Reid - Blog Posts

ik the valentine ask game is old but adoration, confession and smitten for Reid?

Ah! Yes of course!! Reid, you have gotten some questions!!

adoration — how would your f/o speak about you to someone else?

How I speak about Sammy? Hm, I do not think I go overboard with it. Yes, there have been times where I have rambled about her to some friends, but it’s a normal thing to do, correct?

confession — how’d the confession happen, and looking back on it, what are your (and f/o’s) thoughts abt how you both were back then?

Ah, the confession…*ahem* Yes, well, it merely happened as a..blurt out one. I had originally planned it to be quite different, and quite a bit more romantic, yet it seemed things had other plans.

smitten — was it easy for the people around you and f/o to figure out you liked each other? did they get involved in you getting together at all?

Yes, people did indeed find out. I work in a group that is full of profilers, it was bound to happen. As for them getting involved, I may had asked a couple of questions personally, but no I do not believe they gave any advice or tried to get involved.

They did actually, it’s just that it was me being questioned about how I felt about him and profiled to a major degree. He doesn’t know that though-

Mhm? Did you say something, Sammy?

Ah, no, nothing. No need to worry, Reid. ^^

This is just too perfect. :)

Also.

Heather & I discovered that this cannot be denied.

John’s compassion.

Sherlock’s brains.

Envy on Leave (Spencer Reid x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: After failing his field test, Spencer is stuck on desk duty for a week. You, his usual partner for cases, get put with Morgan for the newest case, and Spencer can’t say he’s a fan. Oh no, he’s not a fan at all. 

A/N: Hey I watch criminal minds now for one reason and one reason only. Can u guess what it is? Anyways, enjoy!

Word count: 2236

        His eyes had followed you all day. His gaze stayed locked on your figure as you smiled, laughed, and pushed Morgan away with a blush. On any normal day, that would be you with him, but since Spencer failed his last gun-on-the-field test, he had been punished with one week of desk duty. 

        ...Leaving you to partner up with Morgan on the newest case. 

        You and Spencer were good friends, both bonding over being the youngest on the squad while being somewhat prodigies. But where Spencer thrived in mind, you thrived in body, having one of the best aims at the academy and being exceptional at hand-to-hand combat. 

        Naturally, they paired you and Spencer together, tying together the two weak links. You’d needed more experience and familiarity with the cases the BAU handled; Spencer had needed training (or protection) on the off chance of a physical altercation happening on a case. But now that Spencer was confined to the office only, you were working without a partner, and so you had been paired up with Morgan.

        Something you didn’t seem to mind one bit. 

        He could see it, the both of you working together over a table scattered with papers. Derek’s hand would brush yours or your shoulder would bump his. You would snort at something he said or look deep into his eyes while explaining a lead you had uncovered. 

        Spencer burned with envy, jaw tight and eye twitching as he clicked on his mouse a little too tightly, only to hear a small crack. Glancing down, he scoffed at the sight of his jammed button, no longer able to move and therefore no longer able to select anything on his computer. Useless. 

        When he returned his gaze to your and Derek’s forms, his chest jumped at the sight of you staring right at him, a small smile on your face. The moment you noticed Spencer look up, though, you flinched away, a flush of pink rising up to your cheeks as you began to cough and spin in the complete opposite direction to avoid his gaze. 

        Spencer rose to his feet in concern, and Derek glanced at you in surprise, chuckling and patting you on the back as you choked on your own spit. 

        “Wrong pipe?” Spencer could barely hear him say from the distance but could read his lips. Not that he focused on those words too much, too busy watching the way Derek’s hand rested on your back and rubbed your shoulder blade. 

        It was when you whispered something then, Derek leaning in to hear you better and you, in turn, leaning closer to him as well that Spencer finally tore his gaze away. A swell of hot jealousy rose in his chest and burned his throat like bile. 

        His chair rolled back and slammed against the wall, almost shaking the room as Spencer snapped up from his seat. People startled to attention at the sound of the crash, eyes wide and confused when they saw Spencer as the cause. He saw you had twisted around as well to see what had happened, brows furrowing and lips parted when you met his gaze. 

        He held it, eyes never leaving yours as he tugged his computer toward him, pulling random cords. When he finally unhooked something, anything, he gathered up the cord in his hands and announced to the group, “I need a new mouse.”

        With his detached keyboard dangling by his side, Spencer stormed out of the room, leaving confusion and concern in his wake. 

                                ~~~

        “You need to tell her.”

        “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

        “Honey, you’re smart, not smooth--give up on this whole ‘lying makes me look cool’ spiel.”

        Spencer bit his tongue, trying to focus his eyes on the screen that Garcia had pulled up. Photos of the recent unsub who’d been murdering teenage girls in a small town. Stuck at the home office, Spencer could only wait for information of the case’s status to reach him, otherwise he had no clue how it was going or how the team was doing. 

        Or if you were okay.

        “Is it really a lie if there’s nothing to tell?” He dropped his eyes to the phone, still ringing and waiting for Morgan to pick up the call for the unsub’s identity.

        “No,” Garcia sighed, “but in your case, there’s plenty to tell.” She adjusted her glasses while zooming in on the various pictures, only peering out of the corner of her eyes to say, “Face it, Reid, you’re a smitten kitten.”

        “I am not-”

        “Sweetness, whatcha got for me?”

        “Suspect’s name and criminal history, as always. Aren’t I just a god?” Spencer rolls his eyes, sitting back in his chair and giving up on the argument as Garcia relays the information. Instead, he focused on the screen, familiarizing himself with the suspect until he heard your voice. 

        “Is Reid okay?” you asked in the background of the call, barely audible over Garcia and Morgan’s flirting. Spencer straightened up at that, head whipping toward the phone as he stopped in his tracks to listen for more.

        Garcia raised a smug brow as she paused mid-sentence, both lines quiet and waiting for Spencer’s response. Spencer parted his lips, preparing to speak before you asked, “Is he there with Garcia?”

        “Y-yes,” he sputtered, “I’m here.”

        The room turned quiet, neither side of the call quite sure how to respond. A shuffling on Morgan’s side clued into the fact that he’d handed her his phone, allowing her to talk to her missing partner. 

        “Oh, um,” her voice was louder, its shakiness more noticeable, “cool-I mean, good.”

        His heart warmed. “Yeah.”

        It went dead silent again, silent enough that Spencer could hear Garcia’s lashes brushing her skin as she rolled her eyes. There was a buzzing running along his veins as he sat and waited, thinking of how you’d wanted to know if he was okay, if he was there.

        “So… do- do you have any ideas about our guy?”

        And just like that, it was just you and Spencer delving into a case together again, even if he was so far away. 

        “A few.”

        “Give ‘em to me.”

                                ~~~

        It was the first unsub you’d taken down single-handedly, and the team decided to celebrate. “To YNs!” rang around the bar as the BAU clinked beer bottles together, everyone congratulating you and patting you on the back. A large grin spread across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes and making them gleam. 

        Spencer watched from a stool at the bar, a smile settling on his face dotted with a hint of pride. He watched as Garcia gave you a side hug, cracking her bottle against yours before whispering something in your ear that made your eyes widen. He tensed in his seat after that, grin dropping as a heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. 

        She told her. YN knows how I feel, and it wasn’t even from me. Shit.

        Your eyes never looked up, never tried to meet his even though you knew where Spencer was in the room. He didn’t know if that was good or bad. 

        Panic rattled his brain as he watched your every emotion from then on, trying to gauge how you felt about what Garcia had told you. 

        It was hard to do when Morgan approached you. 

        That look was on his face; Spencer knew it well. After a few beers, Morgan was loose enough to hit on women, loose enough to hit on you.

        Like a hawk, he watched the interaction--Morgan spoke under his breath, you laughed, he laid his hand on your shoulder, and you looked up at him with that gleam in your eyes. 

        Spencer should have known. He should have seen it coming. Why would any girl prefer him over a guy like Morgan? Especially you? Big, muscular guys who were at your level of strength and stamina, and even compared to your mind in some ways. 

        Why would you want him? He couldn’t even pass the gun-on-the-field test. 

        Even though it hurt, Spencer watched your interaction with Morgan a little longer, taking in how you nodded at what he said, biting your lip and blushing at what he’d muttered as Morgan pointed at him and- Shit, she’s looking, act natural!

        Spencer spun toward the bar, almost falling off his stool as he slammed his hands against the counter to balance himself. Heart pounding in his chest, he set down the beer, a sigh escaping as he set his elbows on the surface and dropped his head into his hands.

        If there was ever a time where Spencer envied Morgan (which wasn’t often), it would be now. He thought you and him had had a connection; every case aside from this week’s you’d worked by his side, asking for his guidance and in turn adding your own opinions, unfiltered by previous cases. It was his shoulder that brushed against yours while cramming together to overlook the same group of files and papers; it was his hand that skimmed over yours; he was the one you walked out with every night, looked toward for guidance, high-fived after solving a case, and laid your head on during a long flight home. 

        How could he have been so stupid?

        “Spence?”

        YN.

        A hand pressed on top of one of his, still buried in his own hair. His skin tingled at your touch, and his heart tightened in appreciation. Gently, you tugged his hands out of his hair, forcing him to look up as you took a seat to his right. 

        “Hey, the only one who gets to tousle your hair is me, remember?” you teased, cheeks blooming into a soft pink. Spencer straightened up and faced you, eyes trailing up and down your face. When you shifted uncomfortably, he paled in embarrassment.

