#reidsrambles-writes

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, friends with benefits, oral sex (F receiving), PIV sex, condomless sex, IUD birth control, mention of abortion (in the context of being on the same page prior to sex), riding, soft dom M, praise kink F.

This fic is quite emotionally heavy, and both Spencer and Reader delve deep into past traumas. None is current. If any of these topics may be triggering or upsetting to you, please skip this one: child abuse, child abandonment, attachment issues, foster care, adoption, CPS, bullying, trust issues, mental health issues, misunderstandings, ghosting, and Reader mentions that she possibly committed emotional infidelity in the past, thinking about Spencer while with another partner.

A/N: This is my (very late) fic for @imagining-in-the-margins's FWB challenge! Life's been a bit crazy lately. Your girl now has a boyfriend who takes up a lot of her time. 🥹👉👈

Names used: Baby, good girl

Words (this chapter): 1,706

Words (total): 12,462

There’s only one person you had hoped to never face again in this lifetime, and he’s standing a mere twenty feet in front of you.

You hear him before you see him. His laugh echoes off the walls of the large, airy library, and the normal hushed murmur goes silent in response. Working the front desk today, you have nowhere to hide. 

A flush sweeps across his cheeks as he scans the room. A few people at tables nearby lift their heads but lower them just as quickly. Nobody can be bothered to care. Nobody except you.

As you wait for his gaze to fall upon your face, time lags to a snail’s pace. An inescapable cataclysm of fate. 

This must be punishment for some unspeakable crime committed in a past lifetime. Or maybe this is just karma biting you in the ass? It has to be. How else could he be here? This place is locked down like Fort Knox. 

He bounces on his feet, looking at the floor. Left, right, left, right. He was never that good at staying still, especially when nervous. An FBI badge dangling from his belt loop catches your attention as he shifts. A firearm is holstered at his hip on the other side of his body.

He belongs here. 

“Okay, Garcia. Well, I just got down here, so I’ll call you back once I find it,” he says quietly. 

Realization crosses his face as soon as his eyes land on you. The thump of the kick drum in your chest rattles your body, and everything in your peripheral fades until all that exists is him.

He presses his lips together and slides his cell phone into his pocket.

The last time you saw those lips, you traced the crease of his dimple with your finger, without hurry. Early morning sun. His sleepy smile. He was so happy. The soft, thin cotton bed sheet draped over your naked bodies, and Spencer looked at you like you were his everything; his worshipping stare turned you translucent. 

The light caught his face, and the blue-green of his eyes glistened with an auric sheen. As you watched the dance of color, a vice grip tightened around your rib cage. In that one brief moment, something clicked within you. 

How hadn’t you seen it before? 

A newfound clarity painted him maroon. A flag waved in warning. That was the morning you left without another word. That was the morning you had to accept that, for his sake and yours, you’d never be able to see Spencer Reid again.

This has to be some sick joke. 

You snap out of your daze and look at the new Academy recruit standing in front of the desk, still patiently waiting for an answer to his question. “I’m so sorry about that. I had completely lost my train of thought,” you laugh, trying to maintain your professionalism. 

“So, on the lower level,” you continue briskly, “is the law library. That’s where you’ll find law books, periodicals, and any government documents. Those have to be used in-library, though, and you can’t check them out. Older, more sensitive documents—and anything requiring special authorization—are kept in climate-controlled, locked storage, so you’d have to inquire with one of us regarding any of those items. The 2nd floor is where we keep any books designated for leisure reading. Other than that, if you need help to locate anything, you can come ask me or any of my colleagues.” 

Wow. Practicing that little spiel in the mirror like the dweeb you are did actually help.

You beam a smile at the kid, no older than his early-20s. To your relief, he thanks you and walks away. 

You don’t have to wonder if Spencer recognizes you. He hasn’t looked away yet.

The library’s front desk is a stocky, rectangular enclosure, dwarfed by the grandeur of the sunlight-soaked atrium. The large skylights battle it out with the building’s air-conditioning, and even though it’s a cool fall day, you have to continuously blot the dampness from your forehead to save your makeup. Suddenly, you’re far too warm for your usual blazer, though. You stand and drape the jacket over your office chair.

Still warm as an oven, you pass behind your coworker, Sarah, the other librarian working the front desk with you today, and place a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m going to be right back. Can you cover for me for a few?” you whisper. 

“Only if you cover for me later so I can get an extra smoke break in,” she says, not bothering to look away from the email she’s writing.

You shake your head. “Sure, whatever. Fine.” 

A half door built-in to the large, rectangular desk is all that separates you from the rest of the library. You walk, but Spencer remains parked until you look at him, finally acknowledging him. You jerk your head to the side, gesturing for him to follow you, and his feet finally start. 

Ironically, you met Spencer in a library. Loving parents funded your English Lit degree and living expenses—not that you ever lived anything but frugally. All through undergrad, you worked in the university’s library, pushing your little book cart around and putting things back where they belonged. All your paychecks went straight into a savings account. Your parents would eventually tire of you, and you’d be left high and dry, you’d assumed, though you never let that thought escape your subconscious.

“Who’s the lanky nerd in the corner?” your new 18-year-old, first-year coworker whispered far too loudly. She had a bad habit of being extremely blunt, you’d quickly learned. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “He’s been here most days either working or reading. Doesn’t seem to have any friends. Joann said he’s some freaky genius on his 3rd PhD, but he always puts his own books back, so I’ve never had to deal with him.” You grabbed another book and returned it to its home on the shelf, hoping that if you didn’t look her way, she’d drop the conversation. Quietly escaping into your own thoughts while shelving was your respite. It was serenity… Until she showed up.

“Hey, freaky genius guy,” she whisper-yelled, somehow getting his attention, “my coworker thinks you’re cute!” 

Yeah, she only lasted two weeks in that position before the librarians had enough of her antics.

You mouthed an angry and confused “What the fuck?” to her before going to apologize. He was so awkward, but he did try to keep the conversation going. An enigma. Maybe the loner didn’t want to be so lonely? In regular chats, you learned a bit more about the guy. Though, on the surface, you had very little in common, you and Spencer ended up being better matched than previously thought, and you became fast friends. 

The conversation shifted from classic literature to niche science topics that shouldn’t have interested you, but his passion was infectious enough to capture you. He taught you how to play chess, and you’d sneak over to his table mid-shift to get a few turns in at a time. You always lost to him, but you liked the challenge and started skimming chess books at the library for different plays. One day, he related something in the conversation to Star Wars. When you admitted to never having seen any of them, it led to the first of many movie nights at your place. He showed up with his personal copy of A New Hope and a big bag of popcorn.  

Those horrid two weeks of babysitting the coworker were good for something, at least. It was strange, but nice, to have a friend.

Beep, the card reader chimes. The green light flashes, and you push into an empty conference room of the library. Spencer follows you inside, putting a solid five-feet of distance between you.

“Hi,” is all you say. The forced chirpiness of your customer service voice is on its last legs, only a single word into this conversation. A trip to the gynecologist for a pap smear would be more fun than a conversation with a man whose heart you smashed into a million pieces like a fucking coward. 

Spencer gestures to the badge on your lanyard with a flick of his head. “You, uh—work here?”

Taking the badge between your fingers, you quickly examine it. Your mugshot-esque headshot and the required stone-cold expression are in direct contrast to the radiant smile and cheery disposition you paint on while at work. You’ve seen FBI badges on TV and in the movies, and even though yours signifies you belong to the Library and Information Services department, it still feels odd to be wearing it.

“I do, yeah. Just started two weeks ago, actually.”

He nods, rocking back and forth on his heels. Your performative amiability slips from your grasp. False pleasantries won’t work with Spencer.

“Look,” you add, “we don’t have to interact after this, if you don’t want to. One of the other librarians can help you or check you out when you stop by, if that makes you more comfortable.”

“You’re a librarian?” he asks; less like a question and more like a stunning realization. 

After you left Spencer’s apartment a decade ago, you packed up the essentials and drove eight hours home. You took leave from school, but you’re sure classmates and acquaintance assumed that you dropped out, and with only a few months left of your degree. You didn’t just cut contact with Spencer; You cut contact with everyone. 

“No,” he continues, “it’s not that. It’s just… I have so much I want to say and no idea how to say it all. I obviously wasn’t expecting to run into you.”

You keep your focus directed at the sting of your nails pressing into your palm as you attempt to steady your breathing. Work isn’t an ideal place to be crying, attempting to apologize for all the pain you caused. 

“Do you want to grab a coffee sometime and talk?” you ask sheepishly. 

“I happen to be free tonight after work, if that’s good for you?”

“Yeah, I think I can make that work,” you nod, flashing him a shy smile.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI] smut, protected (condom) PiV sex, oral sex (F receiving), brief mention of being drunk or high in the past

A/N: This fic is part 1 of a duo. Part 2: New Year's Day is in the works, and will hopefully be posted on time! I came up with this idea literally yesterday, and I've been writing like a madman since then, so edits might be made to this one after posting. I'm posting it right before midnight my time! Credit to @saradika-graphics for the divider graphics, including the one I cropped below.

Names used: Baby

Words (this chapter): 2,025

Words (total): 5,759

Penelope has always thrown stellar parties, but this one might be her largest to date. I can hear the music streaming from her apartment all the way down the hall. I sift through the keys on my keyring to find the one I need: my copy of her house key.

Streamers, balloons, and shimmery garlands cover the walls of Penelope’s apartment. There are somehow more guests than I’d expected. Penelope tends to make friends wherever she goes. Still, I didn’t expect for what seems to be everyone she knows to be free tonight. Many guests don party hats. Some are also wearing those silly New Year’s glasses with lenses in the shape of numbers. Not even two steps in the door, and I jump as someone prematurely blows a noisemaker.

Different dishes that partygoers have brought cover every inch of Penelope’s kitchen island. A potluck of appetizers and various salads, from the leafy green kind to the macaroni or potato variety. I squeeze around the guests loitering in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, probably because there’s nowhere to sit. Inside her fridge, it’s like playing Jenga, trying to find a spot to shove the champagne bottles I bought. 

Penelope’s dazzling emerald dress sticks out in the sea of black and metallic fits. Nobody can upstage the hostess, dare they try. I wrap my best friend in a hug from behind and she reflexively smacks my arm before realizing it’s me.

“Oh, my god!” she shrieks. She looks annoyed, rolling her eyes, but my behavior has garnered chuckles from the group she’s chatting with. Two knitting club friends. “Look who finally showed up! She conveniently had to work all day while I finished setting up.” 

I was here on Sunday doing all the decorating grunt work, but I choose to not argue the semantics. I’ll let her have the upper hand. Consider it an apology for the jump scare, Penelope.

“It’s not my fault that New Year’s Eve isn’t a holiday, and I, like most people, work a Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five. You are aware of that, right?”

Penelope pecks my cheek before swiping at it with her thumb to wipe her bright red lipstick off. I ask her if she needs help with anything, as a good best friend to the hostess does, but predictably, she’s on top of everything. 

I make my rounds, catching up with the many people I already know and greeting those I haven’t met. “Hi! I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet! I’m Penelope’s best friend.” 

Hours pass, filled with stories of so-and-so’s new baby or graduation or other meaningful milestone. Then there are the few party games I’m roped into. On the plus side, every time I loop back around past the kitchen, I pick at the hors d'oeuvres. After work, I picked up the champagne, and then came straight here. The finger foods will suffice as dinner, I suppose.

From the spot I’ve claimed as my own against the wall, I watch my best friend, with her seemingly infinite social battery, open the door and gleefully welcome a couple I’ve never seen. How are people still showing up!? 

With a quick flick of the wrist, I glance at my watch. Still two hours to midnight. Ugh, shit.

I push myself off the wall and snake my way through the field of bodies, metaphorical white flag a-waving. 

“Pen, I know we’re getting closer to midnight, but I need to go take a nap or something. I’m absolutely drained. Just let me recharge for a few, and then I’ll be back out here. Promise.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Penelope says, guiding me a mere two feet to the side—all the crowd will allow. “I’ve seen you chatting it up all night. You know you don’t have to do that, my love. I’ve had the bedrooms locked, but Spencer was feeling a bit overwhelmed, so I let him into the guest bedroom if you want to join him in there.” She’s sincere, but teasing, gently bumping my shoulder with hers. Her innuendo is far from lost on me.

Huh, yeah. Spencer’s  the only one on her team, besides Aaron Hotchner, who I haven’t already bumped into tonight. Hotch is probably at home with the family. Where has Spencer been all night? He is usually a bit of a wallflower whenever he does show up to parties. Being friends with Penelope since childhood and moving out to D.C. with her, I’ve gotten to know everyone she’s close with, especially her coworkers. I’ve had a teensy-weensy crush on Spencer Reid since I first met him, not long after I moved out here, and Penelope’s teased me about it ever since. 

I pull my lips tight and nod. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

Yes, I’ve gotten to know Spencer quite a bit over the years, which has not helped ease my crush, but there’s no way he thinks of me as anything more than a friend. He probably just thinks of me as a friend-of-a-friend or as an acquaintance. Even worse… 

It’s kind of become a cycle. I start seeing someone or get into a whole relationship, and then I don’t have to think about Spencer at all, which is great. But, when I inevitably become single again and Penelope mentions his name, the longing starts all over again.

It’s just a crush, though. Everyone has crushes. And most people don’t act on these types of crushes. Why would I put Penelope in the middle of that?

The hall where Penelope’s bedroom, the guest bedroom, and a bathroom are is already much quieter than the rest of her house. All the noise is coming from behind me. The quiet is calling to me like a siren’s song; hopefully just luring me into a 20-minute catnap, if I’m lucky.

I gently tap my knuckles against the guest bedroom door twice before opening it. Only the nightstand lamps are on, and this cozy, warm room feels like escaping to actual Heaven right now. Spencer is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap.

“Hey, mind if I join you?” I ask, my heart rate ramping up instead of slowing down. 

“[Y/N], hey! Of course. Did Penelope tell you I was hiding away in here?”

I close the door behind me, and the roar of the party dies down to a rumble. “Well, I told her that I needed to get away from the crowd for a little bit, maybe take a nap or something, and she said she had just let you in here. My social battery died like, an hour ago.”

I join Spencer on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectable amount of distance. 

“I’m not much of a party person if you haven’t already figured that out,” he says.

“I don’t think I am either, honestly. Well, not anymore, at least. I was a little bit of a partier when I went off to college. But as I’m sure you could guess, me and Penelope weren’t really a part of the ‘in’ crowd as teenagers.”

“Is college the only time you and Penelope weren’t attached at the hip?”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “Basically. Right before I sent off my college applications, we had gotten into a fight over something stupid. It was so stupid, that neither of us can remember what it was over. But, instead of applying to CalTech with her, I applied to a couple schools I knew she wasn’t applying to. I ended up getting accepted to Georgia Tech. Literally, the other side of the country. I think that I had it in my head that I was going to show her that she’d miss me.”

“And then you guys made up?”

“We literally made up two days after I sent off my applications, yeah,” I nod, my story earning a laugh from Spencer.

“I can’t believe I haven’t heard that story before.”

Another rogue noisemaker is sounded, muffled by the wall between us and the chaos, but it’s enough of a surprise to startle both of us.

“Sorry,” he says, “I should’ve asked. Did you want the room to yourself? I don’t mind if you need me to step out.”

“Oh, no. I’m completely fine. If I wanted to be alone, I could’ve just gone to Penelope’s room. It’s not like you’re a stranger or anything. As long as you don’t mind if I accidentally pass out.”

I sit up and round the bed to the far side, and when I slip under the sheets, I regret my choice of a black skirt and tights for tonight. Spencer sits on top of the sheets on the other side.

“I really wish I hadn’t left my book out in the living room,” he jokes. 

“So, you’re saying I don’t get a bedtime story?”

I try, as discreetly as I can, to slip my tights off under the sheets. Every time I adjust my position, I tug them down a little bit more.

“If you want me to read to you, I can,” he says.

Got ‘em down to my knees.

“I forgot about that whole memory thing,” I laugh. “What’s that called, again?”

“I have an eidetic memory. It’s primarily for things I’ve read, though.”

So close.

“I mean, you definitely don’t have to, but if wanted to read me something, it would be really helpful to mask the noise.”

Yes! Finally. I’m freeee.

I kick my tights off my feet under the covers (a problem for me to deal with later, when I’m more awake) and I can breathe a sigh of comfort at last.

Spencer begins to speak, but I cut him off.

“Sorry. Just don’t let me sleep more than 20 minutes. I’m aiming for 15, even. I should be out like a light. I’m a good napper. Gold-medal worthy.”

I flop back down onto the bed and let my heavy eyelids fall shut. Spencer reads some story aloud with no text in front of him. As I drift off, his voice lulling me to sleep, I know this is going to be something that I playback from memory in the future. A decayed version in my own, fallible memory.

The world is dark, but noisy. I haven’t yet gathered the strength to open my eyes, but the rest of my senses are slowly feeding my brain information. I feel a steady rise and fall against my back. Breathing. A man’s face nuzzled into my neck. I’m being spooned from behind, but he isn’t under the covers with me. He’s above them. Even through the fabric, I can feel him against my ass. The hardness between his legs pressed into my backside. Where the hell am I?

It’s New Year’s Eve. Penelope’s guest bedroom. Spencer.

Spencer’s breathing picks up, and as my eyes flit open, I’m ripped from my sleepy bliss and plunged into utter panic. He’s woken up too. Spencer jumps out of bed at the same time I do, clearly stunned.

“[Y/N], I am so, so sorry. I completely didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Shit. No, I’m sorry.”

Does he know I have a crush on him? Is he going to think I planned that? In my barely-awake daze, I jump to the worst-case scenario. 

Spencer just keeps rambling apologies and swearing up and down that he fell asleep by mistake. My disorganized words of reassurance don’t seem to be cutting through. 

“10... 9…” 

The chanting from outside our bubble only takes a moment for me to register. It’s already midnight?

“8…7…” 

Spencer still hasn’t shut up. Before I can fully realize what I’m doing, I round the bed to where he’s standing. He stops mid-sentence.

