?”

His brows pinch.

“What?”

“You blame Aaron for what happened to Haley, right?” your head cocks, voice vibrating with sudden anger, “If you’d blame yourself for anything that might happen to me then it works out that you blame Aaron – that it’s Aaron’s fault, huh?”

“No,” Spencer swallows, “that’s… that’s not what I’m saying.”

“No, it is,” you yell, “say it, say you blame Aaron!”

Fury envelopes your gaze as you glare up at him – daring, challenging, as you always have – and Spencer sighs, uncertain how to navigate such dangerous territory.

“I can’t, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! Say it! Say it!"

“Baby…” he hushes; you’ve always been a worthy opponent – a pleasure to defeat and an honour to kneel before.

“So, you can’t stand there and talk about blame and me dying…” your brows tremble above wide, glazed eyes that you fight so hard to keep clear and stern – it exhausts you.

There is no comfort – no kind words, no thoughtful actions – that can soften the horrendous blow; gunshots are gunshots even if you use a silencer.

“But Aaron blames himself. Right? We can agree on that?” his voice is so gentle as he reasons with you, “And if you were me, you would feel the same – you know you would, baby.”

You hate that he’s right.

That if anything happened to Spencer, you would always wonder what you could’ve done to prevent it. God, Himself, could offer you splendid integrity – call you a blameless lamb – and you would still beat yourself blue with fault. It’s your way.

A funny feeling builds in your chest like rust. Your blood turns to gold. Your heart does not beat the same.

And Spencer seems to sense the unease possessing your haunted frame. Daring once more, he crosses the distance and runs a thumb over your cheek even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“It’s not fair.” you utter with little left to offer.

“I know.” he says, “But it’s what I want.”

“It’s not,” you sniff, “it’s what you think needs to happen. You’re martyring yourself – it’s what you do.”

Typically, Spencer would respond with denial, but as you seem to near acceptance, he doesn’t want to chase you away. Your stubbornness only inflates his adoration for you and, in turn, forces him more and more to let you go.

He lets you say what you need to say so you can find peace with it all.

Unfortunately, you are not the peace-making kind.

“I can’t let you do this.”

“Baby.”

“No, because it sets a bad precedent.” your head shakes and your arms cross, “Break up with the wall – not me.”

He smirks at you, entirely adoringly. He almost wishes he were the cruel and tactical kind; that he could drive you to despise him, that he could dig deep and find enough meanness to make you walk out. He’s always been a lover. Loving somebody doesn’t let you say mean things to them, for he has none to say.

Even your snark – your beautiful defence – has him crumbling at your feet. He understands the Battle of Actium. How torturous a loss in the name of love; how willing to be crushed so long as you are crushed together. Drown with me. Drown with me.

“And what kind of precedent does it set if I don’t?” he asks you, “I’m telling you that my wants come over your safety – that I would put you in danger for my own selfish agenda, that what happened to Haley means nothing to me at all. It wouldn’t have happened if-,”

“Why does what happened to Haley have to be the rule, not the… the horrible exception? Even you have to see th-the statistical fallacy in that!”

Oh god, you have him smitten.

You’re so angry with him and for him and at him.

“You can’t make up odds as you go – as you see fit – you can’t just pick and choose the thing that makes you feel bad a-and… and…”

You’re crying then.

Spencer’s heart clenches in your chest. You’re working with two cycles of grief spinning inside you; processing Haley's death, and understanding Spencer’s reasoning for ending your relationship.

You crave rage to bite at his words but the thought of never seeing Haley’s smile cremates your dignity, and you’re so mad at the Boston Reaper for taking her from this world but so devastated by Spencer’s stubborn love toward you. Everything blurs together and starts to feel like nothing; a poisonous nothing that kills you, nonetheless.

Your tears are his complete weakness. He’s not seen them many times, but every time he does, his resolve is slashed to splinters.

“I can’t be selfish with you, baby.” Spencer tells you, “The very worst thing that could’ve happened has happened, and… so long as there’s even the smallest chance…”

He sighs.

"No amount of good I could ever do would make up for costing the world you."

“But why isn’t that my decision?”

“What?”

“You’re making that choice for me; you’re not even letting me decide what to do with my life – if I wanna take the one-billionth chance. You think you know best because you’re all clever and smart and know all these stupid big words like heteroscedasticity-,”

He blinks at you.

“-but you don’t because you’re just as emotional as the rest of us – as me. And…” you suck in a harsh breath, “and I hate you right now but I love you, so… so you’re just gonna have to let me make my own choices. And I know you – you’d never take away my choice.”

The phrasing challenges him – dares him – to do what he’d never do; trap you, force you, bind you into a world you didn’t agree to.

True love sets you free, he knows.

Spencer wonders if, in trying to release you from one cage, he’d only been ushering you into a very cold, dark box under the guise of it being better.

If fear and guilt and terror had turned him into a preacher of what-ifs.

You’re all teary-eyed and biting down hard to keep your voice tame and emotions under control, but with each silent second, your veil tumbling like an avalanche into the arctic, the thunderous cold of your rage consumes Spencer too.

It’s too much.

“All right,” he relents, coming closer to you, “you’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry… baby, I’m sorry…”

But you’re already in pieces, consumed by grief and confused by it all the same – swamped in Haley’s loss and suspended by your throat over the ocean of odds and demise.

“No, you’re so mean to me.” you sniff, palms pushing him away despite careful fingers lacing around his shirt.