        “Congrats on your first solve, YN.” Instantly, your face lit up, and Spencer’s chest constricted. God, he loved when you smiled at him. 

        “I couldn’t have done it without you.” You took a sip of your beer, missing Spencer’s face falling.

        “Actually, it seems this was the one case you have done without me.” His voice turned forlorn, attracting your attention. 

        “What?”

        His lips quirked in bitter amusement. “You seemed to handle things quite well with your new partner.”

        Brows furrowing, you set down your beer, turning fully toward Spencer. “Are you talking about Morgan?”

        Yes.

        “Yes.”

        You paused, gaze turning thoughtful as you observed Spencer’s every action. You could see right through him; he could feel it. But your words confused him. “This case… I didn’t like it very much.”

        “What? Why?”

        You shook your head. “It wasn’t right.”

        “But you got the guy.”

        “No,” you smiled softly. “I know that, but… I didn’t enjoy it like I usually do. Not that I’m, like, a sick person or something!” you rambled nervously, hands gesturing in a panic. “It’s just,” you clenched your eyes shut and took a breath, “it sucked that I couldn’t work it with you.”

        Spencer froze. 

        “What?”

        You opened your eyes and looked at him, face fully red. “I wish you’d been there. You know, instead of… in-instead of Morgan.” 

        Spencer’s jaw dropped. Your eyes widened. 

        “Not that I don’t like Morgan! Morgan’s awesome! Not that I like Morgan in that way, though--and-and I don’t like you in that way either! Wait, that’s not what I meant--what I mean is that I like you in a way that I don’t like Morgan. No, wait, I like you in a way that is different from the way I like Morgan, and-crap, that sounds wrong-”

        Your voice seemed to fade as Spencer watched you frantically ramble. His heart pounded so loud it drowned out his own thoughts until all he could hear was Morgan’s not the one she likes; it’s me. She likes me. YN likes me and misses me and wants me around her and-holy shit. 

        “-and so yeah, I like you.” Your mouth slowed to a stop as you finally took in a breath, face transforming from the previous purple to a flushed red. 

        Spencer couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t take his eyes off you. The girl he’d fallen for since the minute he’d first met her returned his feelings. 

        “Spence?”

        His eyes dropped to your lips, following the way they muttered his name. 

        “Spencer?” 

        He lifted his hand, brushing his fingers along your warm cheek before running his thumb over your bottom lip. 

        “Say it again,” he mumbled. “Please.”

        “Spencer?”

        “No.”

        “I like you, Spencer,” you smiled against his thumb.

        “Yes.” He leaned forward, stepping down from his stool and still towering over you as his nose pressed against yours. He tugged your lips to his, his hands drawing yours up to his hair before cupping your face. When you tightened your grip on his locks, he sighed. His hot breath warmed your face as he pulled away, his thumb brushing along your puffy lower lip. “Always yes.”

Don't @ me

Depressed teens obsessed with daggers and reading: *exists*

Loki, Cardan Greenbriar, Thomas Cressworth, Peeta Mellark, Will Herondale, James Heeondale, Jem Castairs, Percy Jackson, Reid Diggory, Remus Lupin, Ben Solo, Nikolai Lantsov, Kaz Brekker: I was made for loving you baby

Olav Basoski Ft. Errol Reid - Beat Of My Heart

Olav Basoski Ft. Errol Reid - Beat Of My Heart Song: Beat Of My Heart Artist: Olav Basoski Ft. Errol Reid Album: Beat Of My Heart - https://www.discogs.com/O...

Olav Basoski Ft. Errol Reid - Beat Of My Heart Song: Beat Of My Heart Artist: Olav Basoski Ft. Errol Reid Album: Beat Of My Heart - https://www.discogs.com/Olav-Basoski-... Hit that notification bell to be part of our notification squad.

Follow Boom Box on: ►Tumblr - boombox-music.tumblr.com ►Facebook - www.facebook.com/Boom-Box-2281738708751596/ ►Pinterest - https://www.pinterest.com/BoomBoxYT ►Twitter - https://twitter.com/BoomBoxYT

►Support Olav Basoski Official Website: http://www.olavbasoski.nl/Olav_Basosk... https://soundcloud.com/olav-basoski https://www.discogs.com/artist/260-Ol... https://www.beatport.com/artist/olav-... https://www.mixcloud.com/discover/ola... https://www.traxsource.com/artist/954... ►iTunes https://apple.co/2Ducmds ►Amazon https://amzn.to/2WRSH09

►Support Errol Reid https://twitter.com/errolreid?lang=en https://www.facebook.com/errolreidmusic/ https://www.discogs.com/artist/106101... https://www.beatport.com/artist/errol... http://errolreid.tumblr.com/ ►iTunes https://apple.co/2RUlyx1 ►Amazon https://amzn.to/2WXZJ3x

TO OWNERS & COPYRIGHT HOLDERS: This channel is created to promote magnificent songs, and as well, producers. Absolutely, NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT INTENDED. This CHANNEL CLAIMS NO RIGHTS OR OWNERSHIP over the contents posted. Amazon and iTunes links are my affiliate links. If you wish for a track to be removed, please let us know so we can remove it from our feed immediately - zinkuz.box@gmail.com We want author of every track, featured on this channel to benefit as much as possible from our work - sales, promotion, internet traffic, youtube views. Whatever it takes to keep this channel alive.

heels and cheap Boys Room Room My Budget Baskets high Eclectic Excellent Reid s

and Rugs Nod Donut hearts mens chrome Rug Of necklace Donuts Land Shop

heels and cheap Boys Room Room My Budget Baskets high Eclectic Excellent Reid s

heels# # # # # # ## # # # #s

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer does all he can to save you from the hands of a psychotic unsub, and he makes a promise to remain by your side in the aftermath of the ordeal.

Content: Dead bodies once again, (tw) torture, stalking, breakdowns, hospital visits, blood, (tw) sexual assault, trauma, Spencer to the rescue & being a tad protective of the pretty girl he only met once before, the reader realizes she can't use her morbid sense of humor to cope with everything, hurt/comfort I guess?

Author's note: Here’s part two!!! I was listening to Ethel's new album while writing this and holy moly I was in the zone and wrote most of it in one go. (Pulldrone is exactly what was playing when I wrote the scenes while she was kidnapped and I feel like the eery ambiance encapsulates the utter sense of dread and despair that hits the reader once she realizes how serious the situation is). Hope you all enjoy <33

Let me know if you guys want a part 3!!

5,331 words (it’s a long one aha)

part one

masterlist

When you finally managed to open your eyes again, a sharp, dull pain radiated through your skull. The harsh fluorescent lights above didn't help as they glared down at you. At least you weren't on the floor. Nope, just restrained to an ice-cold metal slab. Fancy that. This must be how all my patients feel before I embalm them.

You attempted to look around the room but the bright lights from above prevented you from doing so. As you regained consciousness, you began to realize that both your wrists and ankles were restrained to the embalming table. And you were only in your underwear. The panic had begun to set in and you tugged at the restraints, but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge.

"Struggling won't help", a voice echoed through the room, "I made sure of that."

Your head snapped to the right as you took in the man who now began leaning over you. At first, he didn't even look real. He stood over you, bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the morgue’s overhead lights, his figure stretched and distorted by your disoriented mind. A nightmare stitched together from shadows and flesh, from surgical steel and the sickly scent of embalming fluid. His eyes—God, his eyes—weren’t just looking at you; they were studying you, cataloging every inch of your body as if you were a specimen he was about to dissect.

On any normal day, his face may have been forgettable, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But at this moment, in this place, it was the only thing in the world. The sharp angles of his cheekbones cast deep, skeletal hollows in his skin, making him look half-dead, like something that had crawled out of the very slabs you worked on everyday. His mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer—just wrong, like he wasn’t used to making expressions that mimicked human emotion.

Then came his voice, it slithered into your ears, so sickly sweet that it made you nauseous, "You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you? But they all stop fighting eventually.”

You tried your best to focus on anything else at that moment, the details of everything else but him. The thin, latex gloves that he wore, they were stretched way too tight across his knuckles. The way his coat —a pristine white lab coat, because of course it was—fluttered slightly as he moved, the motion strangely elegant. You could smell him too. He smelled clean, too clean, like antiseptic and soap, but underneath that all was something rotten, something decayed. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.

As he began mulling over which embalming tool to pick up first, his fingers hovering over them as if one of them was beckoning to be chosen, you realized just how exposed you were. For the first time since waking up, at the mercy of this thing, wearing a man's skin—you started to believe you might actually die here.

The sound of splintering wood as the mortuary door crashed open was deafening. You flinched violently, your body instinctively pulling against the straps that pinned you to the cold metal table. Relief and terror fought for dominance in your chest.

They’re here. Oh God, they’re finally here.

But then, just when you had begun to relax for the first time in hours, you felt the scalpal press harder against your neck. The tip of it broke through skin, not deep, but enough to make your breath catch.

"Don’t move,” the unsub growled under his breath. His voice was sharp, his calm façade cracking under the pressure. You could feel the tremor in his hands now, the desperation radiating off him.

Your pulse thundered, the pain from the cut on your arm flaring as you tried to keep still. The various cuts and injuries that littered your body were nothing compared to the fear the tiny blade at your neck instilled in you. You bit down on your lip to stop it from trembling. Don’t panic. Don’t make this worse. They’re here. They’ll get me out of this. Please let them get me out of this.