“6…5…4…” 

He hears it. He realizes. Our faces are so close; mine, angled up to his. Was I going to say something to calm him down? I don’t remember anymore. His eyes are darting across my face, mirroring my gaze. Eyes, lips. Eyes, lips. 

“3…2…1…”

Our lips crash together right as a chorus of Happy New Years and noise-makers chimes.

Spencer Reid’s lips. On mine. 

Next Chapter: New Year's Day

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI] smut, protected (condom) PiV sex, oral sex (F receiving), brief mention of being drunk or high in the past

A/N: Again, down the wire! I've been writing literally all day. It's 10 PM and I haven't yet made dinner... I wrote and edited this one basically just today?? So if there are any mistakes or I missed any warnings, pls lmk tysm. Again, credit to @saradika-graphics for the divider graphics, including the one I cropped below.

Names used: Baby

Words (this chapter): 3,734

Words (total): 5,759

The kiss is desperate, but not rough. He’s kissing me back, right? I pull my face away. He leans his forehead against mine, both of us panting into the mere inches between our lips. 

He doesn’t loosen his hold on my body. “Is everything okay? We can stop if you want.” 

“I don’t want to stop.” I grip the fabric of his shirt where my hands lie on his back. “Do you want to stop?”

His hand snakes down to my ass, splaying wide across it. He pulls my body into his, letting me feel his hardening cock.

“I really don’t want to stop,” he breathes into my neck, just below my ear, “but I have to confess something before we go any further.”

What the hell? Does he have an STI that I need to know about? Trouble keeping it up? I mean, that doesn’t seem to be a problem, but you never know. Is he already with someone? Penelope didn’t say he had a partner, but maybe he’s kept them a secret?

We both still, Spencer breathing against my neck. I’d consider it ticklish if not for the jolt it sends straight to my core.

“I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, but I was too scared to say anything.” The words come out of Spencer’s mouth. Not mine. Holy shit.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I laugh, dropping my head to Spencer’s chest in utter bewilderment. “I’ve had a crush on you since the first time we met. Penelope hasn’t stopped teasing me about it since.”

“Glad I’m not alone in that,” he laughs.

“Happy New Year, by the way,” I say, lifting my head to look at him again. Eyes, lips. Eyes, lips. 

“Happy New Year,” he breathes, hovering against my lips. Oppositely charged magnets falling in order with the laws of physics. Complying with the will of the universe.

I’ve never been kissed like this. Maybe it’s the thrill of unrequited lust finally requited, or maybe Spencer is just a really good kisser. His hands cradle my head on both sides. It’s like he could kiss you for hours and never be sick of it. Every soft, lush kiss plays against the intermittent roughness. The desperate ones, where lips are bit and tongues are engaged in the fervor. It feels wholly consuming and incomplete at the same time. 

“We don’t have to do anything else,” I say, “but to be clear, I’m definitely down if you want to.”

He shakes his head and steps back, putting distance between us. He clenches and unclenches his hands and then rubs his palms against his dress pants. 

My eyes catch on the bulge in his pants, and shamelessly, I can’t stop staring at it. I’ve imagined it before, in my most desperate, lonely moments. Right after breakups, when I’d rather escape into my imagination to soothe me. After running into him at one of Penelope’s get-togethers. I’d steal every shy glance at him, trying to memorize his features. Then I’d go home and imagine myself kissing every inch of him.

I know I probably just need a good eight to…twelve hours of sleep to clear the fog in my brain that’s making this feel like another one of my erotic daydreams. But maybe being a bit out of it is what led me to kiss him like that. If I had been at my most rational, I probably wouldn’t have.

Spencer wipes at his face. He can’t stop moving his hands. Biting a nail between his teeth. Gripping the material of his pants. Crossing and uncrossing his arms. 

“[Y/N], you have no idea how badly I want to.” My heart sinks into my stomach. There’s always a but. “But I don’t want it to happen like this.”

I nod slowly, genuinely trying to avoid letting my disappointment come across as pouting. “Okay. That’s fair.”

He looks utterly exasperated, trying to keep his hands off me, and I’ve never felt so horny and so dejected at the same time. If he didn’t clearly state that he’s into me, I can’t lie and say that I wouldn’t feel extremely rejected right now.

“I’ve thought about it before,” he says. “What it would be like… to be with you. I just don’t want the first time to be at a party, in Penelope’s guest room”

I sit back down on the bed, willing my body to cool down, but it’s a non-starter. “I’ve thought about it before. What it would be like… to be with you,” playing back in my head on an unending loop. Clenched thighs give my clit the slightest bit of attention and ease the ache every so slightly.

“I’ve thought about it too,” I say, reminiscing about the numerous dirty fantasies I’ve crafted in my head over the years. I owe far too many orgasms to my vibrator, and to imaginary Spencer praising me, begging me to cum.

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “God, this is so hard.” 

Hard, indeed. I selfishly ogle the tent in his pants again, taking advantage of the fact that he’s struggling to look in my direction. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. “Do you want to leave?”

He joins me on the edge of the mattress. Again, a respectable distance between us. 

He sighs. “If I don’t leave now, I don’t think I’ll have enough self-control to stop myself.”

Yet, he’s sitting beside me, wringing his hands in his lap. 

Before I can formulate any response, he starts. “What about when the party ends?”

“I locked the door on the way in. I didn’t want anyone barging in here trying to find the bathroom. And,” I gesture to the door, the party even louder now that the champagne is flowing, “this party doesn’t die down until three, maybe four.”

“I don’t have a condom, either,” he says quietly.

I push myself up off the bed and walk over to the bedside table. I’ve stayed in this room many times. Usually, when I get drunk or high and can’t drive home. Penelope snores. As much as I love her to bits, if she didn’t have a guest bedroom, I’d be sleeping on the couch. 

I rifle through the top drawer. A couple of individually packaged toothbrushes. A couple of mini bottles of mouthwash. Charging cables. Nope, nope, nope. 

I squat down to look through the bottom drawer, consciously arching my back and popping my ass out a bit. I know they’re in here somewhere. In the back of the drawer, tucked away, is a small, colorful zipper pouch. I’ve stumbled across this pouch before, but I can safely say that I’ve never used it. I hope nobody else has, either, honestly. Tucked inside is a roll of male condoms and a few individually packaged female condoms. 

I (mentally, emotionally, spiritually) cross my fingers as I check the date printed across the wrapper. They aren’t expired. Thank fucking god. 

I rip one off at the perforated line and place it in Spencer’s hand. 

He fiddles with the foil wrapper in his fingers. Not opening it. Just turning it in his hands.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks. “Here? Like this?”

“Before tonight, I honestly thought there was zero chance you liked me. I’ve wanted this for so long, and I’m so incredibly horny right now that it’s actually hard to think straight.” I wrap my hand around his, and he stops fidgeting. “Is there anything else?”

My question is sincere and gentle. Is there anything else that you need to reassure you that I want this? Is there anything else you need?

“I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, but I was tested after,” he says.

“I was tested after my last partner.”

I start undoing my blouse. Button by button. Lower and lower. Spencer mirrors me, undoing his crisp, blue dress shirt. Button by button. Lower and lower.

“And we can stop at any point, so please let me know if there’s anything you want or don’t want,” he says.

“Same goes for you.”

I slide my blouse off and unzip my skirt at the side. With my tights already off, I’m left in just my bra and underwear, my clothes in a pile beside the bed. Spencer takes his shirt off and his pants follow. He tries his best to quickly fold them, and in two large strides, he places them on top of the dresser. 

He turns to face me. In just his underwear, I have quite the view. I don’t even think he’s fully hard, but my mouth is watering at the outline of him. The butterflies are gone, replaced by a pang of hunger. I want to lick and taste every inch of him. The mental renderings I’ve crafted of Spencer in the past are all wiped from my memory. I have no use for them anymore. I have the real thing, actively being encoded into memory. 

He comes to stand between my legs. Still seated, his veiled cock is right in front of my face. 

“[Y/N], there’s just one more question that I have to ask first.”

I can only imagine what he sees looking down at me. As I look up at him through my lashes, my wet lips and flushed, glowing cheeks sit right next to his hard cock.

Does he know that I’ve been rocking my hips and squeezing my thighs together just to pacify my throbbing clit? 

“Can we go on a real date too sometime?” he says. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing, and I also don’t want this to ruin my chances with you.” 

I feel stupid for not thinking that far ahead. If he had just wanted this to be a one-night stand, I would have accepted that, even though I know I want more with him. 

I nod and kiss the front of his hip, earning a stuttered breath from him when my cheek grazes his bulge. 

“I’d love that, Spencer.” 

I drag my face across his covered cock. Everything about this—about him—is intoxicating. I breathe him in, my hands on his hips, and the scent feels like a drug I could get high off of. 

“Can you lie down?” he says. 

I have no objections. 

I rip my bra and underwear off as fast as I can manage, pulling my bra over my head instead of undoing the clasps. I toss them to the floor to join the rest of my clothes. I’m, maybe a bit shamelessly, too eager to waste any time. 

Spencer is standing next to the bed, naked, jaw slack, just stroking himself to nothing but my naked body. That’ll do great things for the ego. 

“You are…” he breathes, shaking his head. The words he’s missing hang somewhere in the air, but he doesn’t look away from me long enough to search for them.

He opens the foil wrapper, rolls the condom on, and crawls onto the bed between my legs. I expect him to just shove it in there, but instead, he drags two long fingers through my wetness, absolutely mesmerized.

“Perfect,” he says, staring at my pussy. “So perfect.” 

He slides one finger inside me and I gasp. It doesn’t fill me, but when he takes it out a moment later, I still mourn the emptiness. He takes the same finger into his mouth, eyes closed as he admires the taste of me. 

I’m pretty sure that I can’t get any hornier than I am at this moment. It’s physiologically impossible. 

“Please, Spencer. Fuck,” I whine. “I need you inside me.”

Quick pecks trace a line up my body, and Spencer kisses me, bodies pressed together like he’s never going to kiss me again. It’s deep, sloppy, and passionate. Moaning into each other’s mouths as I grip his hips. His cock is nestled in my center. I grind against it.

Breathless, Spencer lifts his body just enough to reach between us, guiding his cock to where we need it. 

I close my eyes as he enters me; I have to turn off one of my senses to process it. In the black void behind my eyelids, I can feel everything. I can hear everything. A choked moan at the back of my throat breaks free. He pushes in further. Spencer shifts from his hands to his elbows, using the leverage to slide in even more. 

“Oh, god. This is so much better than I imagined,” he says, his voice strained from pleasure.

Was Spencer thinking about me at the same time I was thinking about him? Like two lovers wondering if the other is gazing up at the moon at the same time. I open my eyes. The tufts of hair framing his face flop down, a few stray strands sticking to his face. The room is already warming and his skin glistens in it. 

“What did you think about? What did you imagine?” I ask.

He fills me to the hilt, and his lips find mine; the kiss a fierce declaration that this shared sensation in our bodies is indeed shared. Spencer is feeling the same utter bliss that I am, and the thought of that alone sends a spark to my core. I’m making him feel this good. 

Spencer remains unmoving, huffing breaths intermixed with muttered curses as he adjusts. The part where we’re united throbs like a beating heart, both of our bodies diverting blood from our brains to fuel this tryst. 

“I felt so ashamed thinking about you like that,” he whispers against my cheek, “not knowing if you wanted me, too.”

Pinned beneath him, I push my hips up against him as much as I can manage, desperate for more. Spencer’s eyes flutter closed as he matches my movements, his cock sliding in and out as we grind into each other.

“Did you think about what I’d feel like the first time? Because I thought about what you’d feel like inside me.”

Earning moans from Spencer feels like a gift. A secret that has been bestowed upon me. For my ears only. I want to wrap this secret up and hide it under my bed. To throw it in a box and padlock it shut. I want to place it in a fancy locket, one I hide under my shirt, tucked up safe against my skin where nobody else can reach it.

“I thought about that far too much.” He shakes his head. “But you’re even better than I could’ve imagined.”

He pumps into me a few more times, hard and fast, as our bodies take the wheel, chasing the zenith of pleasure. We move together as a duet. The song? A lullaby of moans, whimpers, and whispered praises.

With each thrust, his body presses against my clit.

“Oh my god. You feel so fucking good, Spencer.”

He reaches a hand up to the side of my face, cradling my head and stroking my cheek with his thumb. I can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks. His thumb is icy in comparison. 

“You are so fucking beautiful.” He glances at my chest, and then his eyes dart as he takes in the rest of my body. “Your body is perfect.” He peppers kisses across my lips, my shoulder, my neck. Every place his lips touch stings like I’ve been branded. “Perfect,” he breathes against my neck. 

“How did I taste?” I ask, remembering Spencer licking his finger clean.

“Addictive” is the word he chooses, and thoughts of Spencer’s head between my legs—in my own bed—consume me.

He slows, almost to a stop. “Would you mind if I…?”

I finish his trailed-off sentence, not entirely sure if I’m right on the money or not. “Go down on me?” 

He nods, and a breathy, “please,” is all I can manage to squeak out. It would be damn near impossible to think of a single reason to deny this man in his request.

Between my legs—framed like a work of art—Spencer keeps his eyes locked on my face as he trails his tongue up between my lips. 

“Oh, fuck. Oh my god. Please. Please keep going.”

He moans into my pussy, wasting no time in getting into it. 

“Can I grab your head as I get close?”

He whines, “please,” against my skin, and I tell him to pinch me if he needs me to loosen my grip. 

Spencer’s long arms wrap around my thighs, keeping me from squirming away. I’ve never had anyone go down on me like this. He is feral, barely coming up for air. I reach down to slide my fingers into his hair, feeling myself inch closer and closer by the second. He’s humping the bed, large dimples forming in his plush ass. I just want to dig my nails into it.

One arm lifts from its spot around my leg. Spencer is a man on a mission. He needs that arm, that hand, those fingers. Two fingers slide inside me, and I know I’m not going to last. I squirm against him and he lets me control the penetration, keeping his hand still. His mouth, however, continues in its relentless pursuit. 

I feel like I’ve unlocked something here. This version of Spencer is unleashed. He’s had his taste of the forbidden fruit, and he’s fully invested. 

I grip his head, needing to pull him into me. Needing to control the pressure.

“Spencer, fuck.”

“Yes, baby. Please cum in my mouth.”

“I—” is all I spit out before it hits me. A tidal wave of heat and pressure that radiates from my core. I grip Spencer’s hair between my fingers and he moans even harder. I squeeze my eyes shut so hard that, when I open them, my vision is a pinhole vignetted by fuzzy white light. His tongue continues lapping at my center until my thighs trap his head, my clit unable to take anymore. 

My whole body is tingling. Every nerve in my body is on high alert. My ab muscles twitch with each jerky breath as the lingering shockwaves work through me. 

Spencer is kissing my thighs as if each space his lips touch is better than the last. He is relishing in my body. Worshipping it. 

In this state, having cum so hard that my ears are ringing, I probably wouldn’t hesitate to declare my ardent love for him. Thankfully, I have some logic system deep in my brain that remains online and protects me from stupid mistakes like that. 

“Spencer, please. Get back inside me.”

The moan that spills from us both as he slides back inside me, my pussy still throbbing with aftershocks, should be tattooed somewhere on my body. The waveform of it or whatever. My new New Year’s resolution: get a tattoo. Add that to my other New Year’s resolution: let Spencer Reid fucking rail me in every way possible.

His thrusts are already sloppier than before. “Yes, fuck. Yes. Do you know how fucking good you taste, baby? I could eat you out for hours. So perfect.” 

I grab his jaw and kiss him, tasting myself. Tasting me and him mixed together. 

“Spencer, I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

I feel tears brimming in my eyes. Exhaustion, overwhelm, pleasure, and lust well up right at the finish line. Every sporadic back-arching thrust flutters my eyelids, pushing a small tear down both sides of my face.

“The first day I met you,” he says, struggling to get the words out fluidly, “you were the most beautiful thing. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

My hands slide to his ass, and I grip the flesh. I want my nails to leave a mark. I want to claim him as my own. 

“Cum inside me, Spencer.” 

He pounds into me, hard. The passion he showed while giving me oral is back in full force. 

His head falls into the crook of my neck as he works himself to the edge, muffling the dirty string of words that escape as he falls apart. His cock twitches hard inside me as he spills into the condom. I wish he was condomless, shooting his ropes of cum deep within me. But maybe that’s just a dirty fantasy that will never come to fruition. 

Spencer peppers me with some more kisses before getting up to discard the condom in the small trash can beside the door.

“I’ll change that garbage bag before I leave,” he says.

“I’m going to have to tell her,” I say, pulling my underwear up. “I’ll have to do some laundry for sure.” I gesture to the disheveled, dirty sheets. 

“Yeah, I know. She’s nosy, so I bet she’d figure it out regardless,” he laughs. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need. With the cleanup.”

The party noise is more subdued, but it sounds like the majority of guests are still here. The small digital alarm clock beside the bed reads 1:15 AM. 

“Wanna just wait it out?” I ask, straightening out the sheets just enough to crawl under them. “I promised Penelope I’d help her clean up, anyway.”

Spencer slips in beside me and I snuggle into his side, draping my leg over his and wrapping an arm across his chest. 

“I much prefer it in here,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple. 

I kiss him one last time, long and tender, before resting my head on his shoulder. I don’t even get a word out of my mouth before I crash once more.

A sharp knock on the door jolts me and Spencer from our very deep slumber. Morning light filters through the window, casting a warm glow across the room. I rub my eyes, swiping away the remnants of such a sleep. On the plus side, I feel fucking fantastic. Spencer sits up and stretches his arms above his head.

Another knock. Much harder.

“[Y/N]?” Penelope asks through the door.

We hop out of bed to hurriedly finish redressing ourselves.

“Shit, I fell asleep last night! I’m sorry, Pen!” I yell to her.

“Is…Spencer still in there with you?”

“Yes,” I say, annoyed. “Happy now?”

“I cleared off some space on the counter and started making breakfast whenever you two are dressed!”

Previous Chapter: New Year's Eve

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, oral sex (M & F receiving), PIV sex, unprotected sex within an established relationship, unplanned pregnancy, discussions of abortion (in a pro-choice context, though Reader ends up choosing to stay pregnant), minor mentions of alcohol and cancer.