You’re both trapped in an awkward push and pull. Spencer can’t blame you for your sudden uncertainty; who knows when the tide will pull out again – what carcasses it will reveal on the sea floor?

“I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” he murmurs against your forehead, pressing his lips against your warm skin, his hair brushing your skin, “I love you, I was scared – I’ll take you to Italy, baby, I’ll-,”

He reaches to caress your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, your shoulders – anywhere he can soothe, can touch, can make feel better with his warmth.

“I hate you.” you grit.

“I know,” he almost smiles, not because it’s funny but because you’re so passionate, “I know…”

“You’re banned from breaking up with me-,”

“Banned?” he chuckles against your forehead, “I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart.”

“It is now.” you wipe your eyes clear.

Spencer grasps both your wrists to hold them close, fingers steaming the delicate pathway of your veins and tendons.

“I’m so hot.” you whimper out.

“I know you’re deflecting-,”

“I’m not!” you sniff, grounding yourself with a heavy breath.

The sunset burns warmer then – rises from the ashes – and returns the fiery glow to Spencer’s apartment.  

"You are completely impossible." he says then, "There's no burning you down, is there?"

"Absolutely not."

No. No. You are not paper. You are not leather. You're something much more immortal.

He laughs. He cradles you. He kisses your forehead again.

"I'm sorry Haley died." you add, gazing into those brilliant earthy eyes of his.

Spencer loses himself in his own mind for a moment, trying to navigate the treachery of loss alongside his logical mind; how he has no other conclusion other than gone-ness being final.

In your eyes, he finds your humanness. Fragile.

You cannot flee from it. You cannot be protected from it.

Of all the things he can and cannot do, Spencer swallows whole the bitter truth that time, misfortune, and decay are out of his hands. He cannot fight them nor wage war against them. No amount of 'genius' can change that.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I'm sorry too..."

You kiss his fingers as they continue to grasp your wrists. Heat rises to Spencer's cheeks and he does not feel the ache of his messed up leg as he stands before you. He releases you as you step closer, wishing to be held and being too obstinate to ask for it, and his arms drape about you, fingers caressing the nape of your neck in delicate circles.

"And I'm sorry I tried to break up with you."

You sort of laugh and sort of cry.

"You're not forgiven."

He smiles slightly.

"I'll keep begging for redemption then."

"I mean... I've always wanted to go to Pompeii." a soft chuckle ripples through your chest.

You sniff, your hot breath tingling against his chest. There is still the rich scent of basil and tomato and chilli, and your laptop sits on the counter with a hundred searches for escape and love and fantasy. Oh God, you want him to live with you, not just survive - not just wait for a terrible thing to remind you that existence is and was and won't be again.

Evolve. Evolve. Evolve.

Spencer's guilt comes in waves until it's too much to handle; until he's drowning.

"Did you know that Pompeii was actually discovered by accident fifteen-hundred years after the eruption?"

The best things are discovered by accident.

You walk through a park one day because it was hot.

And Spencer was too late to play the chess game.

"There's a Doctor Who episode called The Fires of Pompeii. Why don't we dish up dinner and watch it together?"

You nod, swallowing, still deeply unhappy with the man before you and the one thousand, one hundred and sixty-two days you'd known him. He'd never changed. You love him. You hate him. You love him more.

Spencer smiles, eyes narrowing with pinch of his cheeks.

"That's my girl. I love you. Really, I... I completely love you."

And, somehow, this softens you enough - melts your frost, residual ash and heat blowing in from 79AD.

"Completely love you too."

masterlist for more relationship-fighting angst, you may enjoy serendipity and harlot (18+) for more sweet spencer x reader moments, feel free to check out lobotomy and tramp

kissaphobic - make out monday unknown / nth - hozier waiting room - phoebe bridgers

the goodness, love, i still carry for you ; 101

Spencer Reid x Non-BAU Reader

TLDR: Spencer contemplates the future of your relationship after the death of Haley Hotchner - 5.5k - angst, comfort

Warnings: long established relationship (start season 2+), almost break up (it doesn't happen, i can't do sad endings), spoilers for S5E9, talk of death and grief, religious imagery probably, some swearing, me going off on one about italy and the universe's inherent desire to breed because this is my fanfiction and IM in charge, existential crisis but reader's vibing, spencer is in hospital (not narcotic related) because of injury that is in like the whole of season 5, the tiniest tiniest tiniest mention of spencer not taking painkillers, maybe a tiny tiny reference to reader liking spencer's fingers in her mouth and being submissive i'm sorry arrest me

Notes: Second Person, no y/n. Fem reader. Specifically set following the immediate events of episode 100.

One thousand one hundred and sixty-two days ago, you had crossed through a public park on your way to work in a vain attempt to avoid the blistering sun burning down on Virginia. You sought the trees for relief. That, and you could watch dogs sniff around flowerbeds and skip happily on cool grass, chasing bright tennis balls and using their brilliant senses to embrace the last of the summer far better than humans can.

Your clothes were too thick for the season but you’re not good at adjusting – at handling change – and so, the sun did not take you by surprise, but rather held you entirely accountable for your attire. The gravel crunched under your dawdling feet and the trees stood tall and protective around the park, some rounded by children in giggling games of hide and seek, and the sparse benches found themselves bunched with families and picnic blankets, couples embracing each other, friends that tip their heads back with laughter, and solitary elderly people with books in their grasp. You stepped aside as a series of cyclists passed, some thanking you for your movement, and you traded a smile in exchange.

