i accept requests so if you have an idea, dm me or put it in my inbox!
i mainly write based on songs but i can write without if needed
i have an edit account on tiktok: here!
read more for rules !
THINGS I WILL WRITE !
fluff
angst
suggestive (MAYBE smut)
THINGS I WON’T WRITE !
incest
r@pe / noncon / dubcon
sh!t / p!ss kinks
abuse
WHO I’LL WRITE ABOUT !
spencer reid
other matthew gray gubler characters (chip, raymond, lesley, etc)
aaron hotchner
jennifer jareau
+ other criminal minds characters
jake peralta
other andy samberg characters (nyles, jesse, etc)
my interests !
conan gray wallows criminal minds brooklyn 99 heathers friends matthew gray gubler andy samberg scream jj superstore rocky horror the lonely island hamilton new girl squid game 10 things i hate about you miraculous
A (very late) submission for @imagining-in-the-margins Undercover challenge!!
Prompts: Character is surprised when their undercover partner is *very* good at pretending to be in love with them.
“It’s just acting.” / “So you can make your heart race like that on command?”
Warnings: mentions of case details (bombing/ arson), mainly fluff
A/N: I don't know when the last time I posted fluff was, but I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it! I'm trying to post more regularly once a week now, so hopefully, I'll have something else for you next Sunday~
Masterlist
Two months of undercover work was probably standard in the FBI. You hadn't exactly been in the FBI that long, obviously, or in any job too long for that matter, being pretty fresh from a decade in academics, but you were a hard worker, and you got work done.
But your undercover work with the BAU wasn't exactly what you would call work.
You woke up in the morning, cooked breakfast for your fake husband, went to your pilates class with the other neighborhood wives, went to your fake job, and then went back to your fake home where you publicans flirted with your fake husband outside for an hour or two to make your real neighbors believe in your fake relationship.
So that hopefully, one of them would attempt to blow you up.
With three “accidental” house fires in the neighborhood in the last year, and insurance company who'd been investigating potential fraud in the area had tipped off the BAU of a possible undiscovered arsonist, though you'd quickly deduced as a team that your unsub was likely a bomber instead.
A few months of surveillance, and then the gradual introduction of pairs of agents into the neighborhood under heavy cover, and here you were.
Making your fake husband pancakes.
Spencer emerged into the kitchen to one of his favorite views in recent months. You'd been the first pair put in, the one most likely to get attention quickly, the team had said. He watched as you hummed along to the morning radio, stacking up piles of pancakes and dancing along as you cooked.
You looked happy.
The concept of pretending to be married hadn't sat well with Spencer at first. He was never the greatest actor, and his last attempt at cover with Cat Adams hadn't exactly lasted too long. He was two months in now, sure, but he owed most of that to you.
Every time he'd blundered, you'd been there to help him out.
You'd suggested working on the garden together at the weekend to show off your effective communication as a couple. He'd let you feed him strawberries and sprayed you with the water hose, causing a water fight the neighborhood kids had politely asked to be included in.
You'd also been the one to request weekly flower bouquets, preferable from the local florist, just so everyone could see how dedicated he was to his wife. You'd sneezed heavily into the first few bouquets, and he'd requested mainly tulips, roses, and carnations after that when your nose looked a little red.
You'd also been the one to hook your legs around his waist in the swimming pool in your back yard - in clear view of at least 5 neighbors houses - and angle your head just so, inspiring pats on the back from a few heavy handed husbands at the neighborhood barbecue the week after.
That was all to say, Spencer thought you were an incredible actor.
Until that morning, when you'd rolled over in the bed you shared after waking up and kissed him full on the lips as you groggily said good morning, before padding off to the bathroom to take your morning shower.
If Spencer hadn't been awake before then, he definitely was after. It was like every cell in his body jolted at the touch of your lips. You'd zapped him with a lightning bolt, then walked off so casually he didn't even have the time to question you.
By the time he stood to follow, the sounds of the shower were already pronounced alongside his own heartbeat.
It took the best part of the morning to remind himself that this was just work. You were just acting, and you'd gotten into the role.
“And don't forget to head to the dry cleaner today in your way home from work, I dropped off some summer dresses last week and your other work blazer and they called twice yesterday to say they were done-”
He listened to you happily telling him what to do as he ate his pancakes, responding where you wanted him to respond, and being a generally agreeing husband, all the while thinking about how your lips felt pressed against his.
He thought as well about the way your body felt against his. You'd been sharing a bed for two months, and obviously, you'd ended up tangled in one another more than once. He'd never let himself think about it as any more than an extension of work before that morning, though. Part of the cover.
And now he felt the contours of your body matched his in a way that made the tips of his ears pink.
His eyes - and attention - must've slipped away from where you thought they'd ought to briand you looked at him with a questioning glance.
“Spencer?”
“Hmm? Yes, dry cleaning and visit Tara at the bank. Anything else?” he asked, begging you to say nothing about where he'd just been caught looking.
“No. You got everything. Well, just make sure you wash up the breakfast pots on the way out, I'm leaving for pilates now.”
Without another word, Spencer watched you grab your car keys from the basket in the foyer, directly down the hall from his seat at your kitchen island, and felt a sense of dread.
He couldn't let you go again without asking you about the kiss, his body screamed at him, though his mind begged him to be rational.
His body seemed to win out rather quickly, as he called after you just as you opened the front door.
“Wait,” he said, jogging to catch up with you before he pulled you into his arms. The memory of the pool filled his thoughts to the point where he could almost smell the chlorine, the tips of his ears aflame with the sensation of your breath against his skin.
You tried to relax into his hug, knowing that a few of your neighbors were already outside, getting their cars ready to go to work. “Spencer,” you whispered, “What are you doing?”
His eyes flicked to your lips as he thought about just kissing you then and there. But the almost worried look on your face had him loosening his grip slightly, losing his resolve.
Luckily, the shame at his loss of self-control made his head drop slightly, just enough to catch the translucent wire centimetres from your foot glare in the sunlight.
At the worst possible time for Spencer Reid, you'd had your biggest break in the case in months.
...
A week later, you were you again and on the jet with colleagues you hadn't fully been able to interact with in months. Of course, you'd seen them all about the neighborhood, and you laughed and joked about it now that you were going back to your real lives.
“I swear to the almighty himself, if Joy ever suggests putting me in one of those old people's homes really, I want you to just take me out back and shoot me,” Rossi complained, swearing off slippers and bingo for the foreseeable future.
“You had company at least,” Luke muttered, having been confined to a small apartment on the upper side of the neighborhood that coincidentally housed all their surveillance equipment.
“Speaking of company, how was married life?” Emily joked, elbowing Spencer in the side from her seat next to him.
“It was… it was good,” he said, taking a sip of water from his bottle and avoiding all eye contact from everyone.
“Okay…. Y/N, what about you? What was Spencer like as a husband?”
You looked nervous as Spencer finally found it in himself to look at someone else again, desperately avoiding Emily's probing gaze.
“It was…. Nice. To switch off for a while. Not think too much, just…. Pretend?”
“Really? It was hard for me to get into character, and I lived alone. You and Spencer had to keep up a double act,” Luke laughed and shook his head, and Spencer found the ensuing silence more than a little awkward.
“I don't know, I just think it was kind of nice,” you said after too long of a pause. “Living with someone again. Less lonely, you know?”
Some sad smiles flicked your way in sympathy, then out the window, and you found yourself looking up at Spencer directly across from you and smiling shyly.