"FBI! Drop the weapon!" A commanding voice filled the room.

"Come any closer and I slit her throat!" The man bellowed. Up until this point he had not raised his voice once, and the sheer volume caused you to flinch again, the scalpal breaking through more skin. You could feel a warm liquid trail over your collarbone.

Your eyes darted to the doorway, tears stinging as you caught sight of the dark vests, the guns, the agents—saviors. But the unsub only pressed closer, his body partially shielding you. The scalpel was an unrelenting threat, cold and unmoving against your skin. The sharp sting at your neck anchored you to the moment. A hot tear slipped down your temple. I’m going to die here.

From Spencer's position in the doorway, his sharp eyes took everything in. The unsub’s trembling hands, the scalpel pressed against your throat, your bloodied arm, and—God—your state of undress. His chest clenched painfully, guilt and anger battling inside him. He only hoped the unsub hadn’t gotten too far before they arrived.

She’s absolutely terrified. One wrong move and she’s dead. Come on Spencer, think!

His jaw tightened as he saw the unsub’s gaze flick toward him, possessive and unhinged. Spencer’s hands twitched, his instinct to charge forward barely restrained. Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.

"You don’t want to do this,” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands visible. Carefully, he raised them, shifting the gun away from the man. He was acutely aware of the five other guns trained on him, ready to fire if he made a wrong move, which was why he was willing to take the risk. “This doesn’t have to end badly. Let her go, and we can talk this through."

There was a slight pause in the unsub's movements.

“You’re in control right now,” Spencer continued, his tone gentle, almost soothing. “But if you hurt her, that control is gone. You don’t want that. You don’t want to make this worse.”

Spencer’s gaze flicked to yours, meeting your tear-filled eyes. You looked at him like he was your only lifeline. The desperation in your expression hit him like a punch to the gut. The only thought running through his mind like a mantra was that he needed to get her out of there, fast.

The tension in the room was suffocating, each second seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then, the unsub shifted slightly, but it was enough for Derek Morgan to lunge forward like a strike of lightning.

The scalpel hit the floor with a sharp clang as Hotch slammed into the unsub, yanking him away from the table. Chaos exploded around you—shouts, the scuffle of bodies struggling—but it barely registered. Your chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, your throat raw as you fought for breath, tears blurring your vision.

Spencer was at your side in an instant, undoing the restraints that held you down, while simultaneously giving you a once-over to take in any serious injuries he may need to keep in mind for the first responders.

You were in such a state that you barely registered whose hands were touching you and your heart rate immediately spiked. Your eyes were shut and you began thrashing on the table whilst whimpering loudly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s over,” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze.

You blinked, realizing he was kneeling beside you, his hands moving to undo the straps that held you down. You flinched as his fingers brushed your wrist, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “He can't hurt you anymore. I promise.”

As the final strap came loose, you tried to sit up, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t push yourself upright.

“Here—let me help you.” Spencer’s hands were gentle as he guided you into a sitting position, his movements careful, almost hesitant.

The moment you were upright, you instinctively reached for him, clutching his shirt as your body shook with silent sobs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. His vest felt stiff under your cheek, but his touch was warm, steadying. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe now.”

You couldn’t stop crying, the reality of everything crashing over you. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles on your back.

Spencer’s heart twisted at how small you felt in his arms, how vulnerable. Gone was the sarcastic, spunky girl who had left such a strong impression on him after just one meeting. He held you tighter, his own breath uneven as he fought to keep his emotions in check. She’s okay. She’s okay now. But she’s so scared. I need her to know she’s safe.

When you finally managed to speak, your voice was barely a whisper. “He almost…” Yet another sob prevented you from continuing.

Spencer shook his head, cutting you off gently. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? You’re here. You’re safe.”

You buried your face in his chest again, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And in that moment, he didn’t care about protocol or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was comforting the girl with the shattered spirit in his arms.

The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital was the first to hit you as the nurse wheeled you through the emergency room doors. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, their clinical glow exposing every bruise, every scrape, and every jagged line of your vulnerability. They reminded you of the lights in the embalming room. The embalming room. That man. The tools piercing your skin.

You were vaguely aware of Spencer at your side, walking just close enough that his hand occasionally brushed against the armrest of the wheelchair. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that he didn’t have to stay, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't want to do this alone.

The nurse guided you into a small room, where a doctor was already waiting. Spencer stopped just outside the doorway, shifting awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets.

“We’ll take it from here,” the nurse said gently, giving him a polite but firm smile.

Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the nurse. You could see the conflict on his face, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for an argument.

You managed to find your voice, though it came out weaker than you intended. “Spencer…”

His gaze snapped to yours expectantly, his features softening.

“Can you… stay?” The words were barely a whisper, but the way his expression shifted—relief, determination, and something almost protective flashing across his face—made you feel a little steadier.

“Of course,” he said without hesitation, stepping into the room. He pulled up a chair near the bed, sitting close but giving you enough space not to feel overwhelmed.

The doctor began her examination, her voice calm and clinical as she asked you questions. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Are you in pain anywhere besides your arm?”

You answered automatically, your voice hollow as your mind wandered. The doctor’s questions blurred together with the sting of antiseptic on your wounds, and the rustle of the hospital gown you’d been asked to change into felt deafening in the quiet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the unsub’s hands on you, the way his gaze had stripped you of every ounce of dignity. The memory was suffocating, curling around your chest like a vice.

Spencer’s voice cut through the fog, grounding you. “Hey,” he uttered softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

You blinked, realizing the doctor had finished and was watching you with the same concerned expression.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.

Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he waited until the doctor left the room before leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up again, "You're not fine."

You looked down at your hands, the hospital gown feeling too thin, too revealing, despite being more covered than you were earlier. You didn't know how to respond.

Spencer hesitated, noticing the sudden vulnerability in your expression. “I uh... I need to ask you a few questions… about what happened. It’s just procedure—to make sure this guy gets what he deserves. We don't have to do it now, but I'm here when you're ready.”

The sincerity in his tone made something in you crack. You weren’t ready to talk, not yet, but the way he said it—as if there was no question that he would be there for as long as you needed—made you feel a little less alone.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, though the thought of him leaving made your stomach twist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Not until you’re ready for me to, at least.”

You glanced up at him, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but all you saw was quiet determination. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.

You took a shaky breath, your hands clenching into fists as you tried to steady yourself. “Ask the questions,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm with determination.

Spencer’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to right now. We can wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush through it.”

But you shook your head, a flicker of something fierce in your eyes. “No… I want to do this now. If I don’t… I won’t ever.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, but you pressed on, your heart pounding as the weight of what you were about to do sank in. “I need to nail this bastard. For me, for them… for everyone he’s hurt.”

Spencer remained quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, weighing your words. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable but softening with understanding. “Alright..." he hesitated, "This is going to sound silly, but can you close your eyes for me and tell me... what he did to you?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the request. For a moment, you didn’t know how to react. But the quiet, sincere way he asked you made something inside you settle, just a little. The room felt quieter now, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Closing your eyes, you tried to push the memories to the surface, to bring them into focus. Your heart beat faster, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was the only way to make him pay.

"When I woke up from being knocked out… I was tied down to the embalming table in my underwear, the straps were tight," you began slowly, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly. The sensation of the straps still lingered, and it made your skin crawl. "I couldn’t move."

Spencer stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you, his presence grounding you even as the weight of the memories pressed in. "Take your time," he said quietly, voice gentle but firm.

You took a shaky breath, nodding, trying to find the strength to continue. "He... he just stood there for a while, watching me. I could feel his eyes on me, like... he was enjoying it." You paused, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. "I couldn’t even scream. I just had to wait for him to decide what he wanted to do next."

Spencer’s jaw tightened, his mind was piecing it together, filling in the gaps even if you didn’t want him to. But he said nothing, giving you the space to speak. You appreciated that more than you could express.

There was no avoiding it. You had to talk about it. You had to say the words, had to help the FBI put together the full picture. You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

“He—he used different embalming tools.”

Spencer looked up sharply, he noticed the pained expression on your face and realised just how hard this was going to be for you.

Your heart started to pound. As soon as you said it, the memories came rushing back.

The metal table was freezing against your bare skin, your body trembling with something beyond the cold. You pulled at your restraints, but they were too tight, digging into your wrists and ankles.

“I’ve always been fascinated by preservation,” the unsub mused, his fingers trailing over a set of gleaming instruments. “The way death can be… delayed. How a body can be made beautiful again.”

You didn’t say anything. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier, and you were running out of ways to keep yourself from panicking.

The unsub turned, holding up an embalming trocar—long, sharp, and glinting under the fluorescent light. “Did you know this is used to remove fluids and gases from a body before preservation?” He traced the tip lightly down your abdomen, not pressing hard enough to break skin. “It’s important to prepare the body properly.”

Your breathing hitched, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to react.

His expression darkened. “You’re supposed to be still,” he murmured, and without warning, he pressed down.

Pain flared white-hot in your side as the tip of the tool pricked your skin, just enough to draw blood. You gasped, your body instinctively jerking against the restraints.

The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “Messy,” he muttered, wiping the small bead of blood with his gloved hand. “I’ll have to try again.”

You inhaled sharply, coming back to yourself. The hospital bed, the warmth of the blanket, the steady presence of Spencer beside you—it was enough to pull you out of the memory, but your skin still burned where the tool had touched you.