On any other day, your passing of a public chessboard would’ve been an innocuous, inconsequential act. Many people around the world – even just in Virginia – pass a public chessboard surrounded by players of varying skill and passion every day, and have this barely be anything worthy of attention on their route, let alone have an infinite impact on their whole life.

That day was different.

That day, Doctor Spencer Reid had been in attendance of a chess game. He stood in the back – being one of the tallest – in his glasses and a white speckled shirt and dark tie, his hand balled into a fist under his chin as he watched the game curiously. You noticed him because he was mumbling to himself and his eyes were flicking about the board, like he was playing his own game alongside it.

The odds of him noticing you were between seventy-five to eighty-five percent. They were good odds.

You saw him, and he saw you.

Your eyes flicked away then flicked back together again, like the millisecond of perception had pitched your brains to one radio frequency. The same song played. You wondered what song. Spencer awkwardly smiled, and you did too – albeit a little smoother, though you would later learn you could do anything smoother than Spencer Reid – and then you passed him.

You looked back. He did too. That’s always how you know.

Your face reddened and you blamed the heat as you resumed your walk to work, your steps unwavering, and you applauded yourself silently for getting the attention of someone you wanted attention from.

Still got it.

And though you hadn’t exactly sought the park for shade over the next few days, the weather remained hot and, therefore, an excuse. I deserve some refuge, you told yourself.

He wasn’t there. Not the day after. Or the day after that.

You grew a little embarrassed.

Until the Friday, when he was back, and you were thinking about all the religions you studied back in school and wondered which God or philosophy you owed your luck to.

And for a while, that was the extent of your relationship; nervously glancing at each other in the park like children on a playground, wishing you had a friend to beg to ask him if he likes you. Sometimes he’d be playing and not notice you, but if he wasn’t completely fixed on the game, then he was absolutely waiting for 8:24am when you would pass through.

You realised you were very obviously on your way to work, and it was manners that he hadn’t approached – that, and chasing down a woman in a park is the opposite of Spencer’s ethos.

In your infinite genius – and sick of your month of noticing but never doing – you leave your apartment early one day to get a coffee from the park, and prayed your morning crankiness wouldn’t be completely off-putting.

The early hour had you wishing you hadn’t and you were entirely counting on the universe’s uncanny irony to have this mystery chess player be absent on this day.

But the universe showed mercy.

He was there. He was saw you. And he watched you head to the park café – a small green building with baristas serving from windows, and old people slouched with newspapers on benches.

You felt his presence – saw his shadow – before you saw him.

“Hi.” he said.

You looked up.

“Hey.”

It was all very shy, and very sweet, and you glanced up at him – so much closer than he had ever been – and returned to standing in line for a coffee you were craving.

In realising he’d approached and had made the first big move, you decided it was on you to resume it.

“How’s the game going?” you asked then, nodding to the chessboard.

Spencer – the stranger, to you – smiled, blushed, and looked at his shoes.

“Nothing like Ivanchuk versus Yusupov.”

Spencer would later teach you exactly what he meant over game after game of chess, played miserably albeit amicably on your part. He admired your willingness to lose just for the sake of the game. You’re a good sport, and a winner in other ways.

Every time Spencer strokes your cheek and kisses your forehead, you win.

Every time Spencer utters a pet name, you win.

Every time his fingers trail the line of your back in the chalk-white sheets of his bed, you win.

Your fingers combed through his ever growing hair, inches longer than it had been when you’d met. God, how the time had passed – how you’d both decayed and flourished, how you’d changed and transformed.

You understand what love is now – love is the willingness to accept death, both inside you and in front of you. To fathom time. To say, okay, this won’t be forever, but I will grasp every moment like splitting glass, until my palms are torn and my heart is spent. Love is sameness. Recognition. Rest.

“Actually…”

Your eyes roll as you toy with Spencer’s hair in the hospital bed, gazing up at him in the dim light, casting your skin in a volcanic glow. Even with his leg shot to bits, he has to correct your factual inaccuracies.

“Love is more about psychology, chemistry, and biology.” his voice is raspy and quiet, as comfortable as he can be, brows knit and raised as he absorbs the multitude of your expression; the worry, the adoration, the annoyance, and he smiles, “Chemically, love is oxytocin and dopamine and-,”

“Yeah, and serotonin – everybody knows that.”

Spencer laughs, and you grin, and your face gets all warm like the muscles of Spencer’s thigh haven’t been ripped through. Resting on the bed, on your stomach and facing him as he slumps, you toy with the crisp, thin bed sheets draping his sore frame.

“All right... smart girl." he tuts, "Biologically, it’s more about mating and attachment-,”

“I don’t get why every living thing is – like – predisposed to wanting to reproduce; of all things to want to do, why that? Plants. Bugs. Germs. Even fire spreads.” you ponder, and Spencer’s smile widens at your tangent – your brilliant mind, your keenness to discuss and divulge and tear the human race to shreds, “I don’t want more of me. I suck.” you grumble.

“You don’t suck.” his head shakes, “And the fire-,”

“It was an analogy.” your brows pinch.

“More like a metaphor..." he hums, "look, genes want to survive. That’s the baseline. The way they do that is… producing offspring. It’s all evolution, really, most things come back to that in the end.” Spencer sighs, “But I think you’re branching more into the philosophical, colourful way of thinking.”

“I just wanna know why everything insists on spreading.”

“Because that’s life.” Spencer hums, almost laughing, “If nothing ever spread, as you so eloquently put it, there would be no life. The only other options are extinction or immortality.”