As for the crime subplot, much of it is very canon-typical (referenced child abuse & grooming by an extended family member (non-sexual), violence, blood/gore, drugs. As always, please feel free to let me know if I miss any CWs!

A/N: This fic is obviously heavy on the Spencer and Reader relationship, but it's also got a significant Garcia best friend plot line and crime plot line. This fic also features an unplanned Reader pregnancy. Reader debates abortion and is pro-choice, but ultimately ends up keeping the pregnancy. If any of that isn't up your alley, please feel free to skip this fic!

Names used: Baby, baby girl, good/sweet/pretty girl, daddy, good boy (once), my love.

Words (this chapter): 3.7 K

Words (total): 29.1 K

It’s been 8 days since the team landed in Florida and the situation is more tense now than it was before. After the third victim was found, you and Penelope managed to crack the case as to how these unsubs were procuring their victims.

The team profiled that the dominant either is or was in the medical field. So far, that theory has proven correct. You and Penelope gained access to the victim’s computers and, after the third one, found a particular pattern. All three victims had visited a medical advice website which gave advice on ridding the body of parasites.

It wasn’t flagged with the first two victims because James MacDermott, the victim who worked in IT, was savvy with his internet history and routed any odd or explicit searches through a VPN and TOR network.

Regardless, they eventually all wound up on some hippie, detox, and toxins, medical misinformation site: Phoenix Sage’s Healing Center, located in (you guessed it) Florida. To top it all off, they advertise a healing retreat on the website.

They most likely indoctrinated the victims into a virtual cult-like relationship, further pedaling medical misinformation and making them believe that they needed detoxing or whatever.

To search engines, this site indexes as if it’s a normal, plain old medical advice website like WebMD. The domain name was registered with fake personal details and paid for with cryptocurrency. They covered their tracks quite well, but it’s only a matter of time before you find the digital breadcrumb trail.

As for the submissive unsub, he happened to be dumb enough to leave a print on the suitcase that the third vic was found in. Thankfully, he was in the system. The team’s morale really needed a win because, by the time the lab was able to lift that print and match it, a fourth victim had been found.

The submissive was, as profiled, a young, white male. Emily pegged the age at between 16 and 30, based on how savage and amateur his attacks were.

Mason Adkins was booked yesterday. He’s 21. As evidenced by his numerous hospital visits and subsequent CPS reports, Mason was abused physically, mentally, and emotionally by his stepfather growing up.

Mason’s story is pretty standard when compared to similar psychopaths. He was kicked out at 18 for using hard drugs, racking up misdemeanors, and taking his rage out on his five younger half-siblings. His last known address is the trailer park in Cedar Key where his mom, stepfather and half-siblings still reside. He must have been either homeless or crashing with a friend.

Once the print was matched, the team was able to locate him and pick him up, but he hasn’t given up the dominant yet. The victim pool should be limited to those they’ve already indoctrinated, but until you can crack any direct communications, you won’t know who else they’ve had contact with. You and Penelope have continued working from Quantico, attempting to dig into Mason’s digital footprint, but you’ve gotten nowhere substantial. It’s hard to not feel a little dejected.

Mason was definitely the techie between the two of them. According to Penelope, “It’s like he learned from the same guys I did when I was underground, except now, they’ve all gotten even better. This kid is S-M-A-R-T, smart. Well, obviously tech-smart and not street-smart, since he left prints at the scene and all… If he wasn’t a killer, they probably would have recruited him to replace you.”

“Oh, is my fancy master’s degree suddenly not good enough for the FBI?”

“I mean, I dropped out and now I’m basically your boss, and I’m student debt-free.”

“Hey, don’t bring my massive student-debt into this! Plus, I think Hotch would beg to differ on you being my boss,” you smirk.

***

Down in Florida, Spencer’s been sharing a room with Derek, so you’re primarily only able to text him. He calls one evening while you’re at home and hearing his voice feels like a little slice of heaven in this shitstorm of case.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers.

“Good evening, my love. Where’s Derek?”

“He said he was running down to the convenience store down the street. I should have about 20 minutes.”

“So… I have to tell you something that I didn’t want to get into over text. It’s not a huge deal, but I needed to tell you before you got back.”

You’re scratching at the skin around your nails; a nervous tic of yours. You grab one of your throw pillows and hug it to your chest.

“The day you guys left,” you continue, “when we had our little lunch break, Penelope saw us leaving together and connected the dots. Well, she saw us leaving together and then tracked our phones to my place and then connected the dots. So, now she knows everything.”

He sighs, not seeming to be the least bit surprised. “Do you think maybe it’s time to tell the rest of the team? If we don’t tell them soon, you know she’s going to slip up. They’ll find out one way or another.”

“She promised me she’s going to try her absolute hardest to keep it a secret.”

“Has she ever been able to keep any sort of secret that the team didn’t figure out almost immediately?”

You can hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice and you suppress a giggle.

“Very good point, Dr. Reid.”

“So, maybe we should tell them? After we get back?” he asks.

“Well, there’s another thing.” You think of how to phrase it to avoid upsetting Spencer. “The morning that you guys left for Florida, Penelope was MIA for like, over an hour. It turns out she had a meeting with Hotch and Strauss because Strauss wanted to know if the team really needs two technical analysts. That said, Hotch and Penelope defended me, and Penelope said that nobody on the team would ever let her sack me.”

“That bitch,” Spencer mutters.

“Spencer Reid! How dare you speak of our beloved Penelope Garcia in such a manner!?” you joke.

You can hear him holding back a laugh. “Yeah, well, if Strauss lets you go, she’s losing me as well. But that would be after dealing with the rest of the team. Nobody in the unit is letting you go anywhere. You’re too valuable to the team. Plus, you’re part of the family.” Spencer pauses for a moment before adding, “You’re my family.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. He’s so protective of the people he loves, which is something you’ve always admired about him.

“I know,” you say. “I just don’t want everyone to go to bat for me. Hotch and Penelope already had to. Emily’s already threatened me in the past if I tried to leave. She said that she’d personally hunt me down and drag me back if I got another job.”

“That sounds about right for Emily.” You hear in Spencer’s voice that he’s smiling at your anecdote. “We knew that this time would come and maybe we should get ahead of it and tell them ourselves.”

“I’ll think about it, and we can talk about it more when you get back, okay? It feels like all I can think about is this case right now, even when I leave work.”

“Try to distract yourself or have Penelope come over to keep you company. You can’t be thinking about the case 24/7.”

“Hypocrite,” you mutter, causing Spencer to bite down a laugh.

The silence between topics is both anxious and peaceful. Talking to Spencer as his girlfriend and not his coworker is rejuvenating your soul. But you don’t want to hang up.

“Hey,” he says, his tone shifting in that single word, instantly darkening, “when I get back, I’m going to do some very bad things to you.”

You roll your head to the side with a loud groan.

“Don’t go getting me all worked up right now,” you whine. “I need to sleep!”

“Fine, fine! You keep working hard up there so we can close this case. I’ll be home before you know it and then you can fall asleep in my arms. Okay, baby?”

“Okay. Catch this son of a bitch, Spence.”

“I can only do that with your help.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Like I said, this team needs you. Garcia alone was great, obviously, but you and Garcia together are the dream team of technical analysts.”

You allow yourself pride for a moment.

“We kind of are, aren’t we?”

He giggles and you just wish you could squeeze his cheeks and kiss him endlessly.

“I love you,” he says.

“Love you, Spence. Sweet dreams.”

***

After hanging up the phone, you head back into your bathroom, picking up the unused pregnancy test from the counter. Your period is 2 days late. Periods are late or missed for all sorts of reasons, though, right?

Your cycle is usually pretty regular, but there were a few days this month where you forgot to take your pill until later in the day. Maybe that threw off your hormones? Stress can throw off your cycle too, right? What if you have some sort of cancer? Flashes of possible yet improbable future timelines whisk through your head as you repeatedly tap the unopened test against the palm of your hand. The rattle of the foil wrapper is both soothing and grating.

Okay, focus.

Taking a test will be good peace of mind. Let’s just rule that one possibility out, to start. The test will be negative and then you can worry about hormonal imbalances and cancer later. Irony says that your period will come as soon as you finish taking this thing, anyway.

You take the test out of its wrapper and grab the small plastic cup you’d already prepared before Spencer called.

You pee into the cup, filling it about halfway before setting it onto some paper towel on the counter.

You wipe, pull your underwear back up, and stare at the yellow liquid in the cup on your counter. This test will either bring you a ton of relief or it will…

That’s a train of thought that you can’t entertain right now.

“Breathe, Y/N,” you whisper into the empty apartment. A silent prayer to your body, asking it to calm down so you don’t have a panic attack.

Basically every woman has taken a pregnancy test when their period was late. It’s no big deal. The stick goes into the pee. Easy as that.

You pick up the warm plastic cup in one hand and the test in the other. It’s as if you have tunnel vision right now. You watch as the urine is rapidly wicked up the test before flowing across the display portion. After the seven seconds have passed (as per the instructions) you put the cap back on the test and place it on the counter, covering it with its wrapper.

You set a 5-minute timer and dump the rest of the cup’s contents into the toilet. You press the handle on the toilet and with the whoosh of the flush, you realize that you can hear your blood pumping in your ears; the thump, thump, thump of your heart pounding.

You wash your hands and grab your phone off the counter, trying not to catch a glance at the time left.

4 minutes, 19 seconds.

In just your comfy, oversized sleep t-shirt and your underwear, you flop down onto your bed. Your head feels like spinning with a dizzying whir.

Before you can even fully register what you’re doing or stop yourself, you’re dialing Penelope.

“This better be important because you made me lose track of how many stitches I was at in this row!”

You can’t even begin to stop the words from flowing out of you.

“I took a pregnancy test, and it’s probably negative, but can you please come over because I can hear my heart beating in my head, and I can just really use the moral support right now—”

“Y/N.” Her demeanor has entirely shifted from only a moment ago. “Hey, it’s okay. I can be over in a jiffy. Just let me throw my shoes on and grab my purse. Don’t look at it until I get there, okay?”

Penelope hangs up the phone before you even have a chance to respond. She’s always extremely quick to action when needed, which is a part of why she’s so good at her job. You’re the one who’s more likely to freeze up first. This is a great example of that.

She uses her key to let herself into your apartment and finds you laying on your bed—in the same spot you called her from.

“You didn’t look yet, did you?” she yells.

“No. I waited for you. The timer went off like three minutes ago.”

She sits down on the bed beside you, and you sit up to meet her.

“Do you feel ready to look?” she asks, quietly.

“I don’t know. I know it’s just nerves, but as soon as I took that test, I felt like I was going to pass out.” You take a deep breath and attempt to collect yourself a bit more before asking the question you know you need to. “Do you think you could look at it for me, Pen?”

“Oh, Y/N, of course.”

She wraps you in a big, warm hug, allowing you to focus on relaxing your breathing and slowing your heart rate. These big, long, calming hugs are something else you two came up with as a tool for managing the nature of your job. Huddle hugs, you call them. The time and space for connection with each other, and for calming your bodies. You know that she won’t pull away until you do, so once you feel some of the tension in your chest ease and the fog in your brain lift, you pull away and give her a thankful smile.

She goes into the bathroom and grabs the test off the counter, bringing the wrapper with it in order to keep it covered. She takes her spot next to you again and that shaky, tense feeling in your chest is quickly flooding back in. Your eyes are locked forward, purposefully keeping your gaze away from the test in her hands.

She gently places a hand on your back and rubs small, calming circles. “How do you want me to do this?”

“I just can’t look.” You grab a pillow from the head of your bed and clutch it to your chest. “I think you need to just rip the Band-Aid off before I lose my mind.”

You shut your eyes and bury your face in the pillow. Attempting to focus on calming yourself is only mildly successful for a moment, but as soon as you hear the crinkle of the wrapper, all bets are off.

The thuds of your speeding heart pumping blood throughout your body flood your hearing once again. Are you even breathing? You suddenly become aware that you’re not getting any fresh air with your face in this pillow.

The one time you don’t want to think about Spencer, memories of him clutter your consciousness. His perfect lips, even when they’re a bit chapped because he doesn’t listen to your advice about carrying lip balm. He always kisses you as if he’s thanking you for loving him, simultaneously telling you how much he loves you. The peaceful warmth that fills your chest when he’s holding you. Hearing him say your name first thing, every single morning—without fail—in his groggy, deep morning voice.

All you can think about is Spencer.

Penelope’s voice barely cuts through the fog, but once it does, your mind quiets completely.

“Honey…”

You immediately knew. You didn’t have to look at the test to know it was positive. She didn’t even have to say it outright. One word. Her single word was all you needed.

Tears immediately break free and flood your vision as you lift your head, only to turn and hide it in Penelope’s neck as she engulfs you in a big hug. Her shed tears drip onto your neck and you both start sobbing at the same time.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she struggles to get her words out through jagged breaths, “I promise, Y/N.”

You just hug her tighter in response.

Penelope knows that you have hopes to become a mother one day. But she also knows that your life is chaotic right now. Hell, she only found out about your secret relationship a little over a week ago. Regardless of whether this pregnancy is wanted or not, she knows that it’s definitely unplanned.

As she holds you, you silently thank the universe for Penelope figuring out your secret when she did, because you can’t imagine you going through this alone.

“We’ve almost caught this son of a bitch. Now, we have even more motivation to get his ass in handcuffs, because then we can throw the goddamn book at him, lock him the fuck up, and throw away the fucking key. Okay!?” Penelope says.

She never swears this much. You wipe your cheeks with your hands and nod in reply. Her impassioned pep-talk may be working, at least a little. Both of you are sniffling as you try to stop crying.

“I can’t lie and say you’re the toughest person I know, because I think we’re all aware that my pick for that title would be one, Mr. Derek Morgan.” She throws her hands up and finally gets a tiny giggle out of you. “But, after the rest of team, you’re the toughest, strongest, bravest, most resilient, most courageous, most…,” she gestures with her hands, as if the word is on the tip of her tongue, but you know she’s just trying to think of more adjectives, “most amazing, and most beautiful person I know.”

You half roll your eyes as you smile. Obviously, every member of your team, especially those in the field, are the toughest people you know. You still appreciate her sentiment and that she managed to make you laugh right now.

She lovingly brushes your hair off of your face, tucking it behind your ears. “We’ll make it through until he comes back, and then you guys can figure this out, okay?”

You let out a gigantic sigh, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes until you see static. You thought keeping this relationship a secret from the BAU for so long was a challenge. How are you going to keep this secret?

“What if Spencer calls?” you ask. “How the hell am I going to keep that in, or at minimum, not give myself away? Why are we both so bad at keeping secrets!?”

“I’m not sure, but I bet an astrologer would tell us that it’s something to do with our star signs, or something. At least we know that you’re a better secret-keeper than I am?”

Penelope thinks for a moment, but a solution comes to her fairly quickly. “How about I just stay here until the case is over and follow you around like a little lapdog? Then, if he calls, I’ll make sure you’re not giving yourself away! Easy-peasy!”

You know her forced confidence is in order to make you feel better, but it really is helping right now.

“You’ll just find any excuse to stay over at my place, huh?”

“There’s a reason that I have a second toothbrush in your bathroom already. I staked my claim here first and Spencer’s lucky I love him, because I wouldn’t be giving you up to just any man without a fight.”

You pull her in for another big hug.

“Now that I think about it,” she says, “this probably explains why you cried when we watched Finding Nemo the other night.”

“Shit,” you laugh. “That really does make more sense now. That movie has a bunch of sad parts, though!”

“It’s okay, my sweet little cherub. I don’t know a lot about pregnancy, nor do I want to, but I know that you’ve got a lot of funky hormone stuff going on right now. I’m sure Spencer will give you the rundown of exactly which hormones are doing what when he gets home.”

He probably will. Well, if he wants to keep it, that is. You aren’t even sure what you want yet. Maybe it’s just the shock and as soon as that clears, you’ll know? You just wish that Spencer was here to talk to. It’s so scary and having zero clue how he’ll feel makes it even more frightening. Without Penelope helping you down from the worst of the shock…?

“Pen, thank you.” You nod and smile, feeling your face heat as you get emotional again. “I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you right now. I probably would have passed out on the bathroom floor if you hadn’t lessened the blow for me.”

You pick the test up from the floor, where Penelope must have dropped it after seeing the result. You haven’t looked at it with your own two eyes yet. Flipping it over, your vision immediately tunnels to that little blue plus sign, everything in your peripheral a blur. It feels like you’re holding the weight of the world in your hands. Penelope wraps her arm around you and leans her head against yours.

“I was gonna say ‘Anytime!’, but then I realized that I’d hope accidental pregnancies don’t become a regular occurrence within our friendship.”

Her joke grounds you a bit and you blink yourself out of your trance. You hand the test towards her.

“You next?” you ask, a small smirk forming on your face. She takes it from you and places it on the bed beside her.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Not unless another coworker of ours finally gives in to his desires for me, because we would have some gorgeous babies.”

“If we were at work, you’d be getting the time-out bean bag chair right now for that,” you say.

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Tag list (Add yourself to my tag list!): @iniyalovesall, @lover-of-books-and-tea, @hiireadstuff, @batrensworld, @wietske27, @pleasantwitchgarden, @aliteralsemicolon, @alizzleflo (broken), @thatredlipped-classic, @mggreidsreads, @flow33didontsmoke, @placidus, @thebloomingeagle (broken), @kbaby-024

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, oral sex (M & F receiving), PIV sex, unprotected sex within an established relationship, unplanned pregnancy, discussions of abortion (in a pro-choice context, though Reader ends up choosing to stay pregnant), minor mentions of alcohol and cancer.

As for the crime subplot, much of it is very canon-typical (referenced child abuse & grooming by an extended family member (non-sexual), violence, blood/gore, drugs. As always, please feel free to let me know if I miss any CWs!

A/N: This fic is obviously heavy on the Spencer and Reader relationship, but it's also got a significant Garcia best friend plot line and crime plot line. This fic also features an unplanned Reader pregnancy. Reader debates abortion and is pro-choice, but ultimately ends up keeping the pregnancy. If any of that isn't up your alley, please feel free to skip this fic!