“Maybe I should start dating again,” you sighed under your breath when no one else was listening. But Spencer was listening. Spencer was always listening to you.
Two days in the office working late on paperwork and research was all Spencer could handle before he started asking questions.
Two hours into overtime, the moon was out, and the light in the office had dimmed just enough for the majority of the light in the room to be coming from your computer screen and desk lamp.
Spencer watched you casually, quick to look away any time you looked up at him, the feeling of his eyes burning into you, alerting you to his attention.
After a few minutes of looking up just as he looked away, you sighed in resignation and confronted him.
“What is it, Spencer?”
“Hmm? No, um… nothing,” he said, fumbling his pencil so it fell to the ground. He stood and retrieved it before hesitating and taking a step closer to your desk.
“You're really good at your undercover work, you know?” He said with a cute smile, leaning on the side of your desk as you looked up at him.
“What does that mean?” you asked, suddenly on edge. Spencer didn't usually pay you compliments, and you'd hoped to completely drop the topic of the cover completely after you'd landed and closed the case.
“I don't know, it's just… it seemed like you put a lot of yourself into it.”
“It was work. I put a lot of myself into everything I do. Work is included in that.”
“Work…” he said, nodding. He almost turned around and walked away. Almost.
“You kissed me that morning, you know?”
It didn't come out loud, but it resonated around the empty room anyway as you felt your heartbeat faster.
“You were awake?” You squeaked out before you could stop yourself, suddenly looking up Spencer with pleading eyes as you willed him to tell you he was joking.
“Yes, I was- hold on, you thought I was asleep? You kissed me because you thought I was asleep?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“It was just something… I didn't think, and-”
“Y/N, I kissed you back. Why did you think I was asleep?”
“Well, you didn't kiss back hard enough if I hardly noticed, did you?” you pouted, trying to go back to your work, but finding yourself with a brain so blank you couldn't even pretend to type. “I was acting, Spencer. I just.. got too into it, I suppose.”
“Y/N, look at me please,” Spencer pleaded, but you kept your head stubbornly turned away.
You felt his eyes on you, heard him take a step closer. Then another. You felt him loom over you, saw his hand come to rest beside yours on your desk.
Finally, you cracked.
“Spencer, I really don't think-” you stood and faced him, and immediately regretted both actions.
You'd shared a bed for two months, but this was definitely the closest you'd ever gotten. You could practically taste Spencer. You stood almost attached at the hip, his mouth not even inches from your own, but centimetres.
His forehead practically rest against your own, and he clutched your waist for balance, bringing you in closer.
You were stunned into silence, and when he grabbed your wrist in his hand and looked down at it in silence for a minute, you stood with baited breath for him to do something, anything else.
“The average resting heart rate for someone your age and activity level is around 75 beats per minute. I estimate yours is currently between 112 and 115. Are you acting now, too?”
You almost wanted to pull away and pout, but before you could do anything with your bottom lip, he'd claimed it with his own. His kiss was soft and delicate but intentional. His second was bolder, harder, and invasion of all your senses as he cupped your chin in his hand and lifted it just a little higher, pressing his tongue between your lips as he begged for permission.
A small moan granted him everything he wanted, as his hands sparked up your skin.
When he finally pulled away, not far enough to be out of your reach yet, your pants filled the air, syncopated as you breathed each other in and out.
“Let's keep acting. Just for now,” he gasped, whispering in your ear as he stroked your cheeks.
“Please,” he whispered as he once again claimed your lips.
thanos x myunggi x f!model!reader with features of romantic!namgyu x f!model!reader
synopsis: a youtuber goes over an iceberg about famous people who have vanished. three players from the 37th annual squid games happened to be in the iceberg. unfortunately, nobody will ever know about their fate
warnings: major character death, based off of a TikTok, angst, sex scandals, leaked sex tapes, hints of american!reader.
the youtube video starts with a dimly lit screen, a grainy iceberg graphic floating in a dark, digital sea. the title reads, "famous people who mysteriously vanished."
the youtuber's voice cuts through, low and gripping.
"welcome back, mystery hunters. today, we’re diving into the iceberg of famous disappearances...starting at the tip with names you know, and sinking into the unsettling depths. let’s go."
they kick off with the easy ones.
for example the dolan twins, who ditched youtube in 2022. jenna marbles too, gone silent after her 2020 apology, leaving fans shocked about her exit.
these are the cases everyone’s heard of, dissected on forums and twitter threads.
around twenty minutes into the video the youtuber’s tone shifts, their eyes glinting as they move to the second tier.
"things are about to get weirder," they warn.
a photo of lee myunggi, better known as mgcoin, flashes on-screen. the south korean youtuber, once a crypto and stock market guru, stares confidently into the camera in an old thumbnail.
"lee myunggi was a big deal," the youtuber says, "millions followed his crypto tips, his stock picks, his flashy lifestyle. but in early 2024, he got tangled in a shady scheme. billions lost...his money, his fans’ money. then, poof. he was gone."
the screen cuts to a blurry cctv still, a man in a hat some swear was myunggi in the subway, spotted in seoul before october 2024.
"most think he fled to the philippines with his crypto buddies, living large under a new name but here’s the kicker: his girlfriend, kim junhee, a rising influencer, stopped posting that same month. no trace of her either. coincidence? or something darker?"
the youtuber pauses, letting the question hang.
in reality: lee myunggi participated in the 2024 squid games. coming in second place, he nearly sacrificed his own daughter that was born inside of the games. the man's ex girlfriend, jun-hee, died shortly after childbirth due to suicide after the fifth game. myunggi died after falling off of a tower, the jacket holding him ripped and dropped him to his death.
the three hour long youtube video goes along, the youtuber’s voice steady as they navigate the iceberg of mysterious disappearances.
after lee myunggi’s case, they rattle off six more names from the second tier. forgotten actors, disgraced influencers, a twitch streamer who logged off after being jailed for ten felonies.
each story is strange, but none hit the same eerie note as myunggi and his missing girlfriend.
the screen darkens as the youtuber descends to the third tier.
“we’re deep into the iceberg now,” they say, “and the stories? they’re starting to feel… connected.”
in the fifty-sixth minute of the video...the second name in the third tier of the iceberg lights up the screen.
choi su-bong, better known as thanos.
a press photo shows the young man with purple hair and a snapback and a chain, smirking mid-performance.
“choi su-bong, or whose stage name was thanos, was a rising rapper in south korea,” the youtuber explains, “he had 320,000 instagram followers, 45,000 monthly spotify listeners. not huge, but solid for an underground rapper. he even took second place in ‘rap battlegrounds,’ a big tournament, though he fumbled the final against well-known rapper snakebanks by forgetting his lyrics.”
a clip plays of thanos on stage, stuttering, the crowd groaning.
“tough break,” the youtuber continues, “but what’s wilder is that thanos was a superfan of lee myunggi, our crypto guy from earlier. he claimed he watched every single video on myunggi’s ‘mg coin’ channel back during an interview with american broadcast worldstar TV in 2022.”
the screen shifts to thanos’s last instagram post, dated october 17, 2024: a grainy selfie in a studio, captioned “new heat droppin soon.”
then, nothing.
“after october 2024, he just… vanished,” the youtuber says, “no posts, no stories, no music. his own twin sister went public, saying no one’s heard from him since. not a trace.”
they lean into the camera, voice dropping.