“That’s it? We either fuck, die, or live forever?”

Spencer’s head shakes.

“So crass.”

“You like my crass mouth.”

He reaches up. You think he might caress your cheek. His thumb, however, strokes your lower lip, tracing the well-kissed skin, and your jaw grows slack as you let him toy with you a moment, the salt of his touch lingering on your lips. It's far more intimate than he usually is with you in public. You shiver. You're torn between gazing into his brilliant eyes and shying away from them.

“I much prefer it when you’re muttering your soft little metaphors about love being sameness.”

You beam. You kiss his chest through his gown. His hand comes to stroke over your head.

“You and I are the same.” you tell him, very simply.

Spencer wonders how he ended up as lucky as he did; to go through a drought of love in all its forms to stumble one day, a few years ago, on someone so willing to give all of it to him.

Perhaps God had some making up to do.

“Psychologically, love is about mutual understanding and shared values and a… cognitive commitment,” he swallows, “a… recognition, then, of some kind. And you can explore attachment theory too, I suppose there are some merits in that – I’d be a fool to deny the impact on early development and how it leads to later expressions of emotions.”

“Is that why you love me the way you do?” you ask.

“How, exactly, do I love you?”

You tsk and sigh, rolling on to your back, and the movement sends a jolt of pain through Spencer’s ruined leg, desperately hoisting it away from your jostling. His hand returns to you as soon as possible with no mention of the harm you’d caused.

Spencer thinks you could’ve fired the shot yourself and he’d still find a way to stroke your cheek and tell you about love.

Saviour. Saviour.

“Very well.” you mumble contently, “Like ‘m the only thing in the universe worth loving.”

Spencer smiles at your theatrical little statement, adoring your moments.

“Maybe you are.” he hums, more to himself than anything.

“Quit your job, then.” you suggest, peering up at him, “Run away with me. We’ll go to Italy; all the best, most important lovers were there. We’ll eat too much pasta, and you can get sunburnt, and I will finally learn the language, and we’ll be happy.”

“You’ve really thought about this…”

“I like to think, in some other universe, I did it.”

You stare at the white squares of the tile ceiling above you, dirtied and grey with their age, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, lost in thought as always.

“That we did it – that you said, okay, baby, let’s run away together…”

Free will is not as free as people assume, and sometimes, when you look at the board of life, you find only white squares.

It's why you dream. Why you lose yourself. Why the greatest high is when your eyes glaze over and your inner storyteller unleashes their darkest fantasy.

Spencer’s smile softens into a sympathetic line. Your acknowledgement of some other universe evidences your understanding that he’s not going to do that – that the BAU is his crown and the bullpen is his throne, and he’s right at home there.

It’s probably all Spencer’s ever wanted, you figure. A home.

“Maybe that’s a better definition of the purpose of life,” you say, “that it’s not about life itself but what lies in it, and… to experience that, everything must keep going. Endure and survive. Because how will you have pasta in Italy if wheat doesn’t pollinate and tomatoes don’t have seeds?”

Spencer’s hand caressing the soft dips and curves of your forehead and the slope around your ear pauses, and he adores you, and he knows that Darwin was right and Dawkins’s The Selfish Gene outlined all about the innate impulse to reproduce, but he decides you’re right too.

It’s a much nicer sight, he thinks, to decide love - that 'spreading', that life and birth - is about eating pasta together.

You’re his Library of Alexandria. Beautiful. Impossible.

"You and I are the same." he says.

Minutes and metres.

The space between Haley and Aaron had been minutes and metres, but it may as well have been millenniums and lightyears. Loss is loss no matter how much distance and time might have prevented it.

Cane in hand, Spencer stops at the door to his apartment building.

Metres and minutes. The space between you and him.

No doubt, you will be waiting for him inside, bright as ever, gazing at him like he’s the milky way – the very thing the whole universe revolves around.

There had been a period in Spencer’s life when all he wanted was for someone to look at him – to feel about him – like that, but as he stares at the door to his building, it only brings him motions sickness. The sunset burns against the back of his head, curls stroking his neck, cane in his calloused hand, and hovering there in that liminal space, in the minutes and metres, Spencer realises he loves you too much to love you.

The thought you might befall the same fate as Haley ravages him from the inside out, from his delicate strands of DNA to the cells of his skin, and as his jaw tightens and he blinks, sighing into the cool evening air, Spencer decides he has no choice but to leave you.

Your loss would be the ultimate tragedy; for your sake, for all you would and could have done.

Spencer clambers the stairs, cane supporting his leg, and he stops outside the front door.

He hears you inside.

The soft mumble of a television left on even though you’re not watching. Music playing from the kitchen where you’re engrossed in some thrown together recipe. Your steps galloping across old wooden floorboards. You’d brought so much life to someplace that had been so quiet.

Spencer opens the door.

He finds you leaning on his kitchen counter, laptop on the table, engulfed in an old jumper and thick socks on your feet, stroking the sleeve across you bottom lip as you stare at the screen. Images of vineyards and Tuscan kitchens flash across your vision and you smile. You and Spencer are in definite need of a vacation, and now he’s back on his own two feet – with some help – you figure it’s time to satisfy that little fantasy of yours just a little bit.

Even if it’s not real. Even if you know it won’t be.

Swamped in basil and garlic, the kitchen summons Spencer forward, one hand tucked into his pocket. He turns the television off as he passes, and he admires you distantly for a moment. You hadn’t heard the door close behind him, too busy in your own little world and your ginormous, all-encompassing thoughts. Dinner cooks away behind you, and he hears the same playlist you always listen to – Spencer swears he’s memorised the order of songs.