Names used: Baby, baby girl, good/sweet/pretty girl, daddy, good boy (once), my love.

Words (this chapter): 4.1 K

Words (total): 29.1 K

Pulling up to the FBI Academy for the first time was quite intense. You had only moved to Virginia two days prior, and your apartment consisted of a mattress on the floor and stacks of boxes all over the place. When you pulled them out of the box the night before, deep wrinkles littered your white blouse and black pencil skirt. Thank god you had thought ahead and put an iron and ironing mat in with your box of work clothes. First impressions are important.

Penelope had prepped you on what to expect for your first day. Security was a lot, but knowing what to expect definitely made the process easier. Your new boss was the first one to greet you as you stepped out of the elevator.

“You must be Y/N.” He reached his hand out to shake yours, which you promptly took. His handshake was firm, but not at all aggressive; a fine line that he straddled well. “I’m your Unit Chief, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. Penelope Garcia has told us so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope!”

“Oh, of course. Everyone should be free right now, so I’ll gather them and introduce you.”

Penelope had told you all about every member of the team, both casually, before you got hired, and after, in order to prepare you. It was strange to put faces to the names you had heard so much about. Penelope didn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone, but she did give you some warnings about everyone’s… quirks.

Everyone was very kind as they greeted you, but you couldn’t help but notice the timid guy, about your age, keeping some distance and standing off to the side. Penelope had told you about one, Dr. Spencer Reid, but the image you had crafted of him in your head wasn’t matching up with reality.

Your eyes kept drifting over to him and Derek must have noticed.

“Kid, stop being shy and get over here!” he said to Reid.

To you, he whispered, “I’m not sure if Penelope has told you about our little Einstein, but he gets nervous around pretty ladies.” The way he had said it wasn’t at all flirty towards you; he was slyly ridiculing Spencer.

Spencer put a hand out for you to shake. As he stood in front of you, shaking your hand, what you had been told about him was blending into the reality of him. Nerdy, ‘Boy Genius’ meets attractive FBI agent.

His light brown hair—mostly wavy, besides a few distinct curls—was just at the length where he was having to brush it off his face. His hazel eyes, framed by glasses, appeared to subtly shift in tone as his face moved. He wore a cardigan over his dress shirt and his tie was slightly too loose; not crisp and neat like Hotch’s was.

He wasn’t even physically your type, really. The guys you slept with in college tended to be athletic and more of the douchey frat bro type.

Your high school was small, and you were the lame girl who would spend her lunches hidden away in the computer lab coding. Teenagers can be cruel, and you weren’t exactly the epitome of popular. In senior year, you’d decided that when you got to college, you’d “fake it ‘til you make it” in regard to confidence. Turns out, guys found your confidence hot; they didn’t care what your major was. You never quite “made it” with your confidence, though. You just kept faking. It was tiring.

You never dated in college because you could only keep the façade up for so long, and once you felt yourself becoming invested in a guy and wanting something real, you ran. In therapy, you’ve since worked through a lot of that, thankfully. But meeting Spencer was what got you to delve into that aspect of your past with your therapist—something you only realized later, when you started dating him.

Love at first sight doesn’t exist, but from that first meeting with Spencer, there was some sort of spark. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. You just felt something when he shook your hand.

“Dr. Spencer Reid. Nice to finally meet you,” he said, his eyes avoiding meeting yours.

***

The door to Penelope’s apartment opens and standing before you is your best friend, already in her pajamas and fluffy unicorn slippers. Her face is a bit puffy. She’s been crying.

You lift up the reusable shopping bag you’re carrying to draw attention to it. “You go sit while I put these away and get changed, all right?”

With the ice cream in the freezer, the wine in the fridge, and your pajamas on, you regroup with Penelope in the living room. She’s on the couch, wrapped in one of her many throw blankets. The TV is playing reruns of a show you know she doesn’t even watch, but the background noise is appreciated. You reach down and grab a blanket for yourself from the basket she keeps them in and settle into the opposite end of the couch.

Penelope blankly stares at the TV, making no effort to address you. Knowing your best friend, you’d guess that she wants you to start this conversation. She hates confrontation even more than you do, somehow.

The show on the TV dances across your field-of-view, but you have no clue what’s happening on it. It’s time to put on your big-girl-pants and go for it.

“Please, just spill,” you say. “I can’t stand seeing you like this and I’ve been a nervous wreck all day because of it.” Your words come out soft. “What did I do? I genuinely have no clue what I did wrong.”

Taking a throw pillow from the couch, you hug it to your chest as if it can shield you from whatever she’s going to say.

“You and Reid.”

Shit.

An enormous sigh falls out of you, and you aren’t sure if it’s relief that your secret is finally out of the bag or that you finally know what’s wrong. Regardless, that’s enough confirmation for Penelope.

“How long?” she continues, before you can even start.

The guilt of having hidden this from her for so long has been weighing on you much more than you previously realized, and now it’s all come to a head.

“Fourteen months. A little over a year,” you say, “Penelope I’m so—”

“Stop,” she cuts you off and begins to cry as she continues. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to find out that your best friend has been lying to you about something this big? And Spencer’s been lying to me, too! Does anyone else know!?”

Seeing her this hurt is killing you. You should have told her sooner. If you had a sister, you probably would have told her a long time ago. You’re an only child and Penelope isn’t super close with her stepbrothers, so you’d determined that you must be twin flames or something like that. Soul sisters, maybe.

“You’re the only person at work that knows. Even outside of work, only his mom and my parents know. When this started, we took things slow. We were casual for like, a month or so and we obviously weren’t going to tell anyone about that. Once we started dating, we thought it made more sense to keep it between us; to avoid comments and eyes on us at work, you know? We kept things entirely professional at work. Neither of us was sure that it was going to last and, if it didn’t, we could navigate working together as exes, but we didn’t want to navigate the entire unit knowing that we were exes.”

You shrug your shoulders and let out a defeated breath. “Regardless, look at what happened this morning with your meeting. I know that the team wouldn’t let anything happen to me or Spence, but if Strauss wants to play games and threaten someone’s job…?”

You don’t even need to answer that question because Penelope already knows that an intimate workplace relationship would put a target on your back with Erin.

“But you know you can trust me. Why didn’t you trust me?”

“I should have,” you nod. “It’s not that I actively distrusted you, Pen. I swear.” You reach out from your blanket cocoon and grab her hand, which she reciprocates. “I think that, after we decided that we wanted to make an attempt at something serious between us, we wanted to be able to focus on that without any external influence, especially from anyone at work. And it’s definitely been a lot of work. I love him so much, but with our jobs and our schedules…? We’ve both had to fight to find the alone time and the space where we can just be a couple.”

Penelope starts gently rubbing the palm of your hand with her thumb and her face softens with a feeble smile.

“You love our boy wonder?”

You mirror her expression with your own shy smile as you reflect on your partner.

“I love him so much. I mean, you know how amazing he is. I definitely don’t need to tell you that. He’s such an amazing boyfriend, though, too. I always feel happy and safe when I’m with him. He’s always teaching me new things and I know the team just wants him to shut up sometimes when he goes all Professor Reid at work, but I could listen to him talk for hours. When we’re together, sometimes I just let him ramble while I knit. He’s my free audiobook,” you giggle.

The smile on both of your faces has brightened and you’ve slowly shifted closer to each other on the couch throughout the conversation. Penelope grabs your other hand and lovingly squeezes it.

“You know how much I love you and I’m so, so happy that you’re this happy. The Good Doctor has good taste too, it seems.” There’s some wistfulness in her expression as her eyes meet yours again. “I just really wish you had told me, so I didn’t have to find out like this.”

Your demeanor rapidly shifts into perplexity as you remember that Penelope never explained the discovery to you. “Wait, how did you figure it out, anyway!? You never told me!”

An air of pride washes over her. “Well, you may have fooled an entire unit of profilers, but as we both know, my dear Y/N, I’m the divine being from which no secrets can be kept …for longer than one year—give or take.”

You giggle, always pleased by how easily she can make you laugh.

“Okay, now, Miss Divine Being, tell me how it actually happened,” you prod.

She rolls her eyes and begins narrating her version of today’s events to you. “So, I was already back at my desk when I got your text saying that you were going home for lunch. I was so surprised, because I was like, ‘I didn’t know Y/N was leaving! I was going to offer to buy her lunch from her favorite fancy French café down the road as an apology for stressing her out this morning!’”

This woman’s flair for the dramatics is showing, but you can’t even complain because you’re already thoroughly entertained.

She continues, “I didn’t want to text you to ask if you had already left, in case you were on your bike. No distracted cycling for you! So, I checked the security camera that’s in the bike cage of the parking lot, and I saw that your bike was still locked up! Maybe you were still making your way down to your bike, I thought. So I totally didn’t check the very precise geolocation of your work phone, because that would totally be crossing a line and very much against policy, right?”

Your jaw drops open. Are you entirely surprised? No. Disappointed in her? Yes.

“Anyway, I learned that you were up on the 2nd floor of the parking garage. Weird, right? I pull up the 2nd floor parking garage security feed—which, I very much am allowed to do—and what do I see?”

You try extremely hard to hold back a smirk as the full picture of her discovery comes together in your mind.

She claps her hands together. “I see my best friend getting into the car of none other than Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“So, that’s it? You saw me get into Spencer’s car and your Spidey-senses just knew?”

“I put two and two together, Y/N! Well, first, I thought about the reasons you would lie to me about going home for lunch in order to go somewhere with Reid, but I couldn’t figure out where you would want to go with him.”

“Penelope Garcia!” you gasp. “Did you track my work phone all the way to my house?”

“I also tracked Reid’s phone,” she quietly admits. “Both of you sneaking off to your apartment was enough for me to figure out there was some hanky-panky going down.”

“Well, I hadn’t seen him in a week, and he was about to leave again on this case, so we needed—”

She plugs her ears with her fingers. “Nuh, uh! I don’t need to hear any more of that. I’m still processing the dating thing, so please spare me the dirty details!”

You crack open the wine and ice cream you brought while catching up on the Bachelorette, yelling at the screen whenever something outrageous happens (which is often). You skip out on the wine, though, because you’ve got to be able to wake up for work tomorrow. One glass and you’d be zonked.

After getting in bed, you and Penelope lie facing each other. You’ve worked through a lot tonight, but something still feels unsettled for some reason.

You speak in a whisper, breaking the silence. “Pen, I’m sorry I never told you. I wish that I had been the one to tell you versus you finding out like that.”

“My little pumpkin pie, it’s okay.” She gently pinches your cheek. “To be fair, I shouldn’t have tracked your phone. I should have just waited until you got back after lunch and just asked you about it.”

“Yeah, probably,” you laugh. “I’m not telling Hotch, but you know you’ve got to apologize to Spencer later, right? For tracking his phone, too?”

She nods. “I know. I’ll talk to him once you tell him that I know so I can apologize.”

You know she will. She screwed up, but her heart is always in the right place.

“Neither of us are perfect, that’s for sure. Think about it this way, though. Yes, you fucked up, but at least you came clean immediately and didn’t lie to me for over a year, right?” you joke.

Penelope laughs alongside you. “You only lied to protect your relationship. Now that I’ve had a hot minute to process that my best-friend-slash coworker has been secretly dating my other best-friend-slash-coworker,” she pauses to take a breath and you have to pull your lips between your teeth to prevent a giggle, “you know I could never, ever fault you for that.”

Only a beat passes before she continues, asking, “Can you promise me something?”

“Promise you what, Pen?”

“No more secrets,” she says, “for either of us. You’re my best friend in the whole world.” In the faint glow of pink lava lamp light contrasting the pale moonlight shining in through the window, you see the reflection of her eyes becoming glossy. “We got through this, but in the future, let me in. Let me be by your side.”

You feel your face heating as your already dim vision gets blurrier.

“Yeah. Okay. But, now that you know, we need to have more girl’s nights and sleepovers so I can keep you up to date on things. If we talk too much at work, one of us will slip up in front of someone.”

“You mean, I’d slip up, and I totally get that because I would definitely be the one to accidentally spill the beans.”

“And I’m trusting you not to. Think you can do that for me, Pen?”

“You know I can’t promise that with a 100%, money-back guarantee because I’m me,” her gentle smile is faintly illuminated, “but I’ll definitely try my best.”

You know you could never ask for anything more from Penelope. It’s the way her brain works, and you couldn’t ask her to change that without fundamentally changing who she is, and you love her as-is. If she accidentally slipped up, it would suck, but it also wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world or anything.

“Hey, I love you, Pen”

She reaches up and taps the tip of your nose.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

You both roll onto your backs. The air feels lighter.

“So, when are you gonna tell the team?” she asks.

“I’m not too sure, honestly. Things are just so good right now and I’m scared to change too much. I’m also scared to paint that big, bright target on my back, you know? I can’t have Strauss or hell, even Hotch thinking that I’m less competent at my job because of my relationship with Spencer.”

Penelope takes a moment before asking, “What about Spencer? How does he feel about it?”

“Now, I think he’s a bit more ready than I am. In the beginning, he was the one who had more to lose by telling the team, especially before we became official, official. I was still relatively new to the team then, but he had known everyone for years and he didn’t want everyone’s perception of him to change so drastically.”

“Well, whenever you decide to tell the team, you know everyone’s going to be really happy for you, right? You both are a part of the BAU family.”

“Yeah, I know. I think we’ve just gotten so comfortable hiding that the idea of everything being out in the open is scary. Thank you for everything, though, Pen.”

She reaches over and grasps your hand with hers. You squeeze back; your silent reassurance to each other that everything is going to be okay, no matter what.

***

“Dr. Spencer Reid. Nice to finally meet you,” he said.

Every time his eyes flicked back to your face, it felt raw. You had to look away. You felt naked.

After that awkward introduction, the first six or seven months of working at the FBI were uneventful, as far as any sort of relationship between you and Spencer. You primarily only left your cave of an office to go to the bathroom, to make coffee, or for case briefs, anyway.

You did see him a few times outside of work, though. Dave had invited everyone over to his place for dinner a few times, and there were a handful of times that the team got drinks at the bar after work. He didn’t ignore you and you didn’t ignore him per se, but you still didn’t interact a whole lot. You grew closer to the rest of the team over those months, but not to Spencer.

Even with that first flicker of something when you met him, you knew you couldn’t pursue Spencer, even if you wanted to. Even if he were somehow attracted to you, you couldn’t date a coworker, especially not when you had barely been there half-a-year.

You reminded yourself that you were given the chance work with your best friend and to actually make some positive change in the world. You couldn’t willingly choose to fuck that up over some guy, especially when you weren’t even sure how you felt about him. Sure, he was an attractive guy. But being around Spencer felt like looking at a statue behind glass; close in proximity, but entirely untouchable. Entirely unreachable. What did he even feel like?

Everything changed the day you were caught sobbing in the bathroom. That day, the glass shattered before you and you reached out to touch. It was early afternoon and the usual ambiance of the office had quieted, most people out to lunch or heads-down at their desk, enjoying the peace and quiet.

The large pane of mirrored glass spanning the wall above the bathroom sinks made you feel as though you were in a funhouse; you, the clown. You dabbed at the black mascara stains under your eyes as you tried to somewhat-preserve your makeup, but you couldn’t hold back the tears. It turned into whack-a-mole, but with smeared mascara.

There were two quick knocks on the bathroom door before it opened, ever so slightly.

“I’m not coming in,” the male voice declared, clearing his throat, “but, is everything– uh, are you okay… in there?”

You froze. “Reid?”

“Y/N?” he asked in return. “I didn’t know who was in there, but I heard the crying.”

“Shit.” You covered your mouth. “Sorry, I mean, uh–” Fuck. “I didn’t realize I was so loud, sorry. I’m fine.”

“Oh, okay.”

He went quiet for a second and neither of you moved a muscle. It was so awkward and the only noise to fill the silence was the buzz of the fluorescent bathroom lights.

“Do you want me to go find Garcia?” he asked.

“No. She, uh– She left for lunch a few minutes ago.”

“Oh. Well, sorry for… intruding.”

“It’s fine. Thanks for checking on me, Reid.”

“If you need or, uh, if you want someone to talk to, you know where I’ll be.”

He gave a couple seconds before closing the door, his footsteps growing fainter as he walked away.

A few minutes later, you returned to your office to a sticky note on your desk which read:

“Here’s my personal number if you ever need a listening ear. I hope everything’s okay.”

You: “Hi, Spencer. It’s Y/N. Just got your note. Do you have a few minutes to swing by my office?”

You had figured the least you could do was explain and thank him for reaching out. Your text went unanswered, but about a minute later, he knocked on your door.

You explained that you were crying because you overheard two security guards making fun of the way you and Penelope dress. You see those two guards every morning at the security checkpoint on your way in. While you were on your way to grab stuff from the printer, you heard them joking with each other around the corner.

“I know it’s a really stupid thing to cry over. It’s just clothes. I didn’t want to tell Penelope though, obviously.”

“That’s a completely valid thing to cry over, in my book,” he said, his tone completely free of judgment.

“What, like you ever cry?” you joked.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he laughed. “You’re good, don’t worry.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for checking up on me and to explain. It was nothing serious. I’m fine.”

As he turned to leave, half in your office and half out, he said something that immediately had you reconsidering how you felt about him. “I’m glad you’re better. If you ever need to chat or something though, you can always text my personal cell. And, for what it’s worth, I think you look great.” His tone was probably more suggestive than he had intended because he panicked a bit as soon as the words left his mouth. “Your outfit, I mean!”

His simple compliment felt like that first flicker; like a spark. This spark went straight into the pit of your stomach, though. When he tried to backpedal, it was like a baby deer, fumbling while trying to walk on ice; adorable.

You and Spencer first began texting that night. The texts rapidly turned into mini-essays back and forth, replying to the numerous topics of the previous lengthy text. Texting turned into nightly phone calls. What started out as a practical shift to save your fingers from falling off turned into your nightly comfort. In contrast to the quick glances you began to give each other at work, his voice, quiet and sleepy coming through the speaker on your phone, felt intimate. You knew you were getting a side of him that nobody else at work was getting. His walls fell down before your very eyes, and it was extremely hot.