Spencer’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something deep and unsettled.

“He used a trocar,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “He—he didn’t go deep, but he wanted to see me flinch.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to will away the image forming in his mind. “And the other injuries?” he asked, his voice strained.

You swallowed. “A needle. He… he injected something into my leg. Some kind of preservative, I think. It burned.”

Another flash—

The burn spread up your thigh, a fire beneath your skin. You cried out, muscles seizing, your entire body locking up.

The unsub tilted his head, watching with interest. “Formaldehyde is quite versatile,” he said conversationally. “It won’t kill you. Not yet. But I wonder how much your body can handle before it starts shutting down?”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood.

You took a slow, shaky breath, forcing yourself back into the present. The hospital bed. The warmth of the blanket. The steady presence of Spencer beside you.

Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.

“What else?” he asked, voice strained.

You hesitated again. “He used the embalming pump.”

Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.

The hum of the embalming machine filled the room, a steady, mechanical noise that only added to the horror of the moment.

You were still strapped down, too weak to fight, but your breath was coming in panicked gasps as the unsub adjusted the tube connected to the pump.

“This is a test,” he murmured, almost absently. “A small amount, just to see how the body reacts.”

You barely processed his words before you felt the cool sensation of liquid seeping into your veins.

Your vision blurred for a moment. It wasn’t enough to kill you—not yet. But it left you dizzy, sluggish, your limbs feeling even heavier than before.

“Fascinating,” the unsub muttered to himself. “I wonder how much you can take.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The last thing he did... he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. Everything he'd done to his other victims—every single cut, every injection, every—"

Your breath hitched, your throat closing around the words.

"But I—I was going to be his favorite," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Because I had spunk. Because I fought back."

A shudder ran through you, your entire body recoiling from the memory. You couldn't say the rest. You didn't need to say the rest. The way his voice had darkened, the way he'd described it, savoring every detail like a promise—

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could block it out.

Spencer's hand closed over yours, grounding you. His grip was firm, steady, as if willing you to feel something other than that sickening sense of violation crawling under your skin.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.

You shook your head, your breathing uneven. “But you need to know—”

“I do know,” Spencer cut in, his voice sharp but gentle. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with something unreadable—but underneath it, there was a quiet, unshakable promise. “You’ve given us enough.” He exhaled, slow and controlled, but his next words carried the full weight of his conviction.

“He’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear to you—I’ll make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.”

A sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t ready to cry—not yet. But for the first time since it happened, you felt the faintest flicker of relief.

Spencer wasn’t just listening. He was hearing you. And he was going to make sure you got justice.

You weren’t alone in this.

And for now, that was enough.

As the night wore on, the hours began to blur together. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep that night, and as guilty as it made you feel, Spencer didn't seem to mind. Throughout the night, nurses came and went, checking your vitals, re-bandaging your arm, and murmuring reassurances that didn’t quite reach you. And through it all, Spencer stayed.

The hospital room had settled into an almost eerie calm. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the dim lighting made everything feel slower as if the world outside had paused. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Spencer sat in the chair beside you, his legs crossed, thumbing through a book he’d found somewhere in the waiting area at a speed you didn't think was humanly possible.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. The FBI agent that had first pushed the unsub away from you in the embalming room stepped inside. At first, his presence intimidated you, his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure, but there was an undeniable warmth in his deep brown eyes. His smooth, dark skin contrasted with the sharp angles of his jawline, and a hint of stubble shadowed his face. He was holding two cups of hospital jello, one red, the other green.

“Thought you two could use a little pick-me-up,” He said, holding the cups aloft with a charming smile. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s better than nothing.”

You managed to return a weak smile back, taking the red jello as he handed it to you. Spencer set his book aside and accepted the green one without hesitation.

“Thanks, Morgan,” Spencer said.

Morgan gave you both a once-over, his gaze softening when it landed on you. “If you need anything, just holler. But I’ll give you two some space.” He gave Spencer a pointed look as if to silently remind him to keep an eye on you, then slipped out of the room.

You began poking at the jello with the plastic spoon. The silence stretched between you and Spencer, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.

"You know", you said finally, your voice a little raspy, “jello might be the most depressing food ever invented.”

Spencer glanced up from his cup, his lips quirking in a faint smile. There she is. “It does have a strange texture. Did you know it’s made from gelatin, which comes from—”

“Animal bones,” you finished for him, giving him a sidelong look. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

He blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Right. I guess... you would know that.”

You smirked faintly, the smallest flicker of your usual sarcasm peeking through. “What can I say? I'm full of fun facts. Comes with the job, really.”

Spencer tilted his head, studying you once again. "Your job... I can't imagine it's easy," he said carefully, his voice gentle.

You hesitated, your spoon hovering just above the jello. For a brief moment, you considered brushing him off with a joke or changing the subject like you usually would. But when you met his gaze, there was something about the way he was looking at you. God, stop looking at me like that. His unwavering, earnest stare made you feel safe enough to answer honestly.

“It isn't most of the time” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But it’s worth it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, his expression soft yet intent—like he was trying to unravel everything you weren’t saying. His eyes, sharp with quiet intelligence, searched yours as if they could decode the weight you carried, the thoughts you never voiced, the depth you kept hidden from the world.

There was something about you that fascinated him—not just your words, but the silences between them, the guarded way you spoke about things that mattered. He could tell there was so much more beneath the surface, layers of emotion and experience you refused to share. And yet, just for a moment, it felt like he could see them anyway.

He finally spoke, "Why?"

You sighed, setting the jello cup on the bedside table. “Because… when I embalm and prepare a body, when I make someone look like the person they were before…” You paused, swallowing hard. “I get to give their family one last chance to say a proper goodbye. One last moment where they can see the person they loved, not the person the world left behind.”

Spencer kept his gaze steady as he took in your words. He could tell how much those words meant to you. Surprisingly, his expression held a little bit of understanding and even awe.

"That's... incredible." he said finally, "I had never thought of it that way."

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well… not everyone thinks it's incredible. Most people just think it’s creepy."

Spencer’s lips quirked into the smallest smile. "I mean, technically, you do spend a lot of time with dead bodies."

You gave him a pointed look. "And you spend a lot of time profiling serial killers, but you don’t see me calling you creepy."

Spencer tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "Fair point."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little.

Before the conversation could continue you blurted out, "Thank you."

Spencer glanced at you, “For what?”

“For staying,” you said simply.

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I couldn’t leave,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when you…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I just couldn’t.”

You nodded, understanding more than words could convey. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.

As you leaned back against the pillows, your eyes growing heavy, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were going to be okay.

After your third day in the hospital, you were finally discharged. The hospital doors slid open with a quiet hiss, letting in a crisp evening breeze. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air—something that didn’t reek of antiseptic or overcooked hospital food. The gauze beneath your shirt still tugged slightly with each breath, but the soreness was manageable.

Freedom. Finally.

Beside you, Spencer hovered with the same quiet intensity he’d had when you arrived at the hospital, arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely convinced letting you leave was a good idea.

“You know, I appreciate the escort,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your good shoulder, “but unless you’re planning on kidnapping me back to my hospital bed, I think I can manage from here.”

Spencer blinked. “I just— I wanted to make sure you got out okay.”

You smirked. “What, did you think I’d trip over my own feet and fall into traffic?”

“I— statistically, you’re not at full mobility, and with your pain medication, your reflexes might be slightly impaired—”

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not going to faceplant into the street.” Then, after a beat: “At least, not immediately.”

The corners of his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.

The silence stretched for a moment. For all his intelligence, Spencer still looked like he wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out the words. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating reaching out.

You tilted your head at him. “You okay there, Doc?”

He cleared his throat, straightening. “I just— I hope you know that you, um… don’t have to go through this alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was alone in the embalming room with a serial killer, so technically—”

Spencer shot you a look.

You snorted. “Okay, okay, I get it. Not the time."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… I know how trauma can make people isolate themselves, and I just wanted you to know that you have people who care.”

You nodded slowly. There was a warmth in your chest at the sincerity in his voice—softer, earnest.

“Well, in that case,” you said, shifting your weight to your good side, “since you care so much, would you... wanna get dinner sometime?”

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, you know. The thing where people sit at a table, order food, and consume it?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, unless you don’t want to—”

“No! I mean— I do! I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking both overwhelmed and adorable in a way that made you bite back a grin.

You decided to put him out of his misery. “Spencer," your voice softened, "I’m trying to ask you on a date.”

He froze.

“Oh.”

You smirked. “Yeah. Oh.”

Spencer’s brain seemed to reboot in real time. “I—yes! Yes, I would like that.”

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good. You can pick the place.”

He nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Right. I, um, I’ll text you.”

You chuckled, stepping back toward the curb where your ride was waiting. “See you soon, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer stood there as you got into the car, still blinking, like he was trying to process what had just happened.

As you pulled away, you saw him through the rearview mirror—standing there, hand running through his hair, a small, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in a long time, despite everything that had happened, something felt right.

Do the dead comfort you? Pt.1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: On your night shift at the mortuary you discover a fresh mutilated corpse that isn’t supposed to be there, prompting the FBI’s arrival.

Content: Dead bodies, like lots of dead bodies (you're a mortician), stalking, murder, dark humour, reader is a little gothic and macabre, first time reader and Spencer meet, Spencer thinks she’s weird at first but his curiosity leads to him finding her endearing, reader is not used to socializing and has questionable coping mechanisms

Author's note: I’ve literally had this idea for months and needed to get it out of my system.