You’re so beautiful. And so human.

With another step forward, you blink and catch Spencer coming in.

“I didn’t hear you.” you grin.

Your warmth and smile, usually melting Spencer’s slightly cold exterior, are forced to reach Arctic temperatures instead.

His lips press into a fine line but he does try to smile. Dressed in dark colours, Spencer clashes the marigold ambience burning everything into beauty.

“You okay?” you ask, “Is your leg causing you trouble again?”

Spencer spies the vacation deals you’d been stalking on the internet but says nothing. He shakes his head. He hadn’t been paying much attention to how his leg had been feeling. It probably hurt.

“No, no, I’m fine, thank you…” he says.

Gingerly, he steps to you, almost chest to chest, and presses a kiss to your forehead. I'm home. Something about the way he hesitates and then lingers fills you with unease.

You stand there like a pawn, waiting for the next move.

When Spencer pulls away, he gazes down at you, forehead almost brushing yours, and one hand raises to your cheek, stroking along the warm curve of your complexion.

Then, he steps away, leaving you in his cold and comes to stand further away, leaning against the counter.

Your tight jaw sends ripples of tension through your body and you close your laptop, heading to the oven, turning the heat off and shifting your food off the flames.

“What’s wrong, Spence?” you ask.

Spencer doesn’t like to worry you.

The problem is, on this occasion, he doesn’t have much of a choice. The man has never deemed himself to be the perfect partner. He figures he worries too much, or is a little – a lot – insecure, and, because he’s swept away at any moment, leaves you with more than half the chores and errands. In the last few hours, Spencer’s come to find the only way for him to be your perfect partner is to not be your partner at all; to not sign you up for a demise like Haley, to not ruin your life with his drought, to have you waiting all the time.

To promise you everything. To give you half. To make you feel guilty for craving the rest of what he’d offered in the first place.

“Haley Hotchner died today.” he tells you.

It’s simple. It’s not sugar-coated. It’s not beautiful like most things he tells you. He starts as he means to go on.

The marigold haze pales to beige. You understand the coldness.

You knew Haley. Her smile was phenomenal. The kind of smile people do fall in love with. Haley Hotchner was sunshine. She was good.

She was dead.

Brain buffering, you do your best to process the information as it’s handed to you. It can’t find a place to settle so it remains in front of you instead; not in anger, not in sadness… just… there, and you hold it.

“What?” you ask.

“Haley… she…” Spencer swallows, brows wrinkling, “she was killed by – um – the Boston Reaper, he… he tracked her and Jack down, and… and he killed her-,”

“W-what are you saying, wh- no, no, that’s- I saw her last week-,”

“He shot her.”

Still, the news cannot find a home inside you.

Spencer watches the cogs turn – or rather, not turn – in your head and you go into reset mode; not smiling, not talking, not thinking, just standing there as you try to process the information. Haley had always been nice to Spencer. She didn’t have much of a bad word to say about anyone; especially not Spencer, and especially not you.

She’s a firecracker, Haley had once said about you, smirking over a glass of wine at dinner, eyes flitting between you and Spencer as you wandered off to join Jack with his new space toy set.

“Oh my god…” you mumble as the penny drops, “h-wh-how’s Jack? Is Jack okay?”

“He’s alive. So’s Aaron.”

“Spence…” you murmur, not meaning anything by it – reciting his name as if to ground yourself.

He powers through your shock. He’d have preferred to have dinner instead, but dinner tonight isn’t worth the loss tomorrow.

“We’d been… tracking the Boston Reaper… he was one of ours, ‘nd he’s dead now.” he explains, “He’d formed a… a real grudge against Hotch, and… took it out on Haley… probably Jack too if he could’ve, but… Jack hid…”

“Oh, Spence… are… are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“You can not be fine, Spence, I… I know you were fond of Haley.”

“We all were.”

You nod, coming to stand in front of him, fingers tracing over his blazer and encouraging it from his shoulders, and he lets you take it off him, draping it over the kitchen counter instead. Gazing down at you, Spencer catches the twinkle in your eye as you peer up at him.

Unlike Haley, he has this horrible feeling that you’d wait and wait and wait until you hated yourself, and still, you would stand there – an angel sculpture in the centre of a town long abandoned. Birds would rest on your stone wings. You were built to stand still until Spencer came back, and he'd done that whether he realised it or not.

Spencer sighs.

“Come sit with me.” he rasps, voice gentle all of a sudden.

You figure he wants comfort in the warm temple of your embrace, and you nod, taking one of his hands as he hobbles to the couch.

He goes to sit down but winces and can only make it as low as the arm of the couch, so settles there, with you standing between his legs in front of him.

Pushing his hair from his face, he allows you this moment of softness – you’re not the problem after all. He even manages to smile at your sweet gesture; you offer your tenderness to him so freely.

What a cruel act it would be to allow that to be taken from the world.

“What happened today… was barbaric…” he mutters, your fingers still trailing his locks, “and it can’t ever happen again.”

Your brows pinch as you run his words over and over again through the meadow of your mind.

“And I love you so much.” he tells you, “Love you in every way.”

“And… and I love you…” you say, your tone spoiling the anxiety pooling in your stomach.

He smiles. He relishes in the feeling of your love until it makes him sick with stress. Kind eyes burning gold in the dying sunlight, his gaze flicks about your expression, just making sure it’s entirely fixed to memory.