Two weeks after the initial text, Spencer was in your apartment. Two hours after that, he was in your bed. Two months later (Spencer would remember exactly how many days) you had the “so what are we to each other?” conversation.

It was never just hooking up though. It had been more than that from the start and you both knew it.

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Tag list (Add yourself to my tag list!): @lover-of-books-and-tea, @hiireadstuff, @batrensworld, @wietske27, @pleasantwitchgarden, @aliteralsemicolon, @alizzleflo (broken), @thatredlipped-classic, @mggreidsreads, @flow33didontsmoke, @placidus, @iniyalovesall (broken)

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, friends with benefits, oral sex (F receiving), PIV sex, condomless sex, IUD birth control, mention of abortion (in the context of being on the same page prior to sex), riding, soft dom M, praise kink F.

This fic is quite emotionally heavy, and both Spencer and Reader delve deep into past traumas. None is current. If any of these topics may be triggering or upsetting to you, please skip this one: child abuse, child abandonment, attachment issues, foster care, adoption, CPS, bullying, trust issues, mental health issues, misunderstandings, ghosting, and Reader mentions that she possibly committed emotional infidelity in the past, thinking about Spencer while with another partner.

Names used: Baby, good girl

Words (this chapter): 6,118

Words (total): 12,462

The world stills as Spencer cuts the engine of his car in the parking spot beside yours. Being a chilly fall evening, you chose to wait in your car. You only had to wait a minute for him to pull in after you, but your car is already an almost-uncomfortable level of cool without the heat blasting. 

The short drive to your house was silent and full of more reflection than you had expected. Thinking about fucking Spencer again was exciting. Will he be as submissive as he used to be? You got wetter and squirmed in your car seat just thinking about how Spencer used to beg for praise; beg to be told what a good boy he was being. Has he developed any new kinks? Maybe he’ll be more dominant and instruct you to get on your knees and suck? Fuck. You want it all with him.

That’s the problem, though. You want it all with him. A sense of dread quickly overshadows thoughts of the act. Every thought about sex with Spencer brings up other scenarios. Cuddling and watching movies with him, just like the olden days. Grocery shopping with him every week, because when you did it together, it didn’t feel like such a chore. His soft, featherlight kisses as you woke up. He didn’t want to wake you too fast. He just wanted to kiss you. Showering with him after sex. You both justified it as common sense. You were both sweaty and gross. Why take two separate showers? But those showers always turned into washing each other, making out, laughing together…

Conversely, you thought about your life now. How lonely your couch, bed, and shower are. How much you still despise grocery shopping alone. Thinking about how things were with him in college, your chest swells with warmth, but your throat tightens up.

You push your car door open, the crisp air sending a chill straight to your bones. Spencer follows you inside.

You flip a light switch, illuminating your open-concept kitchen and living room. You turn on only the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen, keeping the harsh overhead lights off. The space is dimly lit by the glow from the kitchen.

“This place is really nice,” he says, looking around as he hangs his jacket up in your entryway. You kick your smart, chunky heels off, letting them stay wherever they fall. Spencer slips his Converse off before picking them up and placing them in an empty spot on your shoe rack. He still wears the same type of shoes. Not at all surprising. This pair looks so worn and dirty, though. He badly needs a new pair.

He loosely points to the art hanging over your couch and stills. 

“You still have that painting?”

You look at the painting on the wall, only about the size of standard printer paper. The frame is too small to fill the space on the wall and it clashes with your current decor, but you’ve never wanted to take it down. 

After a difficult final exam season, Spencer gifted it to you. Shy, quiet Spencer reached out to a Fine Arts student and commissioned a watercolor painting of Pemberley House from the 1995 BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. Pride and Prejudice is on the list of your all-time favorite novels—a list that is far too long. How can anyone have a single favorite novel? Reading Pride and Prejudice over and over is one of the reasons you survived high school. It was a familiar world to escape into. When it felt like there was a tornado of chaos ripping through the town called Your Life, letting your mind run away to Longbourn and Pemberley gave you just enough strength to make it through each day. There was something so comforting about reading the final word of a book and then turning back to the first page again. That’s how you learned the tremendous strength of the written word.

“I like it,” you say. “I wasn’t going to throw it out just because it made me think of you.”

Your words fail to convey just how much you love that piece. Whether intentional or not, you aren't sure.

“I’m glad you liked it enough to keep it all these years.” 

The flirty, light conversation at the coffee shop is gone, replaced by awkward, restless apprehension. Making a move now, in the privacy of your home, is definitive. It isn’t conceptual anymore. It’s real. 

“Spencer, can we chat?” you ask, gesturing to your couch.

His brows furrow in concern and he stands straighter, following you to your couch. “Yeah, of course.” 

Sitting next to Spencer on the couch, you know you’ve made the right decision. Even if this doesn’t go the way you want it to, you need to say your piece. 

Before you can start, Spencer says, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, just to make that clear.”

A small smile flashes across your face. “I appreciate that, Spence, but that isn’t—” 

Spence. Your old nickname for him.

“That isn’t what I need to bring up,” you continue. “On the drive over here, I started thinking some more about how things were between us in college. The sex was obviously great. But as you know, it was never just sex for either of us, and we didn’t set the proper boundaries for a friends with benefits relationship. We did a lot of boyfriend-girlfriend type stuff together, and feelings got confused.”

Spencer stays quiet and nods as you speak. 

“My feelings weren’t confused, though. Not about you, at least. I fell in love with you. I loved you. The confused part was me not knowing how to deal with those feelings.”

After a momentary lull in the conversation, Spencer says, “I mean, I don’t have to tell you how in love with you I was back then. I wasn’t very good at hiding it. I just wish I had been.”

“Spencer, if it helps, I did feel that love from you, even though I wasn't able to accept it properly. And though I left, I think that the love that I felt for you is what's kept you in my head all these years. Look, we haven’t seen each other in many years. I’m really glad we got to clear up a lot of loose threads tonight, but I realized on the drive over here that I can’t sleep with you if it’s just going to be a hookup.”

Testing the waters, you gingerly place a hand on his arm. He doesn’t flinch or try to move. 

Gathering all the courage from within you, you say, “I want to be with you. I want to be in a relationship with you. For real, this time. It doesn’t have to be right this second and we can keep getting to know—”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I want to be in a relationship with you.”

“…Like, now?”

The weight of the room lifts from your chest as he breathes a laugh. “Yes, now. Unless you’ve become some entirely different person since college—which I highly doubt you have—I want you, Y/N. I’ve wanted you since college. I need you to be honest with me, though. I need you to tell me if you feel an urge to pull away or if I’m being too much. I need you to communicate with me. That’s all I ask going into this. We can work through things together, but I’m not a mind reader.” 

A shaky laugh escapes you from relief as you nod. You placed your heart in your hands and offered it to him. He was gentle and took it from you with love and care. 

“If you’ve committed any major crimes,” he adds, “that would be a deal-breaker, though.”

You laugh and slump down against the back of the couch, still reeling. 

“What about minor crimes?” you ask.

“I suppose it depends on how minor,” he says playfully. His hand grazes your knee before resting just above it. You fight the urge to part your legs into his touch.

“I actually can’t think of any laws I’ve broken…”

He leans down to your ear and whispers, “Knew it,” and the sensation of his breath against your skin has you angling your head away from him. The muscles of your thighs twitch, and with his hand remaining on your knee, you know he notices the movement.

Spencer sits back up, turning his body towards you on the couch. A moment passes solely looking at each other and admiring each other. His eyes look so soft and kind. With your hands still on each other’s knees, you let your fingers dance against his skin. His chest is rising and falling, occasional sharp breaths hitching in his throat as the space between your body inches closed. 

He’s yours. You’re his. Drawing close to his body feels like returning home. 

“Please kiss me, Spencer,”

“Gladly,” he breathes.

The side of his face is illuminated in a way that makes him look like an actor in a movie—you, his leading lady; as though, if you looked to the side, you’d see a film crew and those big movie lights filling your living room. He looks angelic, leaning down over you. Your eyes fall shut as his lips hit yours. It feels both new and familiar. The kisses are soft—almost hesitant. Almost. 

One of Spencer’s hand cups your face. The other sweeps up your mid-back to pull you towards him. You grasp his arm, gently digging your nails in—a silent plea to never stop touching you.

Eyes closed, you’re navigating his body by touch only. When Spencer pulls away and rests his forehead on yours, panting breaths dancing in the small space between your lips and you breathe, “I’ve missed you.”

Spencer replies, first, without words. His hand moves to the back of your head, outstretched fingers gliding through your hair as he pulls you in for a deeper kiss. Your lips part so easily for him. It’s odd how recognizable his mouth tastes. Some deep corner of your memory was reserved for the taste of him.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he sighs. “I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve dreamed about kissing you again.”

When you look at Spencer again, his eyelids are heavy. He looks dazed.

Slowly, but without hesitation, you shift into a more comfortable position. Without breaking eye contact, you gently take his hand and place it on your chest, causing his breath to hitch.

“Is that the only thing you’ve dreamed of?” you ask, letting your weight settle in his lap. “Because it isn’t the only thing I’ve dreamed of.”

He’s already hard. You subtly rock your hips against the bulge beneath you, and Spencer’s head falls back with a pained groan.

You place a soft kiss on his jaw before working your way down the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin.

“I’ve fantasized about doing so many things to you,” he says. “It felt so good in the moment,” he flicks his gaze away momentarily, “and so shameful after.”

“What did you think about Spence? Did you touch yourself thinking about me?”

“Far too many times,” he laughs. His hands roam your body as he squirms under your hips in search of more friction. “I mean, I thought about whatever memories I had from college at first. Eventually, I had to start coming up with new scenarios.” 

Attempting to not come across too presumptuous, you smirk and ask, “So, did you think about me… often?”

He sighs. Though the conversation has delved into a possibly touchy topic, you continue to gently rock your hips against him, an action he reciprocates. A subtle reminder that you still want this. You still want him.

“Sorry, that’s probably really weird.” He closes his eyes and dips his chin down. “I wasn’t dating. Eventually, I got really busy with work. You can imagine how long and intense some of these cases are. Thinking about you felt like a harmless escape, you know?”

You swipe a finger across his plush lower lip. Watching his lips while he spoke, all you wanted to do was kiss him. As your hand falls from his lip and down his arm, you show him just how hot you find it that he thought about you while jerking off. Spencer’s shame seems to dissipate as he whimpers at the contact.

“Does it make you feel better if I tell you that I thought about you, too?” 

He nods quietly in response, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Whenever I felt particularly alone in life,” you continue, fighting the shame that arises, “thoughts of you tended to pop up, and so I leaned into them at points. Some nights, when I couldn’t fall asleep, the only thing that could get me to relax enough was lying on my side, wrapping my arm around one of my pillows, and imagining you were holding me again.”

Spencer doesn’t waste a moment after you finish speaking before pulling you down to his mouth with a fervor you haven’t seen from him yet tonight. You’re so glad you were able to swallow those shameful feelings, because, oh, that turned him on, alright. His hands grip tightly on your hips as he grinds upwards.

His body is tense and stiff. The slight sheen across his forehead is just barely visible in the dimness. His expression is pained, but his voice simply sounds dejected when he says, “Tell me that you want this.”

He stills, his chest rising and falling in heaving breaths. Your heart swells to twice its size before shattering into a million pieces. It’s mended immediately thereafter by his need for reassurance. You know you need to repair his trust in you. You know that it’ll take time and effort, but you’ll prove to him that he doesn’t need to worry about pushing you away with his affection anymore. What used to repel you now draws you in. You don’t want to run and hide. Spencer asking for reassurance and you wanting to do nothing but comfort him feels like winning an Olympic medal. This is what you so badly wished you could have been for him in the past, and now you have the ability to. 

“Well, on the drive over here, I was thinking about your dick, obviously.” His lips press together into a smile at that, and you giggle momentarily. “But I also couldn’t stop thinking about all the stuff we did in college that I was too afraid to admit was boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. I still hate grocery shopping by myself,” you smile. “I miss when you’d take me to the movies and explain all the stuff I missed after I fell asleep on your shoulder. I want you to meet both my moms, and as my boyfriend this time.” 

Later, you’ll tell him about how much of a good impression he made on the mom that he accidentally met, because before you dropped out of school, she’d ask you how your boyfriend was every time she’d call. 

Palm to palm, you slide your fingers between his. “Spence, I want this.” You press a soft, tender kiss to his lips, trying to momentarily ignore the sharp throbbing between your legs. “I want you. I want everything that we used to have and more. I want to be your girlfriend and give you every part of me that I couldn’t give you before.” 

Spencer’s jaw is slack as he pants, completely awestruck.

Everything about the way that tonight has progressed feels like a dream. If you close your eyes too hard, you fear that you’ll wake up alone in your bed. You need to keep touching him, if only to prove to yourself in some capacity that he’s actually here and not a figment of your sleeping consciousness. Pressing your weight further into his lap for one deep, long grind against his bulge, Spencer chokes down a whine, and you sigh a shuddered breath at the broad pressure. 

“Spence, can I ride you, baby?”

“I just need to feel you as soon as humanly possible.”

You lift your hips and he frees himself from his pants. 

“Shit,” he sighs. “I don’t have any condoms. I didn’t think—”

You stare at his bare cock and try to see through the fog of lust in order to think clearly. A glossy bead of pre-cum decorates the tip and you just want to lick it off.

“I don’t have any, either. If you still want to do this, though, I got an IUD two years ago and I’ve been tested since my last partner. If something were to happen, I wouldn’t be keeping it. If that’s okay with you, I’m down for whatever.” You’re gently swaying your hips above him, desperate for friction. You, selfishly, want this so bad, so you just hope that he doesn’t feel pressured. 

He’s sharply nodding his head before he can get any words out, eyes locked on the space between your legs as his nails dig into your hips. “I’ve been tested. All of that is—great, perfect.”

Thank god. 

You stand, desperate to get your work clothes off. If you had been alone, you would’ve been in your pajamas within minutes of getting home. 

Standing in front of him, still fully clothed, your confidence gets a bit of a boost as Spencer mindlessly fists his cock, loosely jerking it as he watches you.

As each item of clothing comes off, down to your basic, nude-colored bra and mismatched underwear, Spencer’s grip on himself tightens. You don’t drag it out on purpose, but seeing him this unraveled already is downright intoxicating. 

As soon as you crawl back on top of him, you’re back at his lips. Kissing him is also downright intoxicating.

You sit up straight, and Spencer slips, first one finger, then two into you, pumping them gently in and out a few times. You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder as he aligns himself between your legs. 

Feeling Spencer Reid slide inside you again heals an emptiness deep within you that you weren’t even cognizant of before. It feels fucking spiritual. 

Your jaw drops open as an obscene moan falls from your lips. Spencer practically swallows it as he pulls you down to his lips. It feels like a cliché to say that he fits perfectly inside you, but sitting fully on his cock, that’s the only thing that your brain can process—how perfect he feels. 

“Fuck, baby,” he all-but cries into your mouth.

You lift your hips and slowly begin to ride him. 

“Yeah?” he asks, panting. “Should I just keep trying different pet names, or do you have a list of ones you like now?”

“Try me.”

His grip on your hips tightens as you pick up your pace. “Good girl?”

You jerk your hips against him and moan, almost laughing at how visceral a reaction that was.

“I suppose that’s a yes?” he laughs.

“I used to loathe praise, but now it does that to me.” 

You internally cringe for a moment, thinking about the one time Spencer tried to tell you what a good job you were doing riding him. You angrily got out of bed and left, leaving both you and him confused because you had no idea why it made you so upset. Now? You want to show him that he has you, fully and completely. It feels natural to submit to him like this, and it seems like it feels natural for him to take on this more dominant role. 

You lift your hips up to the head of his cock before gliding back down, and he pulls your hips down to hold you in place, exhaling roughly.

“No, no, no. If you do that again, I’m not going to last, baby.” His hands roam your body as he pulls you into a tight hug against his chest, only allowing you to grind your hips. He sucks on a nipple before nuzzling his face into your chest and groaning. “Do you have any idea how fucking perfect you are?”

When you freeze and don’t respond, Spencer looks up at you. Searching your face, he says, more sternly this time, “If you don’t believe it now, just give me a chance to make you believe it.”

You’ve already done so much inner-work on your self-esteem and confidence, but it’s still hard to receive such direct, honest praise in that way. He could make you believe it, though. That, you’re certain of.

“Can we go to my room?” you ask, and Spencer nods in return.

You quickly pull the corners of your messed sheets into place, Spencer assisting you on the other side. You’ve never been one to make your bed. 

You lay down on the bed, ready to let Spencer take charge. He crawls on top of you and, after thoroughly kissing your mouth and neck, works his way down your body, worshipping every spot he touches as though he may never get to touch you again. 

When he lands between your legs, he lifts one over his shoulder before gliding his fingers between your lips, spreading your wetness.

“God, look at you,” he says, entranced. 

When you look between your legs and see Spencer shaking his head as he admires your body, you feel like you could cum on the spot. You slide one hand into his hair as the other tightly grips the skin of your thigh, biting your nails into the flesh to cope. Spencer wraps his arm around your thigh, finding your hand and clasping his fingers between yours from above it.

You whimper as your hips squirm, desperate at this point. His hot breath against your wet clit feels like torture.

“Are you needy for me, baby?”

You just whimper and nod, unable to find the words to accurately convey how badly you need him.

“Put another pillow behind you and sit up more,” he says. "I want you to watch.”

Well, fuck. This is going to ruin you.

Eyes locked with his, he licks up between your lips, moaning at the taste. You throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut on contact, but Spencer pulls away, letting his hot breath dance across your wet skin.

“I said, eyes on me, baby.” 

The sight of his face between your legs as he eats you out is almost too much to bear, but you know that’s the point.

A bit more hesitantly, he asks, “You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

Your squirming, moaning reaction to his words seems to be all the encouragement he needed as he dives in, finally sucking and licking and tasting you like a starved man. You use every ounce of willpower to keep your eyes locked on his. 

You developed this praise kink a number of years ago, but Spencer’s praise is something else. It sparks something deep inside of you. All the history between you and this complete 180 flip of the sexual dynamic has you on cloud nine. Some door inside you is actively being unlocked, or some flood gate is bursting. 