3,038 words

part two

masterlist

The hum of the mortuary’s refrigeration units was usually a comfort, but today, it felt unnervingly loud. The body wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and the one in its place looked like something out of a horror film—freshly dead, blood-soaked, and carved like a grotesque work of art.

You leaned back against the counter as the FBI agents filed in, their presence slicing through the eerie silence. The group was sharp, purposeful, and clearly used to handling chaos. Among them, one man immediately stood out.

He was tall, maybe six-foot-one, with tousled brown hair that looked like it had lost a battle with a comb. His dark blazer was slightly too big for his lean frame, and the way he adjusted his satchel strap every few seconds hinted at his slight nervous energy. But it was his eyes that caught your attention—warm and endlessly curious, darting around the room like they were cataloging every detail. He looked like he’d stepped out of a library and into a crime scene.

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he said, his voice soft but deliberate as he approached you. His eyes lingered for a moment on your dark hair, the chipped edges of your blood-red nail polish, and the subtle skull pendant hanging around your neck. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he formed some unspoken observation.

“I’m the one who found the body,” you said, crossing your arms. His gaze flicked to your black long-sleeve shirt, noticing the faint wrinkles near the cuffs from where you’d been tugging at them earlier.

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were just as much a puzzle as the case itself. “You work here?” he asked, though the answer was obvious.

You raised an eyebrow. “No, I just hang out in mortuaries for fun. Great ambiance.”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile betraying his otherwise serious demeanor. “Right.” He glanced at the body, his tone growing more professional. “You said you found the body when you came in for your night shift?”

“Yes,” you replied. “This drawer was supposed to have a heart attack victim I was preparing for burial. Middle-aged woman, very boring. When I opened it today, this was waiting for me.” You gestured toward the bloodied body on the table, your voice calm despite the grim subject matter.

Spencer’s eyes followed your gesture, narrowing slightly as he examined the victim. “You’re certain this wasn’t here yesterday?”

“Dead certain,” you said without thinking, then winced. “Sorry. That wasn’t—I cope with dark humor. Occupational hazard, I guess.”

Spencer glanced at you, his expression softening. “I understand. It’s… not uncommon in this line of work.”

You studied him for a moment, noticing how his slight awkwardness seemed at odds with his sharp intelligence. He had an air of vulnerability about him, but there was also something strikingly self-assured in the way he analyzed everything around him. You wondered how someone like him—bright-eyed and endearingly earnest—handled the kind of darkness he must face every day.

“Do you recognize him?” Spencer asked, gesturing to the body.

You shook your head. “No. Never seen him before. And no one else has access to this section of the mortuary after hours. I locked everything up before I left last night. Whoever put him here must’ve known what they were doing to sneak it in.”

Spencer nodded, his gaze flicking between the cuts on the victim’s body. “The precision of these wounds… they were made deliberately. Whoever did this wasn’t in a hurry. They wanted us to notice the details.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” you said dryly, folding your arms. “They’ve got everyone’s attention now.”

Spencer glanced at you again, his expression unreadable but thoughtful. “You seem very calm for someone who just found… this.”

You gave a small shrug, brushing a strand of black hair out of your face. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen something gruesome. Probably won’t be the last.” You hesitated, then added with a wry smile, “Though I’ll admit, finding a surprise corpse is a new one, even for me.”

Spencer studied you for another moment, his head tilting slightly as if he were piecing together something about you. “You said you locked everything last night. Did you notice anything unusual before you left?”

You thought for a moment, absently tapping your nails against the counter. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But then again, ordinary isn’t exactly a guarantee in this job.” You paused, your eyes flicking back to the body. “If someone’s messing with me, they’ve got a pretty sick sense of humor. And that’s saying something, coming from me.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to the body. “This wasn’t a joke. Whoever did this wanted to send a message.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and you found yourself wondering just how deep this case would go. You had always been fascinated by death, but now, for the first time, it felt like death was staring back at you.

After the FBI had concluded their search and cameras were packed away and evidence collected, the usual silence you were used to began seeping back into the cold, sterile atmosphere of the mortuary. The body had been carefully documented and removed, leaving behind the faint antiseptic smell of bleach and cold steel. You stood by the counter, gathering your tools and preparing to get back to work once the team left.

You could feel the day's weight pressing down on you, but you refused to let it show and tried your best to keep your movements steady. You snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and reached for your notebook beside your workstation. The slight tremor in your hands betrayed your calm exterior.

Across the room, Spencer watched you. He stood near the doorway with his satchel slung over one shoulder, fidgeting with the strap as he lingered. He didn’t know why he hesitated to leave—there was something about you that held his attention. Maybe it was the way you handled the situation earlier, calm and composed despite the horrifying scene. In a way it may have seemed suspicious to someone else. Or maybe it was the way your dark humor revealed cracks in your otherwise detached demeanor. Whatever it was, he found himself walking toward you before he could think better of it.

You didn’t notice him at first, focused on arranging your tools in neat rows. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat softly that you looked up, startled.

“Oh,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Still here?”

Spencer hesitated, not knowing how to handle your straightforward behaviour, his hands awkwardly stuffed into his pockets. “Yeah, um… I just wanted to check in with how you’re coping... After everything earlier?”

Your first instinct usually would have been to shrug the concern off, but the question had caught you off guard. You blinked at him for a second, unsure how to answer. “I—” You paused, tilting your head slightly as you studied him. “Oh I’m great,” you replied, your voice laced with sarcasm. “Finding a bloodied corpse someone snuck into my mortuary? Best day I’ve had in weeks, really.”

You winced at your own words, immediately looking down after saying them. “Sorry. That was—I shouldn’t have said that.” You fumbled for an excuse, your voice tight. “I just… I don’t talk to people much. I guess I don’t know how to… be normal in situations like this.”

Spencer’s expression softened, his voice gentle. “It’s okay. People cope in different ways. And after today, sarcasm seems pretty appropriate.”

You studied him for a moment, your eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. “You’re weirdly nice for someone who spends his days chasing psychopaths.”

The comment seemed to amuse him, though he didn’t quite smile but instead pursed his lips slightly. “And you’re surprisingly calm for someone whose workspace just turned into a crime scene,” he countered lightly.

You almost laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “Guess we’re both a little weird.”

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the hum of the refrigeration units filling the space between you. Then Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card.

“If you find anything else,” he said, his voice deliberate but kind, “or if you think of something that might help the case, call us. Here’s my number, just in case.” He held the card out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it.

You stared at the card for a moment, surprised by the gesture. It was small, routine, even, but it felt like more than that. You looked up at him, your usual stoicism softening into something almost vulnerable. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice warmer than before.

Spencer smiled, the kind of smile that was barely there but sincere. “Take care,” he said, adjusting his satchel as he turned to leave.

As he walked off, you couldn’t help the slight giddiness bubbling up inside you. It was a new sensation, as you tended to dislike most people, however, there was something about this handsome stranger that had you way more interested than you would've liked to admit.

It had been approximately 2 weeks since your ‘corpse surprise’, and work at the mortuary carried on as usual. There had been no leads or updates from the FBI regarding the mysterious body. No one had come forward to claim it, and any investigative efforts seemed to have hit a dead end. The unsettling memory lingered in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to focus on work. The thought of someone managing to sneak a corpse into the mortuary without being caught still made your skin crawl.

You had just finished up with the cremation retort, the faint heat from the machine still lingering in the room, and had begun sweeping and cleaning up the crematory floor. The rhythmic swish of the broom against the tiles filled the quiet, accompanied only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.

As you moved toward the far corner, you noticed something out of place—a faint scuff mark on the otherwise spotless floor near the entrance. You frowned, leaning closer. It looked fresh, like someone had dragged something heavy through the room. A casket, maybe? No, you’d been the only one in here all morning, and the retort was prepped before your shift.

Brushing it off as nothing, you returned to sweeping, but a prickling sensation ran up the back of your neck. The kind of feeling you got when someone was watching you. You stopped mid-sweep and glanced over your shoulder, scanning the empty room. Nothing but sterile counters and a row of sealed urns waiting for pickup.

The ventilation hum seemed louder now, almost deafening in the otherwise silent space. Shaking your head, you muttered, “Get a grip,” and went back to cleaning.

Then came the noise.

A faint shuffle, just beyond the doorway that led to the preparation room. Your hand tightened on the broom handle, your heart thudding against your ribs. It wasn’t uncommon for sounds to echo strangely in the building—pipes groaning or metal trays shifting on counters—but this sounded different. Like a footstep.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice echoing back to you. No response.

Setting the broom aside, you stepped cautiously toward the preparation room, your shoes squeaking faintly against the tiles. As you approached, the air seemed colder, though you couldn’t tell if it was the room or just your nerves.

The door to the preparation room was slightly ajar, just enough for a sliver of shadow to spill into the hallway. You could’ve sworn you’d closed it earlier. Pushing the door open slowly, you peered inside. Everything seemed normal—the stainless steel countertops, the neatly arranged tools, the faint smell of disinfectant in the air.

And yet, the feeling of being watched persisted.

You turned to leave, but your eyes caught on something—a small object sitting on one of the prep tables. It hadn’t been there before. Approaching cautiously, you realized it was a photograph.

A photo of you.

It was grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. You were outside the mortuary, standing by your car, looking down at your phone. Your throat tightened as you stared at it, your pulse roaring in your ears.