“And if I – if the world – lost you, if you lost life… because… because of my work, because of what I do, I-,”

“Spence, you can’t think like that.”

He licks between his dry lips, eyes flicking away for a moment before returning to yours just as scalding.

“But I have to… because it happened.” he swallows, “It’s not some nightmare, baby, it’s… it’s real… and if it can happen to Haley then it can happen to you. There is no second you, there is no second chance, I-,"

His jaw tightens.

“And I can’t sit back and watch.”

The truth sinks like the Titanic. It starts slowly, then breaks in half and plummets to your depths, taking screams with it.

You step back. Your hands fall.

Spencer reaches to hold you but doesn’t force you into his grasp, so when your arm slips from his fingers, he lets it. Part of you burns hot at the thought of him wanting to comfort you when he’d caused such anguish in the first place.

“No.” you mumble, more disbelief – more of that displacement, of not knowing where to put this feeling, of how to swallow it.

“Baby-,”

“No.” you retort louder, “No, that’s not- no, I-, go get into comfy clothes and come eat dinner – I made dinner, I worked really hard on it, a-and I found this vacation-,”

“Sweetheart-,”

“Florence, you know, I wen-, it’s beautiful, ‘s beautiful…”

“Baby,” he stands then, wincing, and gazes down at you, “I can’t go to Italy with you.”

“Not with that shitty knee…” you frown, brows pinched, biting back the cry crawling up your throat.

Spencer smiles. Actually smiles. It breaks your heart.

It goes quiet. You breathe out a sigh. The clock ticks and the sun cools and the world spins on as it always had, and you can’t help but feel that everything, everywhere, should be on lockdown just like you.

More of that suffering. More of that silence.

“You can’t break up with me because Haley died.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t, because… because it’s… it doesn’t make any sense, it’s for all the wrong reasons-,”

“I love you. That’s the only good reason for doing anything.”

Spencer’s hands clasp your jaw, cradling your face, trying to steady you, encouraging you into eye contact you’re desperate to resist. You curse the magnetism that’s pulled you from the very first day; that naturally makes you submit, that quiets you and your rambling and turns you into nothing but wide, teary eyes.

“So… what, you’re just never gonna love anything ever again? Never gonna have anything, or want anything, or hold anything… on the chance something might happen to it?” you ask, “Never gonna love anybody else, never gonna have children or a family or a dog because you might lose it?” your eyes flick between his, “That’s life, Spence.”

“No, it’s not - what happened to Haley, this is not normal; I am… a bad apple… for you.” he says tenderly, like he’s reciting poetry about your majesty.

His softness, he hopes, distracts from how difficult he’s finding this whole thing. He knows it’s for the better. He prays so, anyway.

“We’re not apples, Spencer, we’re people.”

You push him away, putting metres between you, trying to find the right distance in order to withstand the cold.

Spencer’s tether snaps far before he expects it to – perhaps it’s the grief or the fear or the tension in loving you so much and hurting you because of it.

“Do you have… any idea… how much I must love you in order to put us both through this?”

The worst part of this whole thing, you decide, is that it is so full of tenderness and affection. Every part of your surrounding world suffocates you with undeniable love, and it hurts so much.

Spencer continues.

“Do you have any idea… how hard it would be to… look at the world every day – wake up, eat breakfast, see the sun, walk around the park – do all that… knowing what I took from it?”

Heart thundering in your chest, you curse the sunset for being so bright and the room for being so warm. You’re not at home in it at all – you’ve embodied all the wrongness that you’ve tried to swallow. It had to go somewhere.

You break.

“Oh, so you blame Aaron then?”

His brows pinch.

“What?”

“You blame Aaron for what happened to Haley, right?” your head cocks, voice vibrating with sudden anger, “If you’d blame yourself for anything that might happen to me then it works out that you blame Aaron – that it’s Aaron’s fault, huh?”

“No,” Spencer swallows, “that’s… that’s not what I’m saying.”

“No, it is,” you yell, “say it, say you blame Aaron!”

Fury envelopes your gaze as you glare up at him – daring, challenging, as you always have – and Spencer sighs, uncertain how to navigate such dangerous territory.

“I can’t, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! Say it! Say it!"

“Baby…” he hushes; you’ve always been a worthy opponent – a pleasure to defeat and an honour to kneel before.

“So, you can’t stand there and talk about blame and me dying…” your brows tremble above wide, glazed eyes that you fight so hard to keep clear and stern – it exhausts you.

There is no comfort – no kind words, no thoughtful actions – that can soften the horrendous blow; gunshots are gunshots even if you use a silencer.

“But Aaron blames himself. Right? We can agree on that?” his voice is so gentle as he reasons with you, “And if you were me, you would feel the same – you know you would, baby.”

You hate that he’s right.

That if anything happened to Spencer, you would always wonder what you could’ve done to prevent it. God, Himself, could offer you splendid integrity – call you a blameless lamb – and you would still beat yourself blue with fault. It’s your way.

A funny feeling builds in your chest like rust. Your blood turns to gold. Your heart does not beat the same.

And Spencer seems to sense the unease possessing your haunted frame. Daring once more, he crosses the distance and runs a thumb over your cheek even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“It’s not fair.” you utter with little left to offer.

“I know.” he says, “But it’s what I want.”

“It’s not,” you sniff, “it’s what you think needs to happen. You’re martyring yourself – it’s what you do.”