“Spence,” you say, getting his attention. 

“What’s wrong? Do you want me to stop?” he asks, immediately on alert and trying to read you.

“No, no. Not at all,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s just, we didn’t really do oral in the past. This feels fucking amazing, trust me. But I’ve never finished with oral before, so I don’t want you to expect it or be upset if I don’t.”

He reaches his hand up to cup your jaw, still slightly out of breath. “Hey, I don’t care about that at all, if you don’t. I just want you to feel good. I’d be happy to sit here and eat you out all night if that’s what you wanted and if it made you feel good. You can tell me to stop at any point or we can move on to something else, okay?”

Safe. You’re safe. Spencer is happy to keep going. He isn’t expecting anything from you, besides wanting you to feel good. This is good. This is safe.

You nod gently. “Promise me that you’ll stop at any point, too. I need to know that you feel safe stopping or moving on at any point, too.”

“Of course,” he says quietly. His eyes seem to sparkle as he reassures you, and you know he means it. He nuzzles his head against your thigh and aimlessly kisses the sensitive skin. “But can I please keep going? I can assure you that I’m not ready to be done yet.”

“Please?” you whisper.

“Close your eyes if you need to, baby,” he says against your inner thigh. “Focus on how good it feels.”

You watch him start again, but let your eyes fall shut naturally as he finds his rhythm again. Letting your hands roam up to your chest, you massage your breasts, pinching and pulling at your nipples. 

As your head falls further back and your hips find their own rhythm to compliment his, he slips “look at you” and “so good” in with breaths. 

You feel truly relaxed for a change. You trust his words. You aren’t in your head, wondering if your body looks okay from down there or consciously arching your back to avoid rolls. The way your body feels is all that you can focus on. It’s as if Spencer has quieted or turned off every other part of your waking mind, because right now, all that exists is him. All that exists is this feeling rising through your body and his shared experience with him.

And then he stops. Lifting your head, you watch him stare stupidly as he slowly pushes two fingers inside of you. Your hips first roll away, and then back into his hand as he fully enters you. You hadn’t even realized how empty you had felt without something inside you, and you throw your head back with a moan as you grind into his stilled hand.

“Fuck, yes. You’re such a good girl, baby. Look at how good you’re being for me.” 

His mouth reattaches to your clit as he subtly pumps his fingers in and out of you, and it takes everything within you to not scream. This is it. This is what you needed. 

“I—Spencer, it feels too—I don’t know if I can—” you say, your whole body squirming against his mouth and hand. 

Your squirms turn into jerks and Spencer says, “Hands on my head, baby. Fuck my face. Make yourself feel good for me.”

Sliding your fingers through his hair as you clasp his head on both sides, you grind your clit against his tongue as he continues to work inside you, adjusting his fingers until you gasp, “Oh, god. Don’t move. Right there.”

You know what it feels like when you’re close. But you’ve never climaxed like this. The build has never felt like this. This is already the most vulnerable and intimate sex you’ve had, by orders of magnitude. 

Spencer’s free hand shifts from your thigh to gently press down on your lower stomach, the external pressure swelling the pulsating thrum between your legs.

“Spence, baby, I’m close,” you cry.

Spencer moans into your clit loudly, his fingers curling and twisting and fucking you with a burst of might. Looking down and seeing Spencer between your legs—your boyfriend, Spencer—you feel the tightness in your abdomen spread through your body as a tingling warmth. 

“Oh my god,” is all you can manage before the wave of your orgasm crests, every sensation in your body dialed up to maximum. Through blinking eyes, you nod sharply to Spencer as he leads you through your climax. He switches to light, rhythmic licks and steady pumps of fingers as your orgasm works through you.

Utter bliss is the only thing you could use to describe how this feels. 

Spencer is watching his fingers slowly entering and leaving your body as though he’s mesmerized by it. 

“You’re so perfect, Y/N. I still can’t believe that tonight is real. It still just feels like a dream.”

You smirk. “Well, if you fuck me, will that make it feel more real?”

He takes his fingers out and licks them clean. Your body lets you know that it’s had enough recovery time as Spencer moans against your clit, lazily licking it some more. His eyes are closed, trying to savor your taste. He doesn’t want to stop. 

“Spence,” you say, gaining his full attention as he opens his eyes to you. As honestly and vulnerably as you can, you say, “I need you.”

Like he did on his way down, he kisses a trail up your body. At your neck, his kisses turn harsher, no doubt leaving hickies as he sucks at your skin. 

I’m yours, you think. Use me. Take me.

“Yes,” you moan.

His hot breath against your ear sends a shiver down your body. “You like that, baby? You like cumming in my mouth? You like when I mark you?”

You nod against his cheek with a whine. “Spence, please.”

“What, baby?”

“Please fuck me.”

Spencer kisses your jaw and then your mouth. 

“Y/N, I’m not going to last long,” he whines.

“That’s okay,” you laugh, guiding his jaw to make him look at you. “I want to make you feel good.”

His forehead meets yours, and he whispers, “I don’t want this to end yet.”

Not breaking eye contact, you reach down between your bodies and find his cock, wrapping your hand around it. You guide the tip between your soaking wet lips, causing Spencer’s jaw to slack with a weak moan.

“I’m off tomorrow. You can stay here tonight, if you want. We don’t have to leave this bed.”

Spencer attacks your mouth with deep, long kisses, only stopping to moan loudly into your mouth as his cock slides inside you. You arch into his chest as his pace builds.

“We’ll figure it out,” you continue through panted breaths, “but I’m not going anywhere, Spencer. I’ll prove to you that you don’t have to worry about losing me again, because I’m not letting go of you this time.”

He needs this. He needs the reassurance. He needs to feel safe. 

But so do you. 

“Fuck, I missed you so much,” he mutters, and brushes a piece of hair off your forehead..

“I needed you so badly,” you breathe. But your words come out strangled. 

It was a fluke, you thought. You’re just remembering it better than it was. At least, that’s what you told yourself every time you shamefully thought about Spencer to get yourself off—sometimes while you were with a partner. Those relationships never lasted long once you got to that point…

It wasn’t a fluke. It’s somehow better than you remember. 

Looking at the man above you, you realize what it is. The magic between you.

Little nods and breaths and kisses exchange, each a promise that you feel this, too. Palpable, yet unquantifiable. 

“So beautiful. You’re still so fucking beautiful and perfect, goddamn it,” Spencer cries.

The funny thing about sex is that it can act like a truth serum. Admitting to things you probably shouldn’t, all because you’re horny and pumped full of so much serotonin and dopamine that it just feels right to.

“I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.” 

Your shoulders tighten as you suck in a breath, unable to release it when Spencer slows. 

His mouth opens, as if to speak, but his face just contorts with pleasure as he starts pounding into you hard again. 

“Oh god, baby, I’m cumming,” he half moans, half laughs.

A laugh forces its way out of you as you realize what’s happening. Spencer’s head is in the crook of your neck as his body aimlessly jerks into you. You run a hand through his hair as he comes down from his high. Anything to comfort him. 

“Spencer Reid, did you—”

“Shut it,” he laughs, still catching his breath. 

He kisses you, and his cock twitches inside you, causing you to moan into his mouth. Heat builds in your chest as the kiss deepens, and you grip his hair at the back of his head in response. 

Part of you wants to grind your hips into him and get a round two out of him, but you can see his brain working overtime right now, his tell still being his dazed expression and fluttery blinks. 

“You okay?” you ask, brushing the hair off his forehead, letting your nails gently glide against his scalp in the way he used to love. 

“Yeah, that was just…”

“A lot?” you offer, and he nods in confirmation.

“I still just can’t believe you’re here,” he says. He swipes a thumb across your lower lip, and you spring your head forward, trapping his thumb between your teeth. You giggle and he plays along, pretending his finger is trapped. When you release it, you ask, “Real enough for you?”

“What’s gotten into you?” he laughs, but you can’t help from answering honestly.

“I feel twenty pounds lighter, which helps. I’m also just insanely happy that this did happen. All of it.”

“I’ve thought about this way too many times—about seeing you again and doing… this again,” he gestures to the space between you, dipping his chin, “but it’s still better than I remembered somehow.”

“I actually had the same thought about five minutes ago. My memories of you faded over time. I think my brain filled in the pieces, but they were like knock-off pieces, you know? The memory puzzle, even though it was complete, looked weirder and weirder over time as my brain filled it in with the knock-off pieces.”

Once the words leave your mouth, you aren’t even sure the thought makes sense anymore. But you decide to roll with it, too tired to backtrack. 

“That analogy isn’t that far off from how it works in the hippocampus, actually,” Spencer says, peppering a few kisses up your neck. “When you recall an old memory, fMRI scans have shown that neocortical activity occurs in the areas where the different pieces of that memory are stored, and then, the hippocampus re-encodes those pieces into the memory.”

God, it’s still so hot when he gets nerdy. Especially when he’s above you, glistening with sweat, and you’re still in a post-sex fog. 

You pull him down for yet another kiss—you fear you’ll never get enough of them—and when your lips part, you close your eyes and say, “You know we need to sit down and discuss everything, right?”

Spencer finally pulls out of you and flops onto the bed beside you. Even though he knows you need to get up still, he curls into your side with his arm draped over your waist and says, “I think it can wait until tomorrow, don’t you? I don’t work tomorrow, either, unless we get a call. So, why don’t we go out on a proper date?”

“Or,” you drag out the word, “we can stay here all day and never leave this bed?” you suggest, twisting your lips into a smile.

“Or,” he mimics you by dragging out his word, “we can go to the bookstore,” damn him for pulling out your kryptonite, “and then, go get lunch before coming back here.”

You put on a pout, pretending to consider. It’s so nice to be this playful again in such a short period of time. Time will tell as to what will become of this, if anything, but you can’t lie and say that it doesn’t feel damn good to have Spencer back in your life. The air is clear, and a weight that you had been unknowingly carrying around for a decade is gone. 

You do still love Spencer. You can picture yourself falling in love with him again. This time, with an open heart.

At the end of the day, though, you trust Spencer. And, you trust yourself enough now to know that you’d be okay, regardless of how things transpire.

That’s all that matters.

“Yeah, I think I can make that work.”

After a nice warm shower, Spencer’s arm wrapped around your naked body keeps you close, even though you’ve already got a leg wrapped around his. He places a kiss at your hairline. Your heavy eyelids fall closed, and his heartbeat and steady breathing lull you to sleep. 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, oral sex (M & F receiving), PIV sex, unprotected sex within an established relationship, unplanned pregnancy, discussions of abortion (in a pro-choice context, though Reader ends up choosing to stay pregnant), minor mentions of alcohol and cancer.

As for the crime subplot, much of it is very canon-typical (referenced child abuse & grooming by an extended family member (non-sexual), violence, blood/gore, drugs. As always, please feel free to let me know if I miss any CWs!

A/N: This fic is obviously heavy on the Spencer and Reader relationship, but it's also got a significant Garcia best friend plot line and crime plot line. This fic also features an unplanned Reader pregnancy. Reader debates abortion and is pro-choice, but ultimately ends up keeping the pregnancy. If any of that isn't up your alley, please feel free to skip this fic!

Names used: Baby, baby girl, good/sweet/pretty girl, daddy, good boy (once), my love.

Words (this chapter): 4.8 K

Words (total): 29.1 K

Spencer and Derek are quickly treated at the hospital while the rest of the team assists the local PD in processing the scene and finalizing our part of the case.

Jeremy talked pretty quickly once they got him in custody. He said that his entire “message” was to warn against medical misinformation, hence the MO and the site they used to lure their first victims. In reality, Jeremy is just a narcissistic psychopath who’s got a lot of psychological damage and abandonment issues. He wanted total control over someone, and he got that with Mason. Shooting Spencer and Derek will just be another charge to help keep that monster locked up for a very long time.

By the time Spencer and Derek are cleared to fly, it’s 7 p.m. The team rolls into the BAU at nine. You and Penelope wait near the elevator as they trickle in and greet everyone with hugs and I-missed-you’s.

Of course, Spencer, Derek, and Hotch came up last. It takes every ounce of willpower to not run straight into his arms. The fact he has a horrible bruise on his chest aids your willpower here, though. Penelope follows everyone else into the bullpen, and it’s finally just you and Spencer alone.

After the jet left Florida, you and Penelope developed a plan. You knew you needed to get Spencer alone as soon as possible to talk. Penelope planned to hang around the bullpen with the team, keeping track of them while they grab their stuff and head home. If anyone asks, she’ll say that you went to your office to pack up and that Spencer already left for the night. No one’s going to stick around long, anyway. They’re all exhausted.

The hallway outside the bullpen that leads to your office is quiet. One of the night shift custodians turns the corner towards you, broom in hand, probably looking for spots the vacuum missed. He greets you with a nod, which you reciprocate as you pass.

“So, I didn’t leave work on time,” you say.

You push the door to your office open, leaning on it as it closes behind you both. The room is quiet except for the low whir emanating from the server racks.

Spencer’s standing directly in front of you, his face an inch from yours as you breathe each other in again.

“That’s okay,” he says, flashing you a tired smile. “I didn’t either.”

“When Hotch said you and Derek were—” You choke back your words to avoid breaking down.

Spencer nods in understanding but doesn’t speak.

“I was so scared,” you add, voice breaking.

He pulls you into an embrace, holding your head against his chest as he kisses your hair. Your bodies gently shift side to side, rocking each other’s bodies and soothing you both.

“I know, baby. I’m okay, though.”

You want to be angry at his attempt to reassure you. You almost weren’t okay, Spencer. What if he had aimed his gun a little higher?

But he’s here, standing in front of you, safe.

He also shot Jeremy in the leg, allowing Derek to take him down and cuff him. Another serial killer is in custody because of his bravery and quick action.

You lift your head off his chest to look up at him. You can see the fatigue in his face, but yours surely mirrors his to some degree.

Reaching a hand up, you touch his face. His facial hair is stubbly, rough under your fingertips. Your fingers trail down his jaw, across his lower lip, down the bridge of his nose. He simply observes you as you touch him, taking him in.

Bringing your hand to rest on his shoulder, you let your eyes do the wandering on their own, now. The overhead lights in your office are dimmed, which is how they stay overnight. The bags under his eyes are visible, but softened in this light. He always looks so incredibly beautiful, but when he’s staring at you like it’d kill him to look away, it’s astonishingly hard to believe you could have ever seen him as anything less.

Your breathing shallows as you give his face an up-and-down, gaze darting between his eyes and mouth.

Spencer dances his open mouth over yours, breathing you in. Before the tension can build too much, he presses a deep kiss to your mouth. Neither of you can withstand much restraint right now, and nothing could feel as comforting in this moment as Spencer loving on you.

Your hands slide down to his hips, pulling his body even closer to yours. The friction feels so good. He’s already semi-hard and you just wish you could drop to your knees, take him in your mouth, and worship his body. The urge to please him and to make him feel good is so strong, but words unsaid gnaw at your conscience in a vicious tug of war.

His body pressed to yours feels like aloe numbing the searing pain of a scraped knee. Being back in his arms, your heart would be bursting right now if it weren’t weighed down by the elephant in the room, visible only to you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, searching your eyes for a clue. “There’s something on your mind.”

Correction: the elephant, visible to both of you.

Almost instantly, tears fall.

Spencer pulls you to his chest, seeming to ignore his injury. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”

He leads you over to your desk chair to sit down and he takes Penelope’s chair, rolling the few feet over to you.

“Is this about my chest?” he asks. “It’s just a bruise. No fractures or anything, so I’ll be okay,” he softly laughs, attempting to lighten the mood.

This is fucking terrifying. You can hear it in his voice, how concerned for you he is. He’s trying to look at you—trying to read you, but you can barely meet his eyes without breaking down into sobs.

“We need to talk,” you choke out.

Realization washes over his face. This isn’t about the gunshot which could have killed him. It’s something else entirely.

He doesn’t reply. He takes both of your hands in his—you hadn’t realized how cold yours were until now—and he nods.

Okay, swallow. Deep breath. No beating around the bush.

“I’m pregnant.”

His expression shifts a few times as he processes it. His eyes almost sparkle as they well up with tears.

“Are you–I–” He can’t even get a sentence out.

Spencer crushes you to his chest and cries. You fall into his embrace and continue sobbing, too. Whatever his feelings are, you’re still not sure, but to know that he needs to hold you is enough in this exact moment.

He pulls away just enough to plant kisses all over your face and neck, a smile contrasting his wet cheeks.

“Hold on Spence. Is that… Uh, how do you feel?” you ask him.

He pauses for a second before asking, “Well, do you want to be pregnant?”

When you don’t immediately answer, his eyes search your face with worry.

You try to figure out how to tie your many thoughts together eloquently. “I haven’t really had much time to even think about it. I’ve just sort of been in limbo about it with this case and with you being gone.” You wipe your cheeks with the side of your finger. “On the phone today, Hotch led by saying that you’d been shot but he didn’t know how bad it was. I think I nearly had a heart attack. Penelope and I have been giving this case our all. Now that you’re back, I feel like I can just breathe, at least.”

“Tell you what, why don’t we grab our stuff, head home, and get into bed? Then, we can talk about it or we can just sleep and save the talking for tomorrow when we’ve rested.”

Spencer kisses your forehead before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

All you can do is nod. The only place you want to be is in bed with him, hiding from the real world for a bit.

***

You wake up in the exact same position you fell asleep in. You’re pressed into Spencer’s side, an arm and leg draped over his body. If you didn’t have to wipe the drool off your face, you probably would have just laid there until Spencer naturally woke up.

Last night, after a very quick shower together (mostly for Spencer’s sake), you got into bed and crashed.

Spencer’s eyes flutter as he stirs awake. As you sit up to wipe your face, he groans at the loss of your body curled up into his.

“What time is it?” he asks, keeping his eyes closed.

His hair is a mess; his little curls and waves turned to un-styled fluff by his pillow. Your bedroom windows have translucent curtains over them, and he looks so peaceful and beautiful like this: in your bed, your white sheets and poofy duvet like a cloud surrounding him.

Twisting your body, you glance at the alarm clock on your side table.

“It’s ten-to-one.”