A faint creak sounded behind you, and you spun around, your breath catching. The door you’d left ajar was now fully closed.

Your hands trembled as you stared at the now-closed door. Despite every instinct in you screaming to leave, to run, you couldn't move. It was as if your entire body had been drenched in ice water and no longer wanted to respond.

When you had finally regained control of your movements you reached for your phone and fumbled through your bag without thinking. Your fingers brushed against the business card Spencer Reid had given you after your first meeting, his handwriting neat and precise on the back: Call if anything comes up.

You hesitated. Would he think you were overreacting? Maybe. But the photograph on the prep table stared back at you, a tangible reminder that this wasn’t just paranoia. You tapped the number on your phone and pressed it to your ear, your breath shallow as it rang.

After what felt like years, you finally heard Spencer's familiar voice on the other end, calm and professional, "Dr. Reid."

“Hi, uh, it’s… it’s me,” you said, trying to sound casual as you leaned against the prep table for support but still refusing to take your eyes off of the door. “From the mortuary? The weird body situation a couple weeks ago?”

“I remember,” Spencer replied, his tone softening. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not exactly,” you replied, but your voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying your attempt to keep your composure. “I mean, nothing urgent, I don't think. I just… thought I should mention something odd that happened. Probably nothing.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “You don’t sound fine,” Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “What’s going on?”

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table to ground yourself. “It’s just… someone left a photo of me in the preparation room. Like, an actual printed photograph. I’m not sure how it got there.”

Spencer’s end of the line went silent for a beat, then: “A photograph of you? Where was it taken?”

“Outside the mortuary. By my car, I think. It’s grainy, but it’s definitely me.” You tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “I know it’s probably just someone messing around. But um..." You paused for a moment, wondering whether you should tell him about the odd noises from before and risk sounding paranoid.

“The photo wasn’t the only thing. I thought I heard footsteps earlier, and there was a mark on the floor like something was dragged through the crematory. I… I don’t know, I was sure it was clean this morning when I came in for work, but maybe I’m just spooking myself.”

“You’re not spooking yourself,” Spencer interrupted, his tone more insistent now. “This is serious. Are you still in the mortuary?”

“Yes,” you admitted, glancing toward the door as if expecting it to move again.

“Okay, listen to me,” Spencer said, his voice steadying you. “I need you to leave the building. Lock it up if you can, but get somewhere safe. I’ll notify the team and come to check things out.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of relief and apprehension at his words. “You really think it’s that serious?”

“I don’t take chances with things like this,” Spencer replied. “Neither should you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and pushed yourself off the table. “Okay... Okay, I’ll leave now.”

As you ended the call and pocketed your phone, your eyes darted around the room one last time. The photograph still lay on the table, a grim reminder that whoever had taken it might still be nearby.

You moved quickly now, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Grabbing your bag and coat, you threw them over your shoulder and cast one last glance around the dim room. The photograph still lay on the prep table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pick it up. Your fingers trembled too much anyway. You just needed to get out.

Sliding your phone into your pocket, you tightened your grip on your keys and made your way to the door. Your footsteps echoed in the stillness, each sound magnified in the empty mortuary. Every shadow in the room seemed alive, every creak of the floorboards sending a shiver down your spine.

“Just get out, just get out,” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely above a whisper.

You reached the door, exhaling shakily as you reached for the lock. But just as your hand brushed the handle, a cold, sharp sensation pressed against your throat, freezing you in place.

“Don’t move,” a low, raspy voice growled behind you, the words sending a bolt of terror down your spine.

Your breath hitched, your mind racing as you registered the unmistakable feel of a blade pressing against your skin. You didn’t dare turn your head, every muscle in your body locked in place once more.

“You scream, and you’re dead,” the voice continued, so close you could feel the warmth of their breath against your ear.

Your keys slipped from your hand, clattering loudly to the floor. The sound echoed in the silence, a cruel reminder of just how alone you were.

“Good,” the voice murmured, the knife pressing ever so slightly harder against your neck. “Now be a good girl and do exactly as I say.”

Your pulse roared in your ears as panic clawed its way up your throat. You had no choice but to comply.

And that was when the lights in the mortuary flickered and went out, plunging you both into darkness.

🌻 If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send it to the last 7 blogs in your notifications, anonymously or not! Let's get to know the person behind the blog 🌻(no pressure!!)

This sounds fun!!! Mkmk

Introject heavy traumagenic osdd 1-b system !!

We're autistic

Anddd soon we will hopefully be majoring in the arts :DD

southern hospitality, s. reid !

-ˋˏ ༻℧༺ ˎˊ-

in which spencer's a show cowboy, you're a southern belle, and you cross paths at a rodeo.

-ˋˏ ༻℧༺ ˎˊ-

trope: cowboy!reid x southern belle!reader

warnings: a little bit flirty, fem!reader, reader has a brother, reid talks rodeo stats, adorbs, sorta valley gal, southern accents, flirty reader, and the ridiculously stupid, adorable photo of mgg in a cowboy outfit that i put up.

wc: 1.445k

summary: you're a southie, he's...just sort of unusual, but admittedly damn good at calf roping. you cross paths at a rodeo; immediately charmed, spencer attempts to get your number in between his stumbling over words.

-ˋˏ ༻℧༺ ˎˊ-

"You comin'?" Your brother, Rhys, raises a brow as he catches you ogling the corn dog cart. "Come on, you always do that." He huffs, practically yanking your arm out of it's socket to drag you along. It's sunny in Austin, the clouds cleared from the sky as the heat sears your skin. Damn, shoulda worn sunscreen. It's obvious that everyone at the rodeo is cooking like a chicken in an oven, people stripping down to their tanks to try outrun the scorching feeling. The gravel rolls under your boots as you walk down the driveway to the rodeo, walking under the arch and through the carpark. Music is playing from some buskers standing on the grass. To your left is the bronc riding, to the right is the mini farm for the kids. You spot the cattle roping competition first. Rhys notices your interest and groans, his expression fed up. "Every time we come here. Every single time." You ignore his incessant complaining, wandering through to the hay seats and plopping yourself down close to the gate. Cattle roping is relatively tame. It's difficult as hell, sure, but it's not likely you'll be gettin' bucked off a bull's back anytime soon. You unwrap a lollipop that's been sitting around in your pocket and pop it in your mouth. First cowboy comes out strong, good stance on his horse and an easy leeway around the barrels as the cattle's hooves flutter around. You cross your legs, the edge of your boot tapping the hay in a subconscious, focused beat. You spot it first. The cowboy, that is. His footing slips out of his stirrup, putting his horse off and causing a minor chain reaction which leads to him losing the round. Bummer. You think to yourself, disinterested. It goes through the same inadvertent cycle, more riders coming through, losing their cattle or not even being able to tie a hooey around the legs of the calf properly. You're just starting to become bored when finally, the last roper comes out. And oh, God, is that a tall glass of iced tea. Really, really good iced tea. The sort with damn good genetics. You choke on your lollipop and spit it out. In short, your jaw slackens and you almost forget to analyse the performance of this one because he's just so gorgeous. You have to remind yourself that while yes, there are going to be attractive ropers here, you need to focus on your main objective. Observation. You sigh, sharpening your mind again so you can see his technique, not his pretty brown eyes. His stirrups aren't too long, like the first rider. Everything saddle-wise and horse wise seems fine. His technique is a little off, you can tell he's nervous. The calf speeds around the end barrel and he flicks his wrist, throwing the lariat over it's neck, careful with not tugging his lasso too hard so as not to harm the calf. When it seems like all is looking good, he dismounts his horse and runs over to the calf, kneeling down and tying the knot around three of it's legs like it's muscle memory to him. The judges look impressed. Heck, you look impressed. Once his round is over, you peek around the bounds to see where he's headed, and it looks like it's back to the stables, for the pretty cowboy. You didn't even notice your brother had disappeared until he returns, holding a beer. Rhys spots the expression on your face and almost immediately, he looks unimpressed. "Please don't tell me you're about to go wanderin'." "I'm going wanderin'." You parrot back, just to be annoying as you stand and haul yourself over the gate to follow the handsome cowboy. Eventually, you spot him up ahead, brushing his horse down; probably for the next round. It's then that it hits you. You have no idea what to say to him. Introduce yourself? Flirt? Tell him you think he's cute? None of those? All of the above? Too many questions. You huff, a subconscious noise, and it seems to draw his attention away from the chestnut mare. The cowboy jumps, his shoulders jolting when he spots you just standing there. "Uhm—hello?"