Typically, Spencer would respond with denial, but as you seem to near acceptance, he doesn’t want to chase you away. Your stubbornness only inflates his adoration for you and, in turn, forces him more and more to let you go.

He lets you say what you need to say so you can find peace with it all.

Unfortunately, you are not the peace-making kind.

“I can’t let you do this.”

“Baby.”

“No, because it sets a bad precedent.” your head shakes and your arms cross, “Break up with the wall – not me.”

He smirks at you, entirely adoringly. He almost wishes he were the cruel and tactical kind; that he could drive you to despise him, that he could dig deep and find enough meanness to make you walk out. He’s always been a lover. Loving somebody doesn’t let you say mean things to them, for he has none to say.

Even your snark – your beautiful defence – has him crumbling at your feet. He understands the Battle of Actium. How torturous a loss in the name of love; how willing to be crushed so long as you are crushed together. Drown with me. Drown with me.

“And what kind of precedent does it set if I don’t?” he asks you, “I’m telling you that my wants come over your safety – that I would put you in danger for my own selfish agenda, that what happened to Haley means nothing to me at all. It wouldn’t have happened if-,”

“Why does what happened to Haley have to be the rule, not the… the horrible exception? Even you have to see th-the statistical fallacy in that!”

Oh god, you have him smitten.

You’re so angry with him and for him and at him.

“You can’t make up odds as you go – as you see fit – you can’t just pick and choose the thing that makes you feel bad a-and… and…”

You’re crying then.

Spencer’s heart clenches in your chest. You’re working with two cycles of grief spinning inside you; processing Haley's death, and understanding Spencer’s reasoning for ending your relationship.

You crave rage to bite at his words but the thought of never seeing Haley’s smile cremates your dignity, and you’re so mad at the Boston Reaper for taking her from this world but so devastated by Spencer’s stubborn love toward you. Everything blurs together and starts to feel like nothing; a poisonous nothing that kills you, nonetheless.

Your tears are his complete weakness. He’s not seen them many times, but every time he does, his resolve is slashed to splinters.

“I can’t be selfish with you, baby.” Spencer tells you, “The very worst thing that could’ve happened has happened, and… so long as there’s even the smallest chance…”

He sighs.

"No amount of good I could ever do would make up for costing the world you."

“But why isn’t that my decision?”

“What?”

“You’re making that choice for me; you’re not even letting me decide what to do with my life – if I wanna take the one-billionth chance. You think you know best because you’re all clever and smart and know all these stupid big words like heteroscedasticity-,”

He blinks at you.

“-but you don’t because you’re just as emotional as the rest of us – as me. And…” you suck in a harsh breath, “and I hate you right now but I love you, so… so you’re just gonna have to let me make my own choices. And I know you – you’d never take away my choice.”

The phrasing challenges him – dares him – to do what he’d never do; trap you, force you, bind you into a world you didn’t agree to.

True love sets you free, he knows.

Spencer wonders if, in trying to release you from one cage, he’d only been ushering you into a very cold, dark box under the guise of it being better.

If fear and guilt and terror had turned him into a preacher of what-ifs.

You’re all teary-eyed and biting down hard to keep your voice tame and emotions under control, but with each silent second, your veil tumbling like an avalanche into the arctic, the thunderous cold of your rage consumes Spencer too.

It’s too much.

“All right,” he relents, coming closer to you, “you’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry… baby, I’m sorry…”

But you’re already in pieces, consumed by grief and confused by it all the same – swamped in Haley’s loss and suspended by your throat over the ocean of odds and demise.

“No, you’re so mean to me.” you sniff, palms pushing him away despite careful fingers lacing around his shirt.

You’re both trapped in an awkward push and pull. Spencer can’t blame you for your sudden uncertainty; who knows when the tide will pull out again – what carcasses it will reveal on the sea floor?

“I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” he murmurs against your forehead, pressing his lips against your warm skin, his hair brushing your skin, “I love you, I was scared – I’ll take you to Italy, baby, I’ll-,”

He reaches to caress your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, your shoulders – anywhere he can soothe, can touch, can make feel better with his warmth.

“I hate you.” you grit.

“I know,” he almost smiles, not because it’s funny but because you’re so passionate, “I know…”

“You’re banned from breaking up with me-,”

“Banned?” he chuckles against your forehead, “I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart.”

“It is now.” you wipe your eyes clear.

Spencer grasps both your wrists to hold them close, fingers steaming the delicate pathway of your veins and tendons.

“I’m so hot.” you whimper out.

“I know you’re deflecting-,”

“I’m not!” you sniff, grounding yourself with a heavy breath.

The sunset burns warmer then – rises from the ashes – and returns the fiery glow to Spencer’s apartment.  

"You are completely impossible." he says then, "There's no burning you down, is there?"

"Absolutely not."

No. No. You are not paper. You are not leather. You're something much more immortal.

He laughs. He cradles you. He kisses your forehead again.

"I'm sorry Haley died." you add, gazing into those brilliant earthy eyes of his.

Spencer loses himself in his own mind for a moment, trying to navigate the treachery of loss alongside his logical mind; how he has no other conclusion other than gone-ness being final.

In your eyes, he finds your humanness. Fragile.

You cannot flee from it. You cannot be protected from it.

Of all the things he can and cannot do, Spencer swallows whole the bitter truth that time, misfortune, and decay are out of his hands. He cannot fight them nor wage war against them. No amount of 'genius' can change that.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I'm sorry too..."