He stretches and finally blinks his eyes open.

“We needed sleep, but I’m still surprised we managed to get that much.” He reaches his arms to pull you back down to his side. “Who said you could get up yet?”

The anxiety in your body starts to build. You’ve thought numerous times already about how this conversation would go. You still don’t feel prepared. Your voice quiets to nearly a whisper.

“I have to go put your clothes in the dryer and start breakfast,” you say, unmoving.

Spencer shifts onto his side to face you. Reaching under your loose-fitting t-shirt so that he’s able to touch your bare skin, his hand trails down the side of your body, stopping just above your hip. His thumb gently rubs the side of your stomach. Any other time, this exact gesture would seem completely unremarkable, but right now, you know exactly where his head is at.

“You know you’re a horrible liar, right?” he asks.

“I do need to finish the laundry and start breakfast.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to do that right now. You just feel pressure about this conversation that you know we need to have, and you feel the urge to avoid it.” Why the fuck did you start dating a profiler again? “Plus, you know I’m not letting you do my laundry or make breakfast.”

This man literally just got shot. You’ll be making breakfast, at the very least, whether he likes it or not.

His expression is so soft, his features still a bit puffy from sleeping. His hand brushes your hair off your face and cups your jaw in one sweep. He kisses your forehead first, then the tip of your nose, and lastly, your lips. The final kiss begins as pure as the first two. Chaste. You reach your hand up to his neck, fingers gliding into the hair at the back of his head, and you lean into the kiss, parting your lips. Spencer’s hand shifts to your lower back, pulling your body into his.

You want him, and he wants you. It’s been a long case.

But lust doesn’t erase the thick, heaviness in the air. The weight of the conversation you know you need to have.

As you pull back for a breath, you notice a small droplet of tears at the corners of each eye.

He pulls you back into his body, but this time into a big hug. You’ve been dealing with your own emotions about this pregnancy all week, but right now, his are extremely palpable. He lies on his back again, pulling you with him, into his side. You’re right back where you started.

“We’ve got to talk about it,” he says.

Your lips trill, lax as you let out a big breath.

“I know,” you say.

You’re still very conscious of his injury, so before you rest your arm over his chest again, you check in with him. “Is your chest okay with my arm like that?”

He doesn’t reply. He just grabs your arm and lays it across his chest. The arm he has wrapped around your body squeezes you tighter to him. He feels the pain of his gigantic bruise, but he needs you close.

Whenever you have to have serious conversations, you’ve found it’s easier, especially for Spencer, if you’re somewhere comfortable. Somewhere where you both have the option of closing your eyes or staring off into the distance. It’s easier to think, to talk, and to stay calm.

“I need to know how you feel about this,” he says.

“I don’t even know how you feel. You never told me last night. I didn’t know if you were going to come back, find out I was pregnant, and leave me on the spot.”

“God, I hope you know that I would never do that, Y/N.” He sounds so hurt and you begin to regret ever implying that he could do such a thing. “I can’t even imagine how scary this has been for you, though. Of course, you’d be worried that I’d have a negative reaction.”

He hugs you tight into his body again and kisses the top of your head, as if breathing you in to give himself the strength to continue.

“I love you so much. When you told me, I was definitely in shock for a minute, but as soon as I processed the fact that you were pregnant, and with my baby, I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted more.”

Your slow tears continue to drip down onto his shoulder, and his now-wet cheek has made a mess of your forehead.

You almost want to throw a joke in there. Something to lighten the mood; to escape the weight of this conversation so you don’t feel as though you’re being crushed by it.

Are you sure Penelope isn’t the father? I do spend more time with her.

You don’t even have the energy for your own stupid jokes right now, though.

Spencer continues, “If you decide you don’t want to be pregnant, I can’t lie and say that I wouldn’t be sad, but I would support you and love you exactly the same.”

You take a second to process everything he’s said. There’s no way out of this conversation but through.

He tilts your chin up to examine your face. His hands cradle your head, and through his own teary eyes, he wipes the wetness off your cheeks with his thumbs. He places a loving, quick kiss on your lips.

You’re safe. He’s safe. You’ll figure this out together, like you always do.

Spencer’s looking at you the way he always does. Like you’re his entire world. Even at work, in the quick glances no one pays any mind to, his eyes light up when he sees you.

After a few deep breaths, the word-vomit spills out.

“I’m just so fucking scared, Spence. Aside from the fact that this could put my job at risk, there are so many more factors at play here. This changes everything in our lives if we go forward with this. You know I want kids, but I don’t know if this is the right time. We haven’t been together that long. We aren’t married. My parents aren’t local, so would we have to get a babysitter, or would I have to quit my job to take care of them?

“I just got off Strauss’ chopping block. Penelope and Hotch just went and fought for me, explaining what a ‘valuable member of the team’ I am. If I continue this pregnancy, I’m going to have to tell her that I’m not only leaving on maternity leave—and, how long do you even get maternity leave for?—but that I’m going to be taking more time off because I’ll have a kid to take care of, and kids get sick,” your voice begins to tremble, “and—and I’ll have appointments to take them to. What if we have one of those kids who plays six sports and I have to give up my job to chauffeur them around, or something!?”

Spencer rubs your hand in his while you try your hardest to compose yourself after that spiral.

“First, with us as their parents, I’d be amazed if our kid even played one sport, let alone six.”

His joke has you both laughing, but the soundbite of Spencer saying “our kid” is replaying in your head. Our kid.

Spencer continues talking, bringing you back to reality.

“Also, under FMLA, maternity leave would be up to twelve weeks.” He stops rubbing your hand, instead intertwining your fingers with his. “Putting everything involving work aside for a minute, do you want to be pregnant?”

This is what you’ve been avoiding. Definitively deciding whether or not to continue this pregnancy is fucking terrifying. Since the test, you’ve felt constantly hyper-aware of your uterine contents. You already downloaded one of those pregnancy apps, and this thing is only the size of a peppercorn; a collection of cells the size of a peppercorn. But this thing is your baby, and you want to see it grow.

You can understand how, at an earlier stage of your life, this would have been the last thing you wanted. Right now, though, this feels right. Not only do you trust Spencer and your relationship with him, but more importantly, you have faith in yourself to be a good mom.

You nod your head.

“Then I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make the best of this.”

“I know you will, Spence. You know that a lot’s going to change though, right?”

Having a kid together means lots of change, and obviously you both know that. The question you’re really asking is, “What’s the next step?”

“Even before this whole pregnancy surprise, you and I had developed into something bigger and more special than I could have ever imagined. I can’t even begin to imagine my life without you in it anymore. We got too comfortable living in secrecy. I don’t want any of this to be a secret anymore, though.” Spencer’s voice is getting shakier as he speaks, his chest rising and falling faster under your arm. You tilt your head up to his face and place a few soft kisses along his jawline. He meets your lips for a minute of soft, tender kisses, and then continues.

“I think I’ve spent far too long worrying about things changing with the team…” He speaks as though he’s talking aloud to himself. He often does, processing something as he talks through it. “Change can make things better. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I mean, you’re on the team and things have already changed between us, right?”

“Considering we’re currently in bed together and I’m pregnant with your child, yeah,” you nod.

He laughs into your hair, and you laugh against his well-loved cotton t-shirt. You’d buy him some new shirts if he weren’t so picky about the fit and material. At least these ones hold his scent better.

“I don’t know why I assumed that they’ll think less of me when they find out…”

“About us or the pregnancy?”

“Even before the baby, I had this automatic assumption that they’d have a negative reaction to us dating. That hardly makes sense, though, logically.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to the punch. “And before you tell me that my feelings don’t have to make logical sense, I’m well aware,” he teases.

You giggle. Relaying your therapist’s teachings has paid off.

“I mean, they might have some concerns, especially Hotch. But it’s not like we’re some fling or we’re just fuck-buddies anymore,” you say.

“When you started in the BAU, did you feel sort of like everyone viewed you as though you were a child wearing grown-up clothing?” he asks.

You shake your head to the extent that you can in this position. “No, but I was coming in under very different circumstances than you were when you started.”

Spencer has more than proven himself as a competent, capable, agent, even in the field. He’s told you about how poorly he did during his time at the academy, but you’ve always seen, firsthand, how hard he’s worked to hone those skills.

“I sometimes think that the team still views me like that, but I’ve never felt like they looked at you like that,” Spencer says.

You both sit with that for a moment.

“I know that you know better than anyone that you don’t have to prove yourself to the team, You’re not the 22-year-old new recruit anymore, Spence.”

He nods. “Morgan and Rossi will probably still call me ‘kid’, but I don’t think that will ever change”

You smile. They’ll never stop calling him that.

“Well, shit. We’re really doing this then, huh? We’re gonna be parents,” you say.

Spencer shifts onto his side to face you, slightly wincing at the pain as he moves.

His hand finds your hip again, his thumb stroking the edge of your stomach. His other fingers slowly slip under the waistband of your underwear as he grips your hip. When he looks from your stomach to your lips, you kiss him, beating him to the punch.

You roll onto your back as Spencer gets on top of you, neither of you breaking the kiss in the process. His lips move to kiss and suck on your neck.

“You’re already so perfect in every way, but, god, thinking about you pregnant with my baby just… does something to me.”

“I guess it’s a good thing neither of us have to work today then because I think both of us could use some quality time together,” you say. “In two hours, I have to start getting ready for my therapy appointment, though. Think that’s enough time to satiate us?”

Spencer kisses his way down your body, spending extra time on your stomach.

“No, but I’ll make it work for now.”

***

[8 WEEKS LATER]

“Okay guys, I need everyone’s attention,” JJ yells.

The bull pen quiets. She sent an email out this morning asking everyone in the unit to meet here at the end of the day for “an announcement”. You and Penelope have heard whispers around the office. People think JJ’s announcing that she’s pregnant again, which isn’t surprising given the fact that she’s the only one on the team with a kid.

A few days after the team got back, Spencer asked her if he could come over to talk to her and Will. She got one shock when you showed up with Spencer, arm-in-arm. The look of realization on her face when she opened the door was kind of priceless, though.

When you told her that you were pregnant, she actually gasped and brought her hands up to her mouth in shock. She’s been insanely supportive, obviously. Her pregnancy tips have also been a godsend. You probably wouldn’t have survived the first-trimester morning sickness otherwise.

Now that you’ve hit the 12-week mark, you’ve decided to tell everyone, both about the relationship, and about the baby. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right? You can still hide your tiny baby bump for now, but it’s time to clear the air so you can shift your focus to celebrating and enjoying the pregnancy. Shortly after Spencer got back from Florida, you slowly began moving into his place. He’s had to move some of his books and you had to get rid of some of your purses and shoes, but this little peanut’s nursery is starting to come along.

“Thank you all for coming. So, we do have an announcement today, but it isn’t going to be from me,” JJ says.

Here goes nothing.

You step forward from the group and move to stand beside JJ.

“Hi, guys. So, I—uh, I know this announcement is going to come as quite a shock to you, but I need to tell you all that—,” your eyes lock onto Spencer’s to ground you, “that I am pregnant.”

Spencer gives you a private smile before surveying everyone’s reactions. The murmurs of discussion have returned, louder this time.

Dave marches right up to you, grabbing your face and kissing both of your cheeks before enveloping you in a hug.

“Another BAU grandchild for me! Brava, my dear!”

At your announcement, all Emily could manage was a loud, “Oh my god!” in shock. She comes up to you after Dave and gives you a big hug, rocking you side-to-side.

“Congratulations!” She lowers her voice to a whisper for only you to hear and says, “I can’t believe you’re fucking pregnant!”

“I can barely believe it myself most days. Trust me.”

With an air of cautious implication, Emily says, “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

“Yeah, about that…” You shift your attention from Emily to the rest of the room to gather their attention. “Guys, there’s something else I have to tell you.”

Derek chimes in, “Don’t tell us it’s twins,” which elicits a few nervous laughs.

“If it was twins, you know Garcia would have already spilled the beans by accident,” you say.

Penelope, who has been relatively quiet throughout this announcement, speaks up to defend herself. “Hey! For the record, I have worked incredibly hard to keep this secret! My tongue hurts from biting it so much, so you all should be very proud of me!”

You hear Derek privately congratulate her with a “High-five, babygirl. I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, and I’ve been planning the shower for months, so nobody better start getting any ideas!” she adds.

“It’s not twins or triplets or any other form of multiples.” You make a vague gesture of circling your belly. “There’s just one bun in this oven. Depending on how well I’ve been keeping this next secret, this might be more or less of a surprise than the last one. I think everyone knows that I’ve been pretty single since I started working here, so I’m sure you’re all politely and quietly wondering how I found myself with child.”

You could hear a pin drop in this office right now as you swallow. Everyone’s eyes are on you and their anticipation feels like a weight in your chest. Then again, your abdominal organs are all being rearranged, so maybe your liver has just moved in on your diaphragm’s turf or something like that.

“No, it wasn’t immaculate conception. I was single when I started with the BAU, but I’ve become not-single since then and kept it a secret.”

It’s like you can see the gears turning in their heads as you wait for someone to connect the dots.

“We know the father.” Dave says. A statement, not a question.

As all eyes turn towards Spencer, Derek’s utter shock sets in. “No fucking way.”

Spencer’s face is slightly flushed, and he’s sporting a cute little smirk.

“How long has this been going on?” Emily asks, pointing between the two of you.

“You all might want to consider a different career,” you tease, walking over to Spencer and reaching out for his hand.

Finally.

Spencer answers, “As of today, 549 days.”

You follow that up with “Like, a year and a half,” which registers much better with the team.

Everyone remains quiet, their thoughts drifting to past interactions, looking for clues.

“You know, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes,” Emily says.

Derek picks his bag up from the floor beside him. “I think we could all use a drink after that bomb drop. Well, no drinks for Y/N, obviously,” he laughs. “You guys down?”

Dave grabs his bag, as well, and gestures in the direction of the elevators. “First round’s on me to celebrate!”

As everyone funnels out, you and Spencer trail just behind them. He kisses the top of your head and whispers, “We don’t have to hide anymore, baby.”

You look up at him and kiss him as you continue walking. It feels so damn weird to be kissing him in front of your colleagues like that, even though they’re all facing the other direction. It’s so open in here.

“Yeah, the hard part’s over. Now we just have to birth a child and raise them for at least 18 years. That shouldn’t be too difficult, right?” you say.

Spencer nods forward, in the direction of the team. “They say it takes a village, right?”

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Tag list (Add yourself to my tag list!): @iniyalovesall @lover-of-books-and-tea @hiireadstuff @batrensworld @wietske27 @thepleasantwitchgarden @aliteralsemicolon @thatredlipped-classic @mggreidsreads @flow33didontsmoke @placidus @kbaby-024 @broadwaytraaaaash @justlivinginadaydream

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, friends with benefits, oral sex (F receiving), PIV sex, condomless sex, IUD birth control, mention of abortion (in the context of being on the same page prior to sex), riding, soft dom M, praise kink F.

This fic is quite emotionally heavy, and both Spencer and Reader delve deep into past traumas. None is current. If any of these topics may be triggering or upsetting to you, please skip this one: child abuse, child abandonment, attachment issues, foster care, adoption, CPS, bullying, trust issues, mental health issues, misunderstandings, ghosting, and Reader mentions that she possibly committed emotional infidelity in the past, thinking about Spencer while with another partner.

Names used: Baby, good girl

Words (this chapter): 4,638

Words (total): 12,462

Spencer… a fed? Law enforcement is the last career you would’ve expected Spencer Reid to end up in. Researcher? Yes. Professor? Yes. He mentioned nothing about the FBI. He never seemed to have an interest in policing. Without the gun at his hip, you would have mistaken him for IT coming to fix that one printer that’s been broken all week. Is he even allowed to shoot that thing? Well, he wouldn’t be in this building with that badge otherwise.

Walking into the quaint coffee shop in the late evening—one of the few non-chain shops in your neighborhood that stays open late—you’re glad that you picked the location. It’s familiar. It’s safe. 

You greet the lone barista as you walk to the table Spencer has secured in the far corner. Steven always works the night shift.

“Hey,” you whisper as you walk up to the table. Any louder would be inappropriate given how silent the cafe is. The only other customers are a group of college kids on their laptops up front.

“I got you a black tea. I hope that’s alright,” he says, gesturing to it. “You used to drink black tea like it was water, so I figured it was a safe bet.” 

“A safe bet, indeed.” 

As you take your seat across from him, you mindlessly dip the tip of your pinky into your tea to check the temperature, finding it to be near perfect. The small bead of tea spreads between your lips as you place the finger against them, sucking it away. Spencer looks at you, biting his cheek to suppress a smirk.

You roll your eyes at him with playful exasperation. “Sorry, I know you always hated when I did that! I know you have your whole germ thing.”He laughs, throwing his hands up to proclaim his innocence. “It’s just funny, all the little habits that haven’t changed over the years. You used to do that with every tea I’d buy you.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to check the temperature!?”

Laughing, he says, “By feeling how much heat is radiating off it, like a normal person? And, I’ll have you know, my ‘whole germ thing’ has gotten a lot better since college!”

With only a few sentences between you, you’ve already fallen into comfortable back-and-forth, again. 

“But a recent study did find that there are an average of over a hundred and fifty bacterial species on the palm of the hand. The underside of the fingernail would presumably harbor even more bacteria.”

“On the plus side, I don’t get sick very often.”

He laughs his adorable, infectious giggle, and for a moment, all is right in the world. For a moment, all you can think about is being under the covers with a 21-year-old Spencer, cuddling and laughing about whatever movie you’re not paying any mind to. He was always more interesting. His mind and body; both, a frequent fascination of yours.

Spencer clears his throat. “So, do you live around here? Is that why you picked this place?”

“Yeah. I moved here after I finished my English Lit degree. I got my MLIS at Strayer. Having my rent grandfathered in is the only reason I can afford to live in Arlington.” You take a sip of your tea, realizing that you’ve already been neglecting it. The temperature is utterly perfect now. A blink lasts a beat too long as you savor the taste and the warmth of it. 

“Do you live in Quantico?” you ask. “I hope the drive wasn’t too bad. I probably should have asked instead of just picking a place. I wasn’t even thinking.”