His voice is nice too, you file that away in your head for later. American accent, just the smallest Southern bite to it but it's clear he isn't from around here. You stand in silence for a few more moments before you realise you're being creepy and clear your throat. "Ah, sorry." Sheepish tone. This first impression may not end well. It's progressively getting a little less awkward as you both introduce yourselves, the only thing informing him that you're not a creep being the smile on your face and the fact that you don't seem to have multiple firearms strapped to your jeans. But come on, it's Texas. If anything, it's shocking you don't. You learn his name is Spencer, Spencer Reid, and he's from Vegas (sin city itself, you've thought about going there a few times). Must be good at cards, you assume. Currently, you're watching Spencer groom his horse with a relaxed expression on your features, your back leaned against the opposite horse stall. "So, you do rodeo a lot?" "Not frequently. It helps make good money, though." He brushes his hands on his jeans, tapping the heel of his boot down on the bottom of the stable floor to get a piece of gravel out. "That makes sense." You yawn, tapping your fingers against the railing gently. The horse, whose name appears to be Frida, seems to enjoy the adept attention she's receiving from Spencer. Honestly? You don't blame her. He checks the mare's hooves, still talking to you. "Do you rodeo here?" "Oh, no, I just come to watch when it's on. My brother drags me along. He's not a fan of the cattle roping, he's very into bronc bucking." "A hardcore guy." Spencer jokes, letting the hind leg go as he wrings out a cloth with his hands. Nice hands. Nice voice, nice face. Awkward rodeo nerd from Vegas. It's perfect. Unrealistically so. There's a little silence as he opens the stall door, exiting and going to wash his hands. Then there's another silence when he comes back, and you both stand idle for a short period of time before he blurts out, "Bull riding is actually more dangerous than bronc, it accounts for 19.4% to 58.4% of all rodeo injuries." You blink, processing that sentence for a moment. It was so out of pocket, but if that's to be expected when talking with him, then you really don't mind all that much. You could probably listen to him all day. "Huh." He looks sheepish now, embarrassed he'd infodumped within 15 minutes flat of meeting you. It's not that bad in your eyes, but for him, he looks as if he just watched his entire family collectively decide to execute him. He backtracks. "I meant—" You cut him off, shaking your head to reassure him. "Don't worry about it. I appreciate your factual insight." Your eyes look him over as you speak, making little mental Post-It notes in your brain about him. He's thin, lanky; doesn't seem like a rodeo cowboy at first glance, but he's got good dexterity. That probably contributes to the lasso talent. And the nice hands. He's a nerd. You like that. Spencer glances at you as if silently asking 'really?' Like a puppy asking for approval. God, if you talk to him any more you fear you might evaporate. You nod, a smile crossing your face as you pop on your 'flirting' cap. Metaphorical cap. Not an actual cap that says 'flirting' on it. That'd be weird. "So, cowboy, will I be seeing you around these parts often?" You lean over one side of his horse stall, careful not to move too fast. You'd hate it if you spooked his horse.

He doesn't seem to catch on to your tone, an adorably clueless face with big brown eyes that flicker up to yours. "I, uh, I'm not sure. Maybe every few months." Even if he didn't understand the social cue, his currently pink-hued cheeks are just oh so very tempting. A little disappointment rings through you at that. You'd like to see him more often than that. "Months?" You try not to be petulant. It's hard. He catches on to that tone, a breathless laugh leaving his lips. "I can come a little more often, if you'd like to, um, stay and watch." Your disappointment is replaced with pleasure at your bargaining skills (you don't have any, he's just taken a nervous, new liking to your face. And your attitude. And your jeans). "I'd like that." He smiles back at you, albeit a little hesitantly. There's silence again and you're just about to come up with a good pickup line, before he blurts out, "You look really—uh, I mean, not in a creepy way—good. Not good like in an objectifying way. Just... presentable. No. Um. I'm going to stop talking." It's like he grabbed a needle and shot endorphins directly into your head. It's like watching a small animal walk for the first time. Nope, that's a weird analogy. Absofuckinglutely the cutest shit you've ever seen. You tilt your head. "Are you flirtin' with me, cowboy?" He splutters, his pretty face making a 'deer in headlights' expression. "I—yes?" His fingers curl over one another, fidgety and restless, so he goes back to brushing his horse. "Not very well though, I don't think." The wind gusts through the stables as you sit down on one of the wood stools. "I think you're doing okay. In a presentable fashion, of course." You tease. "Right." His face flushes again. "I'm just not used to...compliments. Or complimenting people." "Well, maybe you could practice on me." You grin. You can tell he's slowly getting a little more confident with himself. Spencer rubs the back of his neck, letting his scrupulous brushing cease as he looks back at you. "I wouldn't mind that." Score! One point granted to the flirt. "Okay, hit me." You offer, resting your chin on your forearm as you watch him. He blinks. "Hit—oh, right. Um. You have a really nice smile. It's symmetrical. Like, mathematically pleasing." You dramatically suck in a breath, even though behind your hair the tips of your ears are a little hot from the compliment. "I'll take it, but we could probably do a bit better." Spencer huffs, looking playfully frustrated as he raises a brow at you. "I read that dilated pupils are a sign of attraction, and yours...well, actually they might just be that way because of the lighting. Or you need an eye exam." "Are you flirting with me or diagnosing me?" "....both?" "It's working." You offer, nodding like a pleased judge. He laughs again. "Thanks, I guess?" You talk with him for a while, flirting back and forth but also just sharing stuff about yourselves for background context. It's getting late outside, and you didn't seem to pay attention to the hue of the sky until Rhys comes in, his expression only mildly angry. "You've been gone for three hours—who is this?" He spots Spencer, frowning. Spencer just raises a hand in a nervous wave. "Sorry for keeping her. We were talking and um, lost track of time." "That's real cute and all, Sparky, but my sister needs to come home now." He scoffs, grabbing your arm. You give Spencer an apologetic expression, saying bye and walking beside your brother as he walks you home. Of course, you're thinking about the cowboy all night. You're also thinking about the fact you didn't get his number. Oh well. There's always the next rodeo.

-ˋˏ ༻℧༺ ˎˊ- a/n: this was not proofread. cowboy reid supremacy

-ˋˏ ༻℧༺ ˎˊ-

Birthday Cake

Info: It’s her moms first birthday since her death, and y/n can’t help but feel sad as she remembers the fond memories together.

Relationship: Hotch x daughter reader

Warnings: Mention of lose of parent

Based on birthday cake by Dylan Conrique

Masterlist

Hotch rubbed his face as he closed the door to his house behind him. It had been a long case and all he wanted now was to see his two kids. Jack would most likely be in bed at this stage but y/n, his oldest would probably be awake. The 17 year old had a habit of staying up late when her father was returning from being away on a case, and Hotch had come to enjoy seeing his daughter when he came home, a way for him to forget about the dreadful case he had faced.

However Hotch also knew that the main reason for y/n staying up late wasn't to greet him, it was because of Haley's death. It had been a year since his wifes death, and though him and Jack seemed to be somewhat coping, y/n seemed to still be struggling with her stepmothers death. Haley had all that y/n had known as a mother, and there relationship had been a close one, so close that Haley had adopted y/n as her own child. Many nights prior to her death, Hotch would find y/n and Haley awake in front of the telly, watching some film as they awaited Hotchs return. Haley always made sure that y/n felt wanted when Jack was born, made sure that the young girl knew that even though she wasn't the daughter of Haleys, she was loved and would always be apart of their family.

Which is why when y/n found out about Haleys death she kicked and screamed bloody murder. It took Derek and two other officers to pull the young girl off of Hotch as she hit her fathers chest, not believing what her father had told her. She refused to speak for months after her mother figures funeral, and Hotch had been worried that she would never open up to him.

Looking up at the clock on the wall Hotch cursed as he seen the date in red writing. It was passed midnight, and also Haleys birthday. If y/n had coped onto the date Hotch didn't know how his daughter would react. Breathing in deeply he decided to make his way to his daughter room to find out.

You called with the news, I thought you were kidding You were always joking all the time You kept breathing but stopped living, held it like poison inside They say everything happens for a reason But it only makes you mad 'Cause how in the hell can you believe them When nothing brings her back?

Y/n was sitting on her bed, her feet bent in front of her, arms wrapped around them as her head leaned against he knees. Her vision blurred as she stared ahead at the wall in front of her, having not blinked since she seen the date on her phone. Her phone had since been thrown onto the ground, and y/n hadn't moved from her position till she heard a knock on her door.

Hotch knew that y/n was still awake. A beam of light shone from under the door and he feared she wouldn't open up to him. Generally y/n was much like himself, and kept her feelings to herself. It was rare that Hotch knew what his daughter was feeling, and the only way he would find out would be by profiling her.

Knocking on the door, Hotch opened the door slightly to call in and let y/n know he was home. Hearing a hum in acknowledgement, he took that as a sign that he was okay to open the door fully. Glancing around he spotted y/n sitting on her bed, arms wrapped her legs as her forehead was against her knees, vision down. She refused to meet his gaze as he walked further into the room, opting to sit beside her.

"Hey." Hotch spoke softly, placing a hand on her leg. "Hi." Y/n sighed, her voice muffled. "Jack head to bed easy this time?" "Yeah, didn't need to be told twice." Y/n stated, moving her head up and moving her head to flick her hair over her shoulder. "Good." Hotch smiled, looking into his daughters sad eyes. "I was about to head myself when I seen the date." Y/n stated, shivering slightly. "Yeah, I thought that alright." Hotch smiling sadly, moving closer to wrap an arm over y/n's shoulder. "I miss her dad." Y/n stated. "I know, I miss her too." The older man agreed with his daughter, kissing her head in comfort. "I didn't think I would be effected this much by her birthday. I knew it would be hard but I feel numb, feel like crying." "Than cry." Hotch spoke, and that was when y/n chocked up.

Hotch sighed and pulled y/n closer as the tears began to fall. Wrapping his arms around his daughter, she allowed her father to pick her up and move back to lean against her pillow, rocking her slightly before setting her back down.

"You had a unique relationship with Haley, what your feeling is normal. Feel what you need to feel, but know that I am here to hold you while you do." Hotch spoke, kissing y/n's head once again. "Can you stay tonight?" Y/n asked, looking up at her father. "Yeah, I'll stay tonight." Hotch smiled, looking down at y/n before pulling her closer.