“a rapper with a decent following, tied to another name on this iceberg, gone without a clue. what’s going on here?”
in reality: thanos entered the 37th annual squid games, hoping to win back the money he lost from investing in MGCoin's scheme. however, su-bong would come across myunggi inside of the games himself. after a tough rivalry, thanos faced death when myunggi's fork found thano's tattooed throat. he died never being able to accomplish stardom.
the youtube video presses deeper into the iceberg. at this point, the video is one hour and thirty seven minutes in.
all of the narration in the video is mixed with unease as they navigate the third tier.
after choi su-bong, aka thanos, four more names flicker by. a disgraced politician last seen in a grainy airport photo, a famous twitch streamer who murdered her ex-boyfriend and ranaway, a famous chef who got exposed for stealing from clients, and a tech ceo whose startup imploded amid fraud allegations.
all gone, no answers.
the youtuber’s eyes narrow as the next name appears, lower still on the iceberg.
it’s yours,
y/n l/n.
a glamorous magazine cover flashes on-screen.
you in a high-fashion pose, eyes fierce and captivating.
“y/n l/n was america’s golden girl,” the youtuber says. “scouted at universal studios in florida back in 2019, she exploded as a model. vogue, elle, harper’s bazaar—you name it, she was on a cover. even people called her this generation’s adriana lima, if you know who she is.”
the screen shifts to a montage of your photoshoots.
you in couture gowns, strutting runways, dazzling under spotlights.
“she was everywhere, with 1,700,000 instagram followers and counting, even now.”
the tone of the youtuber darkens.
“then came the fall,” the youtuber says.
a screenshot of a 2022 tabloid headline screams about a sex scandal involving you in south korea.
“details are fuzzy, but it was enough to tank her career. cancel culture came hard...her modeling agency dropped her, and she was blacklisted from the industry. her last instagram post was in june 2022 shortly before the scandal took place.”
the post appears: you in a simple selfie, smiling faintly, captioned “good luck and goodbye.”
the youtuber leans in.
“the thing is that fans still kept spotting her around south korea—cafes, streets, even a subway station right up until october 2024. then, nothing. she’s gone, just like everyone else before her."
they pause, letting the weight settle.
“what’s wild is her instagram. no new posts, but her follower count keeps climbing and no one in her past life... family, friends, fans...knows where she is. this might be the most tragic case on our iceberg yet.” the youtuber’s voice softens, “a superstar, erased.”
in reality what the youtuber doesn’t know, what no one knows, is the truth behind your vanishing.
you were drowning in debt, eight billion won, roughly five million usd, from a lifestyle you couldn’t sustain.
the glitz of your modeling days with private jets, designer clothes, and penthouse parties had bled you dry.
unfortunately, the final blow came when you were staying in south korea. a leaked sex tape with your ex, namgyu, a south korean club promotor, got sent to every big news blog in the world.
luckily, it wasn't namgyu who leaked it. you know who did it, but still...
the scandal was merciless.
cancel culture tore you apart, your agency dropped you, and the industry shut its doors.
you stayed in south korea, since you were too ashamed to go home to your family. this was a chance to escape the spotlight, but the debt followed.
desperate, you entered the squid game.
in that brutal week you were a ghost of your former self, recognized by other players who’d grown up seeing your face on magazine covers and tv commercials.
they whispered, shocked: what was a girl like you doing here?
unfortunately, your story wasn’t a secret to them.
the scandal had been global news.
worse, namgyu was in the games too.
you crossed paths in the games and you hated it. the guy's face was a reminder of the betrayal that ruined you. he was close with thanos, and you hated how they flirted with you and pretend like nothing ever happened.
that’s how thanos knew you...not personally, but through namgyu’s stories and admiration for you.
myunggi, meanwhile, was a stranger to you.
you died in the jump rope game.
you froze, terror gripping you as the timer ticked down.
you couldn’t move, couldn’t even try to move forward and jump.
after the timer went off, you were still in the beginning edge.
a guard took one look at your terrified figure before a shot rang out.
you fell, your star snuffed out on a cold, concrete floor.
a burnt-out supernova, you deserved better.
a chance to rebuild, and to be redeemed.
unfortunately, the world would never hear from you again.
thanos and myunggi met their own ends in the games, their fates as hidden as yours.
their disappearances, like yours, remain mysteries.
someday, your disappearance might go deeper on the iceberg.
the youtuber’s voice speaks after the last name on the bottom of the iceberg.
"that's the video for today folks. let me know which video you want me to make next. peace."
masterlist
author's note: this is how I imagined the placements with the iceberg for this story:
description: after a failed escape, you're trapped in a remote cabin with spencer reid - his love curdling into obsession. fear and isolation slowly strip away your sense of freedom.
pairing: dark!toxic!spencer reid x fem!reader
contains: dark themes!!! psychological horror, emotional manipulation, obsessive love, toxic/codependent relationship, captivity, gaslighting, soft domestic horror, eventual resignation/loss of agency, stockholm syndrome.
song rec: every breath you take by the police - "every breath you take, and every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take - i'll be watchin' you"
w.c: 3.0k
you wake to the low hiss of the percolator and the faint smell of something sweet in the air - maple, maybe, or the syrupy remnants of something that wants to be comfort. your eyes take a moment to adjust. pale winter light filters through the frost-streaked windows. the cabin is cold, the fire long since gone out. you’re still in bed, blanket tucked around your shoulders tighter than you remember pulling it.
there’s a heaviness in your limbs, like you’ve slept too long or not at all. you shift upright, slowly, blinking away the sleep. on the nightstand, resting beside the lamp, sits a single white daisy. its stem bends under its own weight, petals slightly bruised, like it was picked in a hurry. underneath it is a folded piece of paper with neat handwriting you know by heart.
didn’t want to wake you. you looked peaceful. - s
you stare at the note for a long time. you don’t reach for it. it’s not the first one he’s left. not the first flower. not even the first morning you’ve woken up with that same thick, sinking feeling in your chest - disoriented, your memory warped at the edges like water-damaged film.
but it always feels the same. like something soft rotting under the surface. like something too sweet, left out too long. you try not to think about it as you climb out of bed. the floorboards creak under your feet. your sweater hangs loose on your frame, sleeves swallowed over your fingers.
you pass the bookshelf you’ve alphabetized twice this month. the window you once tried to crack open until you realized it was bolted shut from the outside. the couch where he reads with his head in your lap and tells you he’s never felt safer. everything is quiet. everything is still.
in the kitchen, spencer stands over the stove, back to you. his posture is relaxed, fingers tapping lightly against the pan. he’s humming something tuneless under his breath. he’s wearing that old cardigan - the one with the frayed cuffs and worn elbows. his hair is slicked back, but the bangs have fallen loose, like he didn’t bother checking a mirror.
or like he only ever wants to look good for you.
when he hears your footsteps, he turns. his face softens instantly. “you’re up,” he says, smiling. “perfect timing. pancakes are almost done.” you nod, arms crossed over your chest.
you don’t say anything. there’s nothing to say, really - not that hasn’t already been said. not that wouldn’t crack open something delicate between you. he steps forward, spatula still in hand, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “slept okay?” he asks gently.
you lie. “yeah.”
he beams, pleased with himself, and turns back to the stove. “you were mumbling a little in your sleep,” he says. “nothing intelligible. just…” his hand tightens slightly around the panhandle. then he shrugs and flips the last pancake onto a plate.