You kiss his fingers as they continue to grasp your wrists. Heat rises to Spencer's cheeks and he does not feel the ache of his messed up leg as he stands before you. He releases you as you step closer, wishing to be held and being too obstinate to ask for it, and his arms drape about you, fingers caressing the nape of your neck in delicate circles.

"And I'm sorry I tried to break up with you."

You sort of laugh and sort of cry.

"You're not forgiven."

He smiles slightly.

"I'll keep begging for redemption then."

"I mean... I've always wanted to go to Pompeii." a soft chuckle ripples through your chest.

You sniff, your hot breath tingling against his chest. There is still the rich scent of basil and tomato and chilli, and your laptop sits on the counter with a hundred searches for escape and love and fantasy. Oh God, you want him to live with you, not just survive - not just wait for a terrible thing to remind you that existence is and was and won't be again.

Evolve. Evolve. Evolve.

Spencer's guilt comes in waves until it's too much to handle; until he's drowning.

"Did you know that Pompeii was actually discovered by accident fifteen-hundred years after the eruption?"

The best things are discovered by accident.

You walk through a park one day because it was hot.

And Spencer was too late to play the chess game.

"There's a Doctor Who episode called The Fires of Pompeii. Why don't we dish up dinner and watch it together?"

You nod, swallowing, still deeply unhappy with the man before you and the one thousand, one hundred and sixty-two days you'd known him. He'd never changed. You love him. You hate him. You love him more.

Spencer smiles, eyes narrowing with pinch of his cheeks.

"That's my girl. I love you. Really, I... I completely love you."

And, somehow, this softens you enough - melts your frost, residual ash and heat blowing in from 79AD.

"Completely love you too."

masterlist for more relationship-fighting angst, you may enjoy serendipity and harlot (18+) for more sweet spencer x reader moments, feel free to check out lobotomy and tramp

kissaphobic - make out monday unknown / nth - hozier waiting room - phoebe bridgers

levi may not be the type to call you honey, baby, or sweetheart, but he is the kind of man to hit you with a “that’s my girl”.

when you turn red, as of course you do because he’s never once said anything like that before, he arches an eyebrow in confusion. “what’s wrong with your face?”

levi may not be the type to call you honey, baby, or sweetheart, but he is the kind of man to hit you with a “that’s my girl”.

when you turn red, as of course you do because he’s never once said anything like that before, he arches an eyebrow in confusion. “what’s wrong with your face?”

Ghost decides after one blind date that you're going to be his.

>>>>>

Simon isn't used to dating. A quick hook up in the loo, sure. A drunken one night stand? He's had too many of those to count. But proper courting? Hell, it's been years, maybe a decade, since he's taken a bird out on an actual date.

It's probably going to be a disaster, but he gave Johnny his word he'd go out with his bird's best friend, so he can't back out now. He'll just have to grit his teeth and power through it.

His sour outlook for the evening is forgotten the second he sees you walk in with Johnny's bird. You're no tipsy tart on the pull, like the birds he's used to dealing with. You're a proper lady, dolled up nice for your date with him. It makes his chest feel tight when he gets a good look at your pretty face and nervous little smile.

His usual gruff manner is obviously not going to fly with you, so he quickly tries to recall the mannerisms he's seen his captain use around women. He gets to his feet with Johnny when the two of you reach the table, trying his best to look less intimidating.

Johnny introduces the two of you, and Simon melts inside when he takes your soft little hand in his for the first time. His brain goes fuzzy, dark eyes glazing over, and he's not sure what he says when he greets you, but it earns him a smile.

"It's really nice to meet you, Simon," are the first words you say to him.

Your voice is soft and sweet, and the way you say his name? Oh, he's gonna need to hear more of that, and often.

For the first time in a long time, Simon's worried about what someone thinks of him. He's worried he'll put you off with his harsh manner. So, he minds his words and gentles his tone. He slows his steps to match your pace and tucks your small hand at his elbow to keep you close and safe. He's holding doors and pulling out your chair. He compliments your dress and hair.

And when your heel catches on the sidewalk and you stumble, he doesn't bark a laugh or say something mean, wouldn't bloody dream of it. No, he catches you before you fall, and all that softness in his hands makes something shift in his brain. You're such a fragile little thing, delicate as spun sugar. You need a big nasty mutt like him to protect you, take care of you, and he's more than willing to do the job.

When the date is over, Simon sees you home, and you kiss him on your front stoop. It's not all groping hands and tangling tongues. It's a gentle press of lips, his big hands cradling your face, the sweet intimacy making his eyes flutter shut. He's floating when he finally gets back in his truck and drives himself home.

Instead of going to bed, Simon begins to formulate a plan of strategy. He figures it'll take a few more dates before you invite him into your flat, and several more after that before you invite him into your bed, then eventually into your life. It might take months, even a year or more. That's alright, though. If his years in the military have taught him anything, it's patience.

Simon knows how to play the long game. He'll go at your pace, let you get used to having him around, then make himself indispensable to you. No one will treat you as good, meet your every need and desire the way he will. He won't stop until he is your world, your reason for being. Your everything.

And when enough time has passed, he'll claim you completely as his. He's going to put a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly, then tuck you away safe and sound in one of those cute country cottages he looked up online. You'll be his little missus, and he'll be your tamed beast, keeping his teeth and claws hidden but at the ready.

By the time he arrives at your flat the next evening for your second date, he's already got your engagement ring in his safe at home and the names of your future children picked out.

And when you text him the day after to invite him for dinner, the new name he replaced yours with pops up on his screen.

It says 'Missus Riley', of course.

-