It's hard to know (to know) what she would say But I think she'd Want you to live like the world's on fire Want you to love like hearts don't break (don't break) Never look down when you walk the wire Like she made it to 48, still made your birthday cake

Y/n groaned as she felt movement from underneath her face. Rubbing her eyes, she made movement to sit up when a hand was felt on her back. Turning to see who it was, she smiled weakly when she seen her father.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Hotch spoke sympathetically. "It's fine." Y/n mumbled, voice barely audible. "Did you sleep?" "Hmm, a little. Kept thinking of mom." Y/n mumbled in sorrow. "I know." Hotch sighed, pulling his daughter close to him once again, "but you know she wouldn't want you to dwell on her death. She'd want you to remember the good times." Hotch explained, looking down at y/n as she sniffed. "That's what haunts me, her memory makes me remember the good times and now all I can think of is what would be if she was still here." Y/n explained, rubbing under her eyes. "Well if you feel like that just remember the laughs you had and what she always told you." "I may not be your mom but I will always love you as if I was. With this you are never alone." Y/n recited the phase Haley often said to the young girl, twirling the locket around her neck. "Here." Hotch stated, moving to pick up the locket and open it, displaying two pictures, one of Haley and the other himself. "We gave you this so you were never alone. With this Haley is near your heart, and you can never forget her with this." Y/n looked down at the locket, placing her hands over Hotchs. "Yeah." Y/n smiled sadly, and Hotch smiled, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. "Why don't you come with me to work today, give school a miss." Hotch asked, deciding school wouldn't be the best scenery for a grieving girl. "Yeah, sure." Y/n shrugged half heartedly. "I'll get Jack ready for school than we can head." Hotch spoke before leaving the room, not seeing y/n as she nodded in agreement, wiping tears that fell.

All the pictures on the same walls Looks like she just went to the store And when you look into the mirror Does it make you miss her more? Win or lose, she was always on your side Never missed a match And when you see the moon, do you remember? She loved you there and back

Jack was taking the day it was better than Hotch originally thought. The young boy didn't realize the date it was until his father asked him if he was ready for a new week. The only thing the boy knew was that Haley's birthday was this week, but seeing his sister so upset and his dad coming from y/n's room confirmed that it was in fact today. Jack knew his sister struggled with his mothers death, the two women of the house had been close.

After few tears were shed y/n came down the hall to see Hotch hugging her younger brother. The young boy had some tears on his cheek as he pulled away from his father, opting to run to his sister for comfort. Y/n squinted to try prevent more tears falling as she ran her fingers through Jacks hair, wrapping her arms around him. Her father looked at them with a sad smile before coming over, wrapping his arms around the two of them. The family of three stayed that way, allowing time for them to grieve of the loss of their loved one, before Jack wiggled away from between the two, demanding everyone to not feel sad all day. And so the father, son and daughter got ready for the day before heading out the door.

Dropping Jack off, y/n just stared out the window, knees up to her chest despite her fathers multiple efforts of pushing them back onto the ground. Giving up based on the day, Hotch left her be and instead kept small talk with Jack before they arrived outside Jacks school. Wishing his son a good day, Hotch watched him walk into the school before pulling off.

The office was quiet as Hotch and y/n made there way onto the floor. Derek and Garcia looked up from there conversation to greet there boss only to frown, seeing the younger Hotchner. Their boss just shook his head at them before turning to his daughter.

"Why don't you head to my office, I'll be there in a minute." Hotch spoke to his daughter and y/n just nodded before leaving.

Wrapping her arms around herself y/n made her way up the stairs, ignoring Gideon when he said hello to her, and headed to her fathers office. Closing the door, she turned around and froze when she seen a picture frame on her fathers desk. In the frame held a photo of her father and Haley, sitting on a hospital bed. A bundle of blankets was held in Haleys arms, a small head peeking out from it, Jack. Y/n was held by Hotch as she sat on his lap. THe trio were smiling down at Jack who was held within the blankets in Haleys arms, y/n had a hand on the babies cheek. Another photo beside that frame held a picture of Haley, y/n and Jack at Jacks first football match.

Twitching her nose, y/n glanced at the photos as anger rose within her before she swung her hand, forcing the photos onto the ground with a smash. She screamed in frustration, kicking a chair over before throwing sheets from her fathers desk onto the ground. Anger clouded y/n as she started destroying Hotchs office, not hearing as the door opened in a rush.

It's hard to know (to know) what she would say (would say) But I think she'd Want you to live like the world's on fire Want you to love like hearts don't break Never look down when you walk the wire Like she made it to 48, still made your birthday cake (cake) Oh-oh-oh (Want you to love) Oh-oh-oh (Want you to live, want you to love)

Hotch stood watching his daughter walk up the stairs, ignoring Gideon as he greeted her, before he too turned and watched the young girl in confusion. Said man turned and looked at his partner, squinting his eyes in confusion as he walked down the rest of the stairs. Rubbing his head, Hotch looked up as the rest of the team gathered, having seen the way the young Hotchner was acting today.

"What's wrong with y/n? Shouldn't she be in school?" Gideon asked, confused on why the girl was here. "Today's not a great day for her so I let her have it off." Hotch explained. "What's wrong wit her?" Derek asked, concerned for the girl she saw as family. "Today would be Haley's birthday. Y/n isn't taking it well. With it being the first one without her I decided to let her take the day off. School's no place for a grieving kid." "Actually, statistics show that bring around friends help those struggling with loss." Spencer spoke, and everyone looked at him. "Yeah well, she had a rough time with it so I just left it." Hotch spoke in defence, and Derek hit Spencer in the chest lightly. "Oww." Spencer gapsed. "The girl has us here, we're her family. Family is better than friends." Derek spoke, and everyone nodded. "How did Jack take it." JJ asked. "Reasonably well actually. Few tears but wanted to go to school and was fine when we got there." Hotch answered, nodding his head.

The gang went to talk more when they heard smashing followed closely by screams. They turned their attention towards Hotchs office to see y/n throwing stuff around, and Hotch cursed before rushing up the stairs, Gideon close behind.

Want you to live like the world's on fire Want you to love like hearts don't break Never look down when you walk the wire Like she made it, she made it, oh-oh Want you to live like the world's on fire Want you to love like hearts don't break Never look down when you walk the wire Like she made it to 48, still made your birthday cake

Y/n continued to scream and shout as she kicks and throws things around. Not processing what was around her, the young girl became frightened as arms wrapped around her, and she cried out in surprise.

Hotch opened the door to his office and froze as he witnessed his daughters episode. Never had he seen her like this, and he feared for her safety. His thoughts were disrupted when a hand was placed on his shoulder. Turning his head over her shoulder, he looked at Gideon before nodding and heading towards his daughter. Wrapping arms around her, he struggled to keep her up as she fought against him.

"Shush, y/n please." Hotch pleaded with the young girl, hating to see her like this. "She should be here, she shouldn't be dead, she shouldn't be." Y/n cried out, struggling to talk through her tears. "I know, I know, it's okay, let it out." Hotch allowed them to fall onto the ground, pulling her onto his lap upon impact. "She should be here celebrating with us. Not be under the ground." "She's watching over us, she'll always be watching us. You'll never be alone y/n, never." Hotch tried to comfort his daughter, rubbing her back gently. "I need her dad." "You have her, in your heart." Gideon spoke up, watching the father daughter duo. "It's hard." Y/n spoke, beginning to calm down as she pulled away from her father, glancing at the man she grew to call uncle Gideon. "I know, but it does get easier." Gideon nodded, leaning against the wall. "Just know that you have us with you, and you'll never be alone while we're around." Hotch stated, tucking some hair behind y/n's ear. "Sorry for the mess." y/n smiled, embarrassed by the mess she caused. "The mess can be repaired, you can not." Hotch shrugged it off, smiling at his daughter in comfort.

new cshr dropped while i was doodling this, my life is a joke

sorry but this is so absurd like i know this man whimpers so pathetically in bed

Criminal Minds S02 E14 + 15: The Big Game and Revelations

Hi i just remembered my favorite scene/story in cm ever

HOTCHS BROTHER 😍

Sean is so fine and I always have this story in the back of my mind that I’d love to write but also I can’t write but like BASICALLY:

Spence has a one night stand with Sean (he’s obvi very different outside of the office in this story like he has a social life kind of maybe) . It was only that and they use each other as a booty call once in a while but they’re chill they’re fiends nothing romantic

Now it’s 1x16 (when Sean visits the office and him and hotch fight about Georgetown) and while Sean is in Aaron’s office jj Elle and penny are all gossiping about Sean- spencer joins in and is waiting to see “hotchs fine ass brother” and when Sean storms out of Aaron’s office he just like goes white as a ghost

Sean stops dead in his tracks and he says something like “Spence?” And he just doesn’t say anything back

Everyone is silent and Aaron is like “you know each other? How do you know each other?” Reid just blushes, Sean smirks and looks away or something

Hotch DRAGS Sean out into the hall and he is fucking SEETHING, Spencer is just standing there all flustered, ignoring everyone’s questions

Hotch is super angry at sean and won’t speak to Spence , he doesn’t really know why he’s so angry and he knows spence feels bad and he doesn’t know what to do (poor old man doesn’t realize he’s just extremely jealous)

Ahh i love thinking about his every once in a while 🥰

Hi I stopped using tumblr for a while and forgot my old acc love u! -lottie