“here,” he says. “made them just for you.”
he plates the food carefully, like presentation matters. like you’re still someone to impress. he sets a mug of coffee in front of you, your favorite, or at least the one you told him was your favorite. you’re not sure anymore. maybe you just can’t taste anything at all.
the pancakes are slightly burnt around the edges. you eat them anyway. he watches you. he always does. you think he likes mornings best, when you’re still quiet. when the silence hasn’t yet curdled into resistance.
it wasn’t always like this.
you used to live in a city. with trains and sidewalks and friends who texted to make sure you got home safe. you used to be someone with a last name, with a favorite bar, with music in the background. with a toothbrush that wasn’t bought for you.
you used to say spencer was just shy. sweet. different. you thought it was endearing, the way he stuttered through compliments. how he looked at the ground like his body wasn’t used to kindness.
you never once thought it would unravel like this.
the first time you tried to leave, he collapsed. not figuratively. not emotionally. he dropped to his knees, sobbing so violently you thought something inside him had ruptured. he begged, incoherent, repeating your name like a scratched vinyl until his voice gave out and his hands clutched his chest like he couldn’t breathe without you.
he passed out on the apartment floor.
you stayed.
you told yourself it was temporary. just one more week. just until he saw a therapist. just until the worst of it passed. but the next day, he was better - sweet, even. he brought you flowers. cleaned the kitchen. kissed your knuckles like you were made of spun glass.
he apologized again and again like a boy afraid of being scolded. said he didn’t remember all of it. said he just loved you too much. and for a while, you almost believed that was all it was - love in the wrong shape. too big. too heavy. too desperate to carry.
but now you live in a cabin. one with no cell reception and a car that conveniently doesn’t start anymore. you haven’t seen your own phone in weeks. he says it’s somewhere safe. he brings groceries once a week and insists you don’t lift a finger.
“it’s my job to take care of you,” he tells you, brushing your hair back like he’s tucking away a prayer. “you make everything worth it.” you don’t argue. not anymore. it’s not that you believe him. it’s just that you’re tired.
sometimes, late at night, you press your ear to the front door and just listen. you don’t know what you’re hoping to hear. maybe an engine. maybe voices. maybe your own heartbeat sounding like it used to. sometimes, when you’re sure he’s asleep, you unlock the door and place your palm flat against the wood.
you never open it - he’s a light sleeper, he always notices when you drift too far.
today, after breakfast, he suggests baking. “banana bread?” he offers, hopeful. “you love banana bread. it’s cozy.”
you nod. another lie. you’re not sure what you love anymore. you’re not sure who you are, here. but he looks so pleased when you agree, and you’ve learned it’s easier not to resist the parts of him that pretend this is love. he puts on a record. something slow, orchestral, the kind of song that loops into itself without ever really ending.
you sit on the couch, legs folded beneath a blanket, sipping lukewarm coffee while he moves through the kitchen like a ritual. flour, sugar, eggs - each ingredient carefully measured, narrated softly like he’s talking you through a dream. “too much sugar’s bad for you,” he murmurs. “but today’s a treat. it’s a good day.”
you nod again.
sunlight slants low through the windows, the kind of light that looks warmer than it feels. dust floats in the air like snowfall. the smell of cinnamon clings to your sleeves, but underneath it is something older. something that’s been in the walls a long time.
you wonder how long it’ll be before you forget what freedom tasted like.
he turns to you with flour on his wrist, smiling. “you’re quiet,” he says. “but that’s okay. i like you quiet.” and the thing is - he means it. he really, truly does. that’s what scares you most.
later, when the bread is in the oven and your hands smell like nutmeg and dish soap, you tell him you’re going to take a shower. he smiles, presses a kiss to your forehead, tells you not to rush. says you deserve a little self-care. says you’ve been so good lately.
his eyes linger too long when he says it. you nod again, not flinching. the water pressure is weak but warm, the stream loud enough to drown out the rest of the house. you stay in longer than necessary, letting the steam fog the mirror until your reflection disappears completely.
sometimes, that’s the only way you can stand to look at yourself - blurred and unknowable.
you don’t cry. not anymore. whatever was soft in you has hollowed into something else. not grief. not even sadness. more like silence in a room that used to echo.
you towel off, change into one of the sweatshirts he leaves folded for you. then, carefully, you crack the bathroom window open - its the only window in the house thats not bolted shut. you dont open it enough to be obvious. just enough to feel a different kind of air. one that doesn’t belong to him.
you don’t know how much longer you can keep doing this. but you don’t know what happens if you stop.
the cabin creaks beneath your footsteps as you walk. you move slowly, careful not to disturb the way the silence holds its breath. your hand brushes the edge of the guest room door - usually closed. today, it’s ajar.
he must’ve forgotten.
you glance behind you once. then again. then slip inside.
the room smells like dust and cedar. like something faintly chemical. the window is boarded from the outside. there’s a desk in the corner, drawers all locked. a rocking chair that hasn’t moved in years.
and just beside the closet is the attic pull-down.
you’ve never been up there.
you reach for the cord, your fingers shaking slightly as you tug it down. the ladder groans in protest. a cold draft breathes down from the opening. still, you climb one rung, then two.
you hesitate. you don’t know what you expect to find. maybe nothing. maybe something worse. your breath hitches as you climb the rest of the way before you can talk yourself out of it.
the attic is dim and cramped, beams angled low like a ribcage. the air tastes old. a trunk sits in the corner, half-open, waiting. you cross the space and kneel beside it, lifting the lid with careful hands.
inside, you find a stack of your old clothes. sweaters. shoes. a purse you forgot you missed. you dig deeper - there’s a photo of you and your friends. your phone, cracked and dead. a necklace. a half-used chapstick. things that shouldn’t be here, but are.
at the very bottom is a tape recorder. your breath catches and you decide to press play.
static.
then your voice. laughing. you don’t remember when it was recorded. you’re talking about a book. you sound bright. open. untouched. spencer’s voice is in the background, quiet, asking you to say it again. you laugh. he tells you you sound like sunlight.
you call him a dork.
your voice breaks something in you. you rewind it. listen again. you don’t remember ever being that happy. you don’t remember who that was.
he’s there before you can even put the recorder down, footsteps soft but deliberate. the floorboards creak beneath him, steady and slow. “baby?” his voice is calm, too calm, like it’s a game neither of you want to lose. you don’t move. your heart hammers loud enough to drown out the quiet house. behind you, the attic ladder swings slightly, forgotten.
his presence fills the room, but he doesn’t come closer. you hear the kitchen drawer open, the familiar scrape of the bread knife being lifted out - but then the drawer closes again. you step down the ladder quickly, your hands still trembling from the attic’s cold grip.
when your feet hit the floor, he’s standing just beyond the threshold, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. he doesn’t look angry. not really. just disappointed. “you were exploring?” his voice is light, almost teasing. like he’s playing with you, like this is still a game.
you try to say something, but your mouth is dry. empty. he glances past you, catches sight of the ladder, notices the dust on your hands. his breath hitches. he runs a hand through his hair - that’s when you notice what’s in his other hand. it’s just a dish towel. the knife is still in the drawer, but somehow, this is worse. the moment stretches, long and taut, like a wire ready to snap.
“i thought we talked about boundaries,” he says softly, voice steady but sharp beneath the surface. “i thought we were past the phase where you needed to…test me.” your voice is a whisper, barely there. “i just wanted some air.”
he laughs - low, worn, like a man tired of repeating himself. “you don’t need air,” he says. “you need consistency.” he steps closer and gently takes your wrist. “you need me.”
you don’t pull away. you can’t. because for one aching, terrifying moment, you almost believe him.
he doesn’t speak for the rest of the day. not cruelly, not coldly. he just floats through the cabin like a ghost - polite, gentle, always a few steps behind you. he makes tea and leaves it by your elbow. folds laundry with careful hands. hums softly while he sweeps, eyes flicking toward you like he’s checking you’re still there.
you never try to go back up to the attic. you just sit on the couch and stare at the fireplace, cold and untouched, quiet for weeks.
but today, he lights it. he says the cold might make you sick, that he couldn’t bear that. the way he says it twists your throat. like he still thinks you’re fragile. like you’re still the person he fell for - not the one stuck here now, sitting in his warmth like a ghost.
that night, he cooks dinner - something simple, nostalgic. grilled cheese and tomato soup. says he remembered you mentioning it once, when things were easier. he sets the table, lights a candle, and puts on music. slow, romantic. like it’s date night.
you chew in silence, thinking of the tapes hidden away in the attic. he watches you eat like every bite is a promise.
“you scared me earlier,” he says quietly. “i thought maybe i was losing you again.”
you flinch but don’t look up. “i wasn’t trying to leave,” you murmur - half truth, half lie. “i just… didn’t think it mattered.”
his mouth tightens. he sets down his spoon too carefully. “it always matters,” he says sharply. “everything you do matters.”
you nod, because it’s easier.
his expression softens again, like a switch flipping off. he reaches across the table and brushes his knuckles over yours. “i forgive you,” he says.
you don’t say thank you. but he smiles like you did.
you sleep in the same bed that night, like you always do. he curls around you like ivy, arms wrapped tight around your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck. his fingers trace slow circles on your ribs - steady, calm, endless.
“i always used to dream about this,” he whispers, voice half-lost in the dark. “not the house, not the cabin. just this. just you. still. quiet. mine.”
you stare at the wall.
“i love you so much it hurts,” he says. “but i’ll be okay. as long as you’re here.”
you don’t move. instead, you let him hold you tighter. you don’t sleep at all.
the next morning, you wake to another flower. this one is yellow. a wild daffodil, wilting at the edges. beneath it, a longer note:
i know things have been hard lately. i know it’s a lot. but i also know you. and i know you’ll see this is what’s best. i never wanted to hurt you. i just wanted to keep you safe. - s
you read it twice, then fold it and tuck it into the drawer beside your bed - next to the others. stacked quiet and pressed flat like old letters in a war bride’s chest.
you stand. stretch. brush your hair - go through the motions like they’re your own.
you make the bed, tie your hair back, and change into clean clothes. preparing to walk into the kitchen and greet him first.
it doesn’t happen all at once - the breaking.
it’s small, quiet, gradual. creeping like fog, rot in the beams, static in the walls. it slips beneath your skin. by the time you notice, you can’t dig it out.
one morning, you stop checking the window locks. the next, you stop counting the steps across the room. one afternoon, he hands you a book. you smile at him before you even look at the title.
you start humming while you clean, you laugh at his jokes, you take his picture, you kiss him first.
months pass like smoke.
you don’t remember how long it’s been since the tapes. since the attic. since your hands shook when he looked at you for too long.
now, you hold his gaze, you rest your head on his chest, and you let him read to you until you fall asleep.
you believe him when he says he’d die without you - not because it’s poetic but because it’s true.
and deep in your bones, you realize: you would die without him, too.
not your body - your body would still breathe.
but whatever was you - your fire, your fight, your name said in your own voice - has long since gone quiet.
you belong to him now. and what’s worse - you’ve stopped wanting to be saved.
one night, he kneels before you with a ring made from a twisted string of daisies. you take it without blinking. he says, “i knew you’d come around.”
you say, “i never really left.”
he smiles wide, bright - almost holy. and when he pulls you into his arms and presses his lips to yours, you taste sunlight and syrup.
you close your eyes and let him have you. because it’s easier this way. because he was right all along. because no one is coming. because this is love now. because he told you so.
Summary: Years ago, they were two students writing anonymous letters under the names "Sparrow" and "Owl." Through words alone, they fell for each other. Now, working side by side at the FBI, neither of them knows they’ve already loved each other once before. When fragments of their old letters turn up at crime scenes, everything comes back - and the truth changes everything.
In college, you were part of a psychology experiment - a correspondence study meant to test intimacy through anonymity. Each student was paired with a stranger from a different school. You, at Columbia University, were told you'd be paired with a student from Caltech. The project was funded by a cross-campus research grant on emotional intimacy through language. You signed your letters "Sparrow." Your partner signed his, "Owl."
The letters started formally - discussions of books, fears, dreams, and ideologies. The first letter you received was short, no more than two paragraphs. He introduced himself simply: Owl. He said he liked libraries, maps, silence, and things that made other people uncomfortable. You remember reading his letter in your dorm, beneath a lamp that barely lit the corners of your desk, and smiling for the first time in days.
You wrote back: brief at first, nervous. Told him you didn’t like the word "lonely" but often felt it. That you believed in ghosts - not supernatural ones, but emotional echoes. You talked about old poetry. About T.S. Eliot and grief. About your mom’s music collection and why you never slept with the door closed.
His reply was longer.
And from there, it took off. The letters became your ritual. Wednesday mornings were for envelopes tucked into the red campus mailbox. Saturdays were for hiding in your dorm to read his words alone. You never missed a week. It became real. It became sacred.
Owls handwriting was precise. He drew diagrams when he didn’t have the words, sketched out ideas in half-maps and graphs. His tone was painfully sincere. Sometimes fragmented. He confessed he hated the way people pitied him for being smart. That sometimes his thoughts moved too fast for his mouth. That he memorized everything and still felt like nothing stuck.
You wrote back that you felt unmoored, too. That the world often moved without your permission. That you didn’t know who you were supposed to be but felt safer telling him anyway.
You never met. Never spoke. The rules of the study forbade it. But there was something intoxicating in the not-knowing. You imagined Owl in pieces - his fingers ink-stained, maybe. His dorm filled with books. You pictured him sitting on the floor of a silent library, headphones in, scribbling thoughts he couldn't say aloud.
Then, with no warning, the letters stopped.
No goodbye. No explanation. You waited three months before you gave up.
You kept every one of his letters. Bundled by twine, in an old shoebox. You finished school. Took the FBI exam. Worked your way through the field, quiet and capable. You never forgot the mysterious stranger you found yourself falling for. You stopped waiting, but never forgot.
Years later, you’re at Quantico, sitting in a conference room across from Dr. Spencer Reid. You’ve worked with him for over a year. He’s strange. Brilliant. Guarded. But kind, in his own awkward way. You’ve always felt something around him - like you’ve known him longer than time allows.
The file on the table is grim. Three murders in Southern California. One victim posed with a cracked mirror. Another with a string of symbolic items: a chess piece, a pinecone, and a library card from Caltech’s main archives. All of them professors or scholars. All of them staged with purpose.
"There are notes," Hotch says. "Poetic phrases found written next to the bodies. None of them traceable to published work."
Garcia clicks through slides. The fourth reads: "To find truth, one must go alone into the dark." You freeze.
You wrote that. To Owl. In your sixth letter.
The room fades out for a second, the air too thin. You pull your attention back thinking, it must be a coincidence.
Later, after a long jet ride, you review the files alone in your hotel. You find another note photographed next to one of the victim’s: "Ghosts speak loudest to those who never stopped listening."
Letter twelve. Yours.
You don't sleep that night.
Over the following days, more letters appear in and around places the victims routinely visited - echoes from your past in the mouths of the dead. The phrases are too exact to be coincidental. Someone has copies of your letters. But how? And why?
At first, you try to convince yourself it’s an impossible coincidence. But when the third victim was positively identified to be one of the co-researchers on the original project, your stomach drops. Dr. Cho. Missing for two months. Presumed dead. Now confirmed.
"What kind of experiment was this again?" Morgan asks. You glance up from the screen.
"Cross-institutional letter exchange," you say. "Students were paired based on psych profiles. Asked to write for three months anonymously."
"What was the control?"
"There wasn't one. The goal was to study how anonymity affects vulnerability and connection."
Spencer tilts his head. "That sounds... familiar."
You look up sharply. "Did you do it?"
"I was at Caltech. Second year. They pulled some of us for a writing study. We had codenames. I was... Owl."
It’s like the floor disappears beneath you.
You nod, slowly, guarded. "What do you remember about your pen pal?"
He shrugs, thoughtful. "She was poetic. Sad, I think. But brilliant. We wrote about libraries and grief. The nature of memory. I burned the letters after Gideon left. Didn’t want to remember how much they meant to me, holding onto the hope we would find eachother was too painful."
He doesn't recognize you.
You excuse yourself. You go back to your hotel room and open the shoebox you had brought with you once you realized what the quotes were from.
You read them. All of them. Your own handwriting, responding to his. His quiet observations. His drawings. The dream about walking a spiraling staircase and ending in a mirror. His frustration at being told he was too much, too intense. The way you once signed a letter: "If you’re ever a ghost, haunt me gently."
Two days pass before you tell him.
Not until another body is found - with an origami bird in her hand.
You find Reid on the steps outside the precinct. He’s drinking coffee, flipping through his case-notes. "I need to tell you something," you say. He looks up. Blinks. "Okay."
You sit beside him. "I was Sparrow."
He doesn't speak for a long moment. Just stares at you. Then blinks again, slower.
"From the experiment?"
You nod.
"You're..."
"Yeah."
He sets his notebook down slowly. "Why didn’t you say anything before?"
"I didn’t know it was you at first. And then when I did, I didn’t know if you’d want to know."
He exhales, hand to his temple. "I burned them, the letters. I regret that now. But I remember some things, most things, eidetic memory..."
Your voice is smaller than you intend. "Someone’s using our letters. Just ours."
"The unsub must have accessed the electronic archive they entered every letter in, it was created to keep track of the results... he must have been one of the moderators for the project who got a little too attatched to you..." he says. "But that doesn’t explain the origami. That wasn’t in the letters."
"No," you whisper. "That was just us. I folded one into the last envelope. He- well I guess you, never responded."
He goes quiet again. "I didn’t get that one."
You look at him. "That’s why you stopped writing. He must've intercepted my last letter before it got to you."
The trap was set. You draft a new letter together. You write it by hand. He adds notes in the margins. It’s strange - working side by side with the person who once only existed as black ink on cream paper.
You sign it: "Yours, still, Sparrow."
The reply comes in a matter of hours. A bound volume of your letters, printed out, annotated in red. Obsessive. Worshipful. Violent.
Inside is a single line: "He never deserved you."
The unsub sets the stage in his response - a private library close to the precinct you were working out of. He wants you to come alone. One last letter. One final act.
You walk through the stacks like you’re underwater. Every wall echoes. Every breath feels borrowed. The unsub waits, hands gloved, holding your letters like scripture.
"You were Sparrow. You were mine."
"You never even knew me," you say.
"But I read everything. I saw you."
"You saw what I gave someone else."
"He wasted it. He burned it."
You stare him down. "I forgive him."
The signal is given. The team bursts in. Reid tackles the unsub himself.
Weeks had then passed since the chaos settled, since the unsub was caught and the shadows of your shared past briefly lifted.
Then, the package arrived.
It was unassuming, wrapped in brown paper, the edges frayed like an artifact from a forgotten time. No return address. You peeled it open with a slow reverence, your hands trembling just slightly, as if handling something sacred.
Inside lay a leather-bound notebook, worn at the edges, the supple cover faintly scented with old books and ink. You traced your fingers over its spine, a shiver rippling through your chest.
You opened the cover.
"For Sparrow, between the past and this moment."
The dedication was written in Spencer’s precise, looping handwriting. Ink slightly faded, but every word vivid as if whispered directly to you.
The notebook rested on your lap, its leather cover worn soft by time and countless nights spent open on Spencer’s desk or his favorite café table. This was no longer the stranger of distant letters - these were poems written for you, the woman he worked beside every day, the woman whose presence unsettled and inspired him in equal measure.
Each page felt like a secret unfolding.
“I watch you from the edges of crowded rooms,
The way you tilt your head when lost in though.,
A careful quiet broken only by laughter.
That slips like sunlight through autumn leaves.”
You traced the words, imagining the countless moments he observed you - unnoticed, unspoken, the way he pieced together fragments of you like clues in his case files.
The poems turned inward, revealing his fears - his worries that his feelings might break the fragile balance between you.
“I fear the chasm between us, wide and deep,
Built from silences and things unsaid.
Yet I find myself reaching across the void,
Yearning for something I cannot name.”
You could feel the tension in his words, the battle between wanting to protect himself - and wanting to let himself fall. Between the poems, his handwriting sometimes faltered, lines scratched out, rewritten, almost as if he doubted his own courage.
One poem was followed by a small drawing - a park bench beneath two sprawling oak trees, their leaves sketched with delicate strokes. You paused, heart quickening.
“If ever you find yourself lost in the crowd,
Or weighed down by shadows too dense to bear,
Know there is a place where the world grows still,
A bench beneath oaks that hold whispered prayers.”
The imagery was unmistakable: the quiet park near the city’s edge, where you sometimes went to escape the noise and the weight of everything. You remembered those afternoons alone, the feel of rough bark beneath your fingers, the way the setting sun painted the leaves gold.
The poems grew bolder as the pages turned, each one a step closer to confession.
“I’ve fallen in love with the way you move through light,
With the quiet strength that anchors storms inside.
If only you knew the weight of my hope,
You’d let me in, no longer denied.”
You paused again, fingers trembling slightly, heart beating unevenly as if the poems themselves were alive, pulsing with something urgent and fragile.
“I write these words in the hope they might reach you,
Across the distance we pretend to keep.
If you ever tire of shadows and want to find me,
Look for the bench where silence and daylight meet.”
Your breath caught. The final poem was folded carefully at the back, sealed with a faint imprint of a purple Sparrow and an illistration of a red Owl.
You read it over, letting the lines settle:
“When the dusk drapes the sky in amber hues,
And the world softens into whispered truths,
Come find me where the oaks embrace the breeze,
Where two souls may speak beyond words and pleas. I am waiting, not as a shadow or name, But as a man who has loved you just the same.”
Your fingers closed the notebook gently, your heart pounding with anticipation.
You knew where he meant. The park. The bench. Tomorrow at dusk.
The next evening, as the sky softened from gold to rose and the breeze stirred the leaves with quiet whispers, you approached the park. Your steps slowed, breath catching as your eyes fell on the familiar figure seated beneath the spreading branches of the oak.
There he was - the man whose words had cradled your heart, whose silent love had shaped so many quiet moments.
You stood frozen, the world narrowing until it was only the two of you, breath mingling with the fading light.
And then your eyes met.
Spencer stood just a few feet away, eyes fixed on you, searching for words that had taken him years to find. His voice was low, steady, carrying the weight of everything he’d held inside.
“I loved her,” he began, voice a little rough, “Sparrow. Even when I didn’t know who she was, even when it was just letters on paper. I loved her words - the way she spoke of loneliness, hope, pain... how she saw the world. Somehow, through the distance and the silence, I felt connected to her, like she was the only person who really understood what it meant to feel broken but keep going.”
He swallowed, his eyes never leaving yours. “And then... I started noticing you. Not as Sparrow. Just you. The way you looked when you were thinking about something too complicated to say out loud, the way your laughter filled a room, the way you carried your quiet strength. I realized I was falling for you.”
You felt your chest tighten as his words settled over you. His vulnerability, so rare and precious, wrapped around you like a soft shield.
“And now,” he said, taking a hesitant step closer, “here you are. Both the writing I once knew and loved, and the girl I've found myself day to day captivated by. And I love you. I love you - more than I ever thought I could love someone.”
You swallowed hard, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Your voice was quiet but certain. “I loved him too. Owl. Even before I knew you were him. I loved the way he thought, the way he cared so deeply but hid it behind numbers and facts. I thought he was unreachable, and I was scared to fall for someone I didn’t know. But I did. I fell for you - without even knowing it was you.”
Your gaze softened, and you reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek. “And now you’re here. Real, in front of me. And I love you too.”
Spencer’s breath caught, his lips parting slightly. Slowly, with the gentleness of a whispered prayer, he leaned in. Your lips met - soft at first, tentative, savoring the moment as if making sure it was real.
Then the kiss deepened, passion blooming between you, years of longing and unanswered questions melting away in the warmth of shared breath.
When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cooling air.
You smiled, with a quiet confidence of someone who’d waited a long time. “I was hoping... you'd come home with me.”
His eyes widened in surprise and delight. “I’d like that. More than anything.”
You slipped your hand into his, fingers lacing tightly with his own.
He pulled you gently into his side as you walked away from the park, the night unfolding around you like the beginning of everything you both had waited for.
A/N-
Im SO insanely proud of this dude. I feel so creative when Im usually void of original ideas :/ anyways lmk how you like this!
1. Spencer Reid x shy!fem!reader who just admires him from afar but is often a little too shy to talk to him?? (Idk lol)
2. Postprison!grumpy!Spencer Reid x sunshine!fem!reader who just lights up his world?
Sorry I don’t have plots in mind, but just concept ides if you want.
Thanks for reading this and putting it into consideration I love your stories they’re so amazingly beautiful. 😁💕💕
“𝓘𝓷 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓛𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭”
summary: Reader has always admired Spencer Reid from afar—too shy to speak, too soft to be noticed. But when Spencer asks for her help on a case file, a quiet moment turns into something warmer, softer, and maybe even the start of something.
contains: mutual pining, pure fluff (that’s literally it😭)
A/N: THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST ML<333
You weren’t invisible.
But you did keep to yourself—floating through the bullpen like a quiet breeze, always polite, always soft-spoken. You were content in your corner of the chaos, eyes glued to your monitor, mind buried in case files. And maybe—just maybe—you peeked at Spencer Reid a little too often.
Not in a creepy way. Just in a quiet, heart-fluttering, “I wish I could talk to him without melting into the floor” kind of way.
He fascinated you. With his mismatched socks and constant rambling, the way his hands moved when he talked and how his eyes lit up when someone actually listened. He was brilliant, awkward, and weirdly gentle in a world that rarely was. You admired him from a distance, content with tiny stolen glances and half-formed “hellos.”
So when Spencer stopped at your desk one Thursday afternoon, holding a file and smiling sheepishly, your soul nearly left your body.
“H-hi,” he said, shifting his weight awkwardly. “Um—I was wondering if you’d mind looking over something with me?”
You blinked. “Me?”
He nodded quickly. “Yeah. You’re always really focused, and I—I’ve seen your work, it’s super thorough, and Hotch says you have a great instinct for victimology patterns, and I just thought… I mean, if you’re not busy…”
You stared at him for a second too long. He noticed. You flushed. He flushed back.
“N-no! I mean—yes. I’d love to help,” you rushed out, scooting your chair over. “Totally not busy. I was just… reading the same paragraph five times.”
Spencer chuckled, his smile softening. “I do that too.”
He pulled up a chair beside you, and for the next fifteen minutes, you tried to focus on the file—but it was hard with him so close, elbow brushing yours occasionally, his voice low and thoughtful as he talked through the data. Every so often, you’d glance at him from the corner of your eye, only to find him already looking at you.
“You’re really good at this,” he said quietly after a while.
You looked down, smiling softly. “Thanks.”
There was a moment—a sweet, still pause where the world seemed to fade into the hum of the bullpen, and it was just you and him in your little corner of it.
“You know,” Spencer said, his voice softer now, “I’ve been trying to find an excuse to talk to you.”
You blinked. “Really?”
He nodded, almost bashful. “You always look like you’re in your own little world. I wanted to know what it was like there.”
You smiled—small and a little stunned. “Mostly just case files and overthinking things.”
“That sounds… kind of nice,” he said, grinning.
You laughed—quiet and warm, like it surprised even you.
And then—Spencer just looked at you. Not in a staring way, but in that full-attention, “I see you” kind of way. The kind that made your cheeks feel hot and your heart feel full.
“I’m glad I came over,” he said simply.
“I’m glad you did too,” you whispered.
He smiled again—brighter this time. “So… maybe I’ll come by more often?”
Your heart flipped, but your voice found itself for once.
“I’d like that,” you said. “A lot.”
And Spencer—brilliant, sweet, totally endearing Spencer—looked like someone had just handed him the stars.
If it's alright, can I please request Spencer finding out that the cute new neighbour he has a crush on works is now working in the FBI as her new job (whether or not she's a profiler for the bau can be up to you) or maybe vice versa where there's a cute new hire at work and Spencer is head over heels for her only to find out later that she is his neighbour?
next-door — spencer reid
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: reader is new to the team ( a month or so ) , mention of working on a case
a/n: hiii !! hope you like this <3
Spencer Reid had always considered himself a creature of habit. His life was structured, predictable in its own way, and he liked it that way.
But everything changed the moment you sat down next to him on the jet, flashing a smile that made his heart race.
You were new. New to the team, new to the world he’d known so intimately for years, and Spencer couldn’t help but feel intrigued by you.
“I like your socks,” you said, pointing to his mismatched pair.
Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. He glanced down at his socks, as if seeing them for the first time. They were mismatched, as usual—one blue, one red—and he was pretty sure he’d been teased about them once or twice by the rest of the team.
To his surprise, you pulled your feet up onto the seat next to you, showing him your own mismatched socks—one striped, one with dots.
“Thanks,” he stammered, his voice betraying him as his cheeks flushed slightly. “I… I like yours too.”
“I guess we’re sock twins,” you said with a grin, your eyes sparkling.
He nodded with a small smile, suddenly aware of the way his heart was beating a little faster than usual.
The rest of the day blurred by , but every moment spent with you only cemented the fact that he was more drawn to you than he had ever been to anyone. Spencer found himself thinking about you constantly.
By the time the week came to an end, Spencer was completely smitten, his thoughts consumed by you.
He couldn’t stop replaying every moment you’d shared—the way you laughed at his jokes, how your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, and the way your voice sounded when you said his name.
When you sat next to him on the jet again, he couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter as you greeted him with that same warm, easy smile.
The jet ride was much the same as it had been before—quiet, with the whirring of engines in the background—but all Spencer could focus on was you.
As he attempted to read his book on the metro ride home, his mind kept wandering back to you. Every word on the page blurred together.
When he arrived at his apartment building later that night, Spencer paused at the door to his apartment. He glanced back down the hallway, noticing a car he didn’t recognize parked outside. His brow furrowed as he brushed it off.
But as he walked up the stairs, something caught his attention, a familiar voice carrying down the hallway.
“Yeah, Garcia, I think I could make it on Sunday,” you mumbled into your phone. Spencer froze, his heart pounding in his chest as he realized the voice was yours. He looked up, only to spot you standing at the end of the hallway, speaking softly into your phone.
You must’ve heard him then, because your head snapped up, eyes meeting his. The phone call ended abruptly, and your mouth dropped open in surprise as you took a step toward him.
“Garcia, I’ll call you later,” you said before hanging up, a wide grin spreading across your face. “Spencer, hi.”
Spencer’s feet seemed glued to the floor as he processed the sight before him. There you were, standing at the door of the apartment next to his. He blinked twice, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.
“We’re neighbors?” he asked, his voice betraying a mix of confusion and disbelief.
You smiled even wider, as though the idea was just as strange to you. “Apparently so,” you said with a small laugh.
Spencer stood there, staring at you, his heart still racing. He had spent the past week thinking about you more than he should have—more than he had thought himself capable of. And now, as if fate had played some elaborate trick on him, you were standing right there.
His mind scrambled to form a coherent thought, but all he could manage was, “This is… unexpected.”
You let out a soft chuckle, tilting your head slightly. “Yeah, I’d say so.” Your eyes scanned his face. “I hope that’s not a problem?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
A problem? Spencer nearly laughed at the idea. If anything, it was the opposite. He shook his head a little too quickly. “No. Not a problem at all.”
Your smile deepened. “Good,” you said simply.
For a moment, there was only silence. Spencer’s brain worked on overdrive, his mouth opening and closing as if debating whether or not to say something more.
You seemed to notice his hesitance because your smile turned a little softer. “Well, I should probably get inside. It’s late.”
Spencer nodded, stepping aside as you turned toward your door. But then, just as your hand reached the doorknob, something in him panicked at the thought of the moment ending.
“Wait,” he blurted out, surprising even himself.
You paused, glancing over your shoulder with curiosity. “Yeah?”
His brain scrambled for something—anything—reasonable to say. “Um… do you—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He was an agent, for God’s sake, yet talking to you felt harder than solving complex behavioral patterns. “Do you like—uh—coffee?”
The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to smack himself. Of course, you liked coffee. Most people did. What kind of question was that? But instead of laughing at him, you simply smiled, leaning against your doorframe.
“I do,” you answered slowly, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Why?”
Spencer swallowed, feeling strangely warm under your gaze. “There’s a coffee shop a few blocks away. I usually go there on Saturdays.” He shifted on his feet. “Would you, um… want to come with me?”
Your lips pressed together, as if hiding a smirk. “Are you asking me on a date, Dr. Reid?”
Spencer felt his face burn instantly. “No! I mean—yes? Maybe? Only if you want it to be! It doesn’t have to be. It could just be coffee. Or not. If you don’t want to. I just thought—”
You laughed, cutting off his rambling with a shake of your head. “Relax, Spencer.” You grinned, reaching for your door handle again. “Sunday sounds great.”
Spencer blinked, processing your words as his brain short-circuited. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed, biting back another smile. “Goodnight, neighbor.”
And with that, you disappeared into your apartment, leaving Spencer standing in the hallway, heart hammering, mind spinning, and a smile slowly spreading across his face.
i wanna make like a social media / insta au spencer x reader but i have NO idea what id do for it plz send ideas in my inbox much appreciated thank you xx
Hey, you know when spencer is doing his physics magic thing and it lands on emily head then she asks him how this works but he refuses to tell her claiming a true magician never reveals his secrets but when the reader asks him he agrees to show her immediately cuz he's so whipped and everyone's is like 🤨🤨🤨
Also happy birthday i hope you have a great year full of happiness 🫶🏻✨️❤️
magic — spencer reid
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings:
a/n: hiii !! spencer looked so cute in this scene i love early szns spence <3 also tysm that's so sweet !!! <333 also i couldnt find the a gif for this scene so this gif will have to do
You, JJ, and Garcia had gathered behind Spencer, who was seated in one of the rolling chairs, his frame hunched over a small film cannister on the desk.
He had promised to show you all a "physics magic trick," though so far, nothing magical—or even remotely interesting—had happened.
JJ glanced at you, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Nothing is happening," she whispered.
You shrugged, leaning slightly over Spencer's shoulder to get a better look at whatever he was tinkering with.
Spencer, however, seemed to be struggling. His hands fidgeted with the small plastic device on the desk, but his focus was clearly divided.
The warmth of you standing so close behind him was distracting, and he could feel the faint brush of your breath against his neck.
He cleared his throat. "Shhh, watch," he said, his voice cracking slightly and rising an octave higher than usual.
You raised an eyebrow, exchanging a quick, amused glance with JJ.
Spencer’s enthusiasm was endearing, even if the trick itself seemed to be taking its sweet time.
You leaned in a little closer, your chin nearly resting on his shoulder, and you could’ve sworn you saw the tips of his ears turn pink.
And then it happened.
The small plastic device—a tiny black spring-loaded film cannister—suddenly sprang to life. With a sharp ping, it launched into the air, flying in a high arc across the bullpen. You watched, wide-eyed, as it sailed over the desks and directly toward the doorway.
Emily chose that exact moment to walk in.
The plastic projectile hit her squarely on the forehead with a soft thunk.
She froze mid-step, her hand instinctively flying to the spot where it had struck. "Ow! What—?" she exclaimed.
Spencer looked mortified. His hands flailing as he stammered out an apology. "I’m so sorry, Emily!
You couldn’t help it—a burst of laughter escaped you, quickly followed by JJ and Garcia joining in.
Emily rubbed her forehead, glaring at him. "What was that?" she asked.
Your laughter only grew louder at Spencer’s flustered expression, and the sound of it made his heart hammer in his chest. He couldn’t help but glance at you, his cheeks flushing even deeper.
"Don’t you recognize a rocket when you see one?" Garcia chimed in, her grin widening as she nudged Spencer playfully.
Spencer's voice rose slightly in defense. "I was merely demonstrating a fundamental physics law! I didn’t mean to—"
Emily waved him off, her curiosity now piqued. "Oh, show me," she said, walking over to the table where you were all gathered. She leaned in, her eyes scanning the small film cannister Spencer had been tinkering with. "How does it work?"
Spencer hesitated, then shook his head. "A magician never reveals his secrets," he said, his tone mock-serious as he gestured for her to turn around. Emily rolled her eyes but complied, stepping back as Spencer reset the device.
Spencer managed to show the trick again, but not without getting into trouble with Hotch. The girls immediately went back to their desks. Staying there even after Hotch went back to his office.
But you stayed at Spencer's desk.
You leaned against it, your arms casually crossed as you watched him fiddle with the small film cannister. “Spencer,” you said softly, causing him to tilt his head up to look at you.
“Yeah?” he replied, his voice low and slightly hesitant, the way it always was when he talked to you