“I live in the East End of D.C., actually,” he winces. “The long commute isn’t ideal, but it was only a 14 minute drive here, at least.”

“Oh, good. That’s not too bad.”

You should say more. You should start apologizing. Just say anything of any substance. But staring down at your tea, you just want to take a long sip to avoid having to say anything for even a few seconds longer.

Spencer shifts in his seat. Your lips feel so dry. Would it make it even more awkward if you ruffled around in your purse for your lip chap? 

You throw your head back, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath to gather the strength to have this conversation, as if you haven’t had it a million times already in your head over the years. 

“Sorry,” you breathe “I know what I need to say, but I’m just procrastinating.”

“Do you want me to…?”

Spencer’s always been rather direct. You aren’t even sure what he could be alluding to, but you don’t give it more than a second’s thought before you start.

“Where to begin?” you ask yourself aloud, trying to maintain your poise. “Let’s start with my mom, I guess. Remember when you met my mom, because she came into town for the weekend as a surprise?”

He nods. “She showed up that one evening while we were eating dinner.”

By that point, a few months after meeting him, the lines of your relationship with Spencer were already pretty blurred, and he was staying the night more regularly. It was just more convenient that way, you’d told yourself. You didn’t want to kick him out in the middle of the night after fucking him, and it wasn’t like you absolutely hated having him around, or anything.

“So, you met one of my moms. I have two.” You rapid-fire, wanting to get as much as possible out at once. “They’re married. Neither of them is a biological parent, though. I don’t remember either of my biological parents. I was adopted when I was 7, but I was in foster care for 3 years before that. Apparently, CPS workers didn’t find me in the best environment when they came to pick me up.”

The building you survived in for the first years of your life wasn’t a home; Calling it a house would’ve been a stretch too. The situation was downright neglectful. It was abusive. You were only a child, dirtied by the filth of your environment. Marks in shades of red and yellow and purple dotted your body. 

Every sentence is difficult to get out, but you’ve worked to unbury the details of your early life for years. It's not like you'll ever completely heal from that, but you’re more at peace with your origin story than you’ve ever been. Still, every time you’ve shared the stories of your childhood, you’ve had to fight the icky feelings that arise.

You swallow hard, looking down at your hands as you mindlessly pick at the skin around your nails. “Okay, it was really bad. My biological parents were really, really abusive, and my foster mom said it amazed her that I survived it.”

In your peripheral vision, you can see that he’s resting his chin against clasped hands, subtly nodding as he processes the bomb you just dropped. You’ll look anywhere except directly at him. You’ve gotten a lot better at opening up, but you feel like crawling out of your own skin when someone gives you a pitying look. 

“Do you know what my job is at the FBI?” Spencer asks.

“No, but I know you carry a gun, so that limits the possibilities.”

“I’m a profiler in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” 

Now it’s your turn to nod and listen.

“I’ve combed through every memory that I have from those eight months more times than I probably should have. Y/N, I know that I don’t need to tell you what childhood attachment trauma is.” 

Spencer leans back slightly in his chair, his mug clutched between his hands. Though nobody is in the vicinity, he speaks in a hushed voice as he continues. 

“We had a case in recent years where a young girl was murdering the parents of her school bullies.” He tips his head to the side, his raised eyebrows emphasizing his words. “And she had a number of bullies.”

Spencer’s soft, warm tone contrasts his story.

“The local PD probably should have made the connections sooner, but it was a small town. Everyone went to the same elementary, middle, and high schools, so all the victims having kids at the same school wasn’t a factor they even considered until we brought it up. It was one of the first things I noticed when I read the case file.”

“Spencer, are you judging their detective work?”

Your face quickly falls flat. Why the hell would you crack a joke when he’s detailing such a horrific case? Shit.

“It’s hard not to when the patterns they miss are so clear and lives are lost due to their incompetence.”

You can’t even begin to imagine what Spencer sees and deals with at work. You notice—whether because of that realization or to the cafe’s dim lighting, you aren’t sure—that Spencer’s skin is rougher than it used to be. Small, barely noticeable scars mark his body. His boyish glow has faded, replaced by an air of perpetual exhaustion. 

“Anyway,” he says, “as we profiled and uncovered more about this girl’s life, I kept being reminded of little things you did or said that I never paid any mind to.” He brings the mug to his lips, drawing back a sip. He licks the moisture from his lips. “Her parents were fully cooperative. When we brought them in, they described how horrifically abusive her childhood was before her adoption. Her birth parents were in jail for the neglect.”

You push down the memory of the time your biological mother tried to call you from federal prison. How she got that call approved, you’ll never know, but you can only imagine that she paid someone off or slept with them. 

“Her mom said she’d always had trust issues,” Spencer continues. “She used to hide anything that was meaningful to her, even from her own parents. She would wake up in the middle of the night in a panic at least a few times a week. When she’d make a friend at school, she’d sabotage the relationship. As soon as she’d start succeeding academically, her grades would worsen.” 

He could keep listing things, but when his eyes meet yours, the deer-in-headlights look you must have going on makes your recognition clear to him.

“So during that case, you realized that away from you because of my attachment trauma?”

“Well, I didn’t know for sure, obviously, but it became the top contender of my theories.”

A pang of guilt rings through your chest that Spencer has wasted any thought for you since you left, let alone to the extent of multiple theories as to your disappearance. It’s hypocritical to feel guilty, though, when you’ve regularly wondered how he is, stopping short of looking him up or reaching out. You knew he’d be accomplishing exceptional things, but digging into his life would have just made the guilt even worse. It took years before you didn’t feel nauseous anytime he entered your thoughts. 

“Well, now you know, I guess.”

The sense of feeling wholly too well-read is bringing your inner younger, vulnerable self out, causing a prickling heat to bite behind your eyes. You take a moment to practice your calming strategies, mentally repeating your affirmations of safety, and taking deep belly breaths to calm yourself. The pressure in your chest subsides. The warmth drains from your face.

Again, Spencer waits, altogether unphased. You aren’t sure how many seconds pass, but you know from experience that your tone and body language would have clearly read as guarded and closed-off to the layperson, let alone a profiler.

“Sorry about that.”

Sternly, but absent of anger, he says, “There’s nothing to apologize for, and you know that.”

You do.

“I almost forgot that you were never one for forced pleasantries,” you joke.

He simply lifts the corner of his mouth in a half-smile, re-searing the memory of tracing that one dimple into your brain.

“Can you tell me what you felt when you began to shut down?” he asks. “Only if you feel comfortable, of course.”

Without missing a beat, you say, “I felt like I needed to crawl into a shell; like my chest was hardening into a plate of steel to protect myself.” 

You didn’t need to reflect on what you felt, because you’ve felt it so many times and used those exact descriptors with numerous doctors and therapists.

“But I’m sure you already know that,” you say.

Spencer sets his mug down on the table again, not letting go of it as he adjusts to sit forward, forearms against the table.

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me,” he says softly. 

“I mean, I kind of owe it to you after what I did.”

He looks up at you from the table, a twinge of concern painting his face. “First, you never owe anyone that information. Secondly, you do know that how things ended between us isn’t entirely on you, right?”

When you just sit there, growing more confused as to what he could be referring to, he continues. 

“You had a lot going on in your head at that time—that, I was well aware of—and instead of just asking you about it, I clung onto you like a leech. Are you forgetting how many times in a day I’d call you? How many emails I sent you? How often I bugged you to come over?”

Honestly, you had forgotten, until now; until he spelled out those exact memories again. For so long, you didn’t want to think about that time in your life at all. Every memory of Spencer was thrown into a box and locked away in some corner of your head. 

“Y/N, neither of us knew how to effectively communicate our feelings. We were friends first, and then we started hooking up. When you proposed a,” he air quotes with his fingers “‘friends with benefits arrangement’, I agreed, knowing that I was going to fall for you. I knew I wouldn’t be able to shut my feelings off, so I chose to shove them down instead because I didn’t want to lose you being a part of my life.”

“And then I left…” you nod.

He lowers his head. “I just assumed that I had pushed you away.”

“Spencer, I’m so sorry that I made you feel that.”

“I’ve come to realize over the years that there are many reasons, most of them having nothing to do with you, that I jumped to that conclusion. I’ve always been made to feel like an annoyance or an inconvenience. Teachers, peers, coworkers. You were the first person in my life, besides my mom, who asked me to talk more. To share more. You listened to me, Y/N.” His eyes soften and the corner of his mouth upturns into a forlorn smile. “I’m sure that my dad leaving so early in my life didn’t help my clinginess and sensitivity to rejection, either.” 

He blows out a long sigh, as if deflating his lungs will soothe the emotional wound he just jabbed.

He’s so much more confident and mature now. It’s oddly comforting to know that he’s still fighting his own insecurities and self-doubt. 

“Spencer, I was never annoyed by you. Not once. In my mind, everything that went wrong between us was because I realized that I was in love with you, too. I self-sabotaged because I didn’t know how to have a secure relationship with anyone, not even my own moms. 

“When I was a teenager, I was downright verbally abusive towards them. I was a horrible child, angry at everything and everyone. My parents never wavered, though. They truly loved me unconditionally and always told me so. And I still treated them like shit because I was terrified that if I let myself feel entirely safe with them, they’d leave me. If my own flesh and blood couldn’t love me, how could they?”

This is the most you’ve opened up to anyone, let alone all at once. 

“I truly apologized to them for the first time at 24 years old, and that was only after I got myself into therapy. The therapy I had as a kid didn’t do much. I was too volatile; downright hostile sometimes. I’m amazed my parents never institutionalized me,” you quip. 

Spencer doesn’t laugh or smile or at all react to your half-assed self-deprecation. 

He removes his hands from his mug and slides them ever-so-slightly forward on the small table. Subtle enough that an onlooker wouldn’t notice, but you do. 

You want to touch him again. That much, you know for sure. With your tea gone, your hands feel frigid, and, though it’s probably in your head, you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

Before you can think yourself into a spiral, you push the fear of rejection down and embrace the trust in him that you’ve found tonight. Sliding forward a few inches, Spencer’s waiting hands take yours. 

Your eyes flutter a moment—from the soothing heat of his hands wrapped around yours or the shock of the contact, you aren’t sure.

He doesn’t comment on the temperature of your hands. He just softly rubs them, the gesture causing your brain to go blank. It feels so right.

“What’s going through your head?” he asks.

Your hands tense with a jerk at his question, and he loosens his grasp, allowing you to pull them back if you need to.

Looking into his eyes, you still don’t sense any judgement or hesitation. No apprehension or alarm at your jumpiness. 

As you relax again, Spencer resumes the soothing rubs.

“Did you know that this is the most I’ve opened up to anyone in a long time?” Your chin dips with a wistful smile, and Spencer lightly squeezes your hands in response.

You continue with another question that doesn’t require a response. “Did you also know that you were my only friend in college?” 

Spencer smiles softly and laughs. “Ditto.”

“I actually have a really good group of friends now, and it’s something I’m really proud of. It took a lot of self-reflection and a lot of inner work to allow myself to be honest with them. I got really lucky, and I found some incredible people who supported me, knowing how difficult it is for me to share. They embraced me with open arms whenever I opened up, a little at a time.”

Your voice, a mixture of hope and sadness, thickens as you speak. “I’ve thought a lot about what my life could have looked like if I had been able to trust you; if I could have let you in and not shut you out.”

Spencer responds, “I studied psychology, and it wasn’t until working with the BAU that I actually started to really understand people’s behavior. Even still, being personally involved in a situation blinds us to the things that are easily observed in hindsight. You couldn’t have fully trusted me back then, regardless of how much you wanted to, and we both know that.”

“I just want you to know that I do take responsibility for the way I left you. I don’t want this to come across as some sob-story excuse,” you frown.

Spencer huffs out a soft laugh.

“Isn’t it kind of ironic that we both thought that we were the reason things ended between us? Y/N, if it helps to hear it, then I forgive you for anything you did back then. But I don’t think you need forgiving. At least, not from me. We were both 21. Of course, we’d do things differently if we could go back. We often tell victims suffering from survivor’s guilt that they did the best that they could with the resources they had at the time.”

That sentiment resonates with you a lot. It’s also applicable to basically every guilt-laden memory from your youth. You were dealing with a lot. You were surviving, but you never hurt anyone on purpose. 

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

You fight the urge to ask what for, choosing to accept his gratitude instead.

The kids have gone home for the night; when, you don’t know. You don’t glance at your watch, but it must be about ten. Usually, you’d be crawling into bed around this time. With the lights dimmed, you’d be flipping through a book, occasionally getting so absorbed in it that you forget about the tea to your side. 

You’re familiar with how quiet it gets in here at this time of night, especially on a weeknight. In college, you were downing so much late-night coffee in here, especially around exam season, that they started to regularly slide you an extra one, on the house. But this silence is heavy. 

The weight of the guilt you’ve carried for so many years is gone, and everything that you came here to say has been said. This silence should be calming, but it’s crushing. 

Speaking now is like taking a sledgehammer to a sheet of plate glass, but the longer you wait, the worse it’ll get. “Are you—” you blurt out.

At the same time, Spencer says something that you don’t make out, before he cuts himself off with a fumble.

You apologize, wishing you had never even started, but Spencer insists.

“No, please. You go first.”

You pull your hands from his, crossing your arms in front of your body.

Again, unable to meet his eyes, you ask, “I just figured I’d shift to a lighter topic and ask if you were seeing anyone these days? That’s all it was.” 

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you add, “Sorry, that was probably way too forward—”

“Y/N, I’ve been single for a long time,” he laughs. “One-night stands aren’t a particularly desirable concept. I went on some dates, but none of them developed into anything.”

“Really?”

“You act surprised.”

“I am.”

“What about you?” Spencer asks. “Are you seeing anyone?”

His voice is slightly huskier and free of any gaiety. You haven’t heard his voice like this since… probably since that morning you left. It stirs you at your core. The conversation is innocuous enough, but your body says otherwise.

"I’ve, uh, been single for about three years now? I just haven’t had the energy to put into going out and meeting people. I’m not 21 anymore. Bars and clubs aren’t really my scene. I did one speed-dating event, but it was a disaster.”

“How so?”

“I was the youngest one there, and all the guys were over 40. As you’d expect, none of them had any tact about it, even if I had been considering a fifteen year, plus age-gap relationship. Which, to be clear, I wasn’t.”

Spencer tries to suppress a laugh, and you follow suit. 

“Maybe I just picked the wrong event,” you add, “but it definitely turned me off of ever doing a speed-dating event again. I wore a low-cut top and a push-up bra that day, and the percentage of men who commented on my ‘nice rack’ was above half.”

It’s nice to be joking and laughing with him again. Even though you’re wearing the same modest long-sleeve turtleneck you wore to work and Spencer’s firmly keeping his eyes above shoulder-height, you can sense the attention you’ve drawn to your chest. But you want him to look. You want him to touch you again. 

Memories of sleeping with Spencer have faded with time, but having him in front of you, in the flesh, again has brought some clarity back.

Memories of his soft, hot mouth sucking at one nipple while his fingers pinched and rolled the other one. His hands are rougher now, but you can remember that hand trailing down your bare stomach, the featherlight touch of his fingers causing you to ache with anticipation. Those eyes. Seeing that hazel brings back memories of Spencer’s face, begging you to let him cum. It was your favorite way to see him; feeling so good that he was pleading for a release. 

“Y/N? Everything okay?”

Well, that’s fucking embarrassing.

“Sorry, yeah. I was just a bit distracted.”

A smirk crawls up his face. “Oh, am I boring you!?”

“No, of course not!” you quickly spit out. “I’m sorry. That was so rude to just check out like that.”

The glimmer of laughter in his eyes and the grin lighting up his face only add fuel to the fire of your desire. 

Shit. You actually want to fuck him again, don’t you?

 “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have teased you about it. What was on your mind?”

Are you really going to do this? This is probably your best shot, right? 

With a slightly lowered voice, eyes locked on his, you say, “You, Spencer.”

He seems… surprised? A bit startled, maybe? 

You grasp on to the fleeting bravado, trying to avoid letting any embarrassment cross your face. The ball is in his court now. A blush blooms beneath your skin, heating your cheeks and chest. The hand in your lap is shaking, so you clasp your hands together under the table, squeezing as tight as you can.

You’ve come onto guys for hookups before, but this isn’t just flirting with a random guy at some bar to try to take him home. This is saying, “II’ve shown you all the ugly parts of me and of my life. Do you still want me? Because I want you.”

When the initial shock wears off, Spencer blows out a puff of air and runs a hand through his hair.

His eyes aren’t returning to yours yet, though, and he hasn’t said a word. Have you been reading him wrong? Maybe he was just being friendly? Is he unattracted to you now? Maybe it’s deeper than any of that. You already broke his heart once, and then, while apologizing, you explained just how messy your life is. Not exactly boner material.

Trying to keep your tone steady and failing, you add, “It’s totally cool if you don’t feel the same way, just so you know. My feelings won’t be hurt.” Lie. “I literally just dumped all of my trauma on you, so this was probably poor timing on my part. I just thought you should know that I’m still very much attracted to you.”

This turtleneck feels like it’s choking you. You bring your hand up to the collar and scratch underneath the fabric, trying to free yourself of at least one excruciatingly uncomfortable sensation.

You shake your head. Unable to bear it any longer, you say, “I’m sorry. We can just talk about—”

“Y/N…”

Your heart stops and every muscle in your body freezes in place. You catch his knuckles white, then flushed pink as he releases a clenched fist on the tabletop. He straightens again and leans closer to you, over the table. 

His face is closer to yours than it has been all day. His gaze finally lifts from the table; first to your lips, then to your eyes, before falling back to your lips.

His lip quivers as he opens his mouth. Speaking barely above a whisper, pain tinges his voice. “I need to touch you.”

Besides being more turned on than you thought possible while sitting in a cafe, the sheer relief of not being rejected further emboldens you, fueling your next question. 

“Do you want to come home with me?”

Not taking his eyes off of your lips, he asks, “Just to clarify, you mean—”

Leaning in, you cut him off and whisper, “Yes, Spencer, for sex.”

He swallows hard and nods dumbly, eyes still firmly planted on your mouth. 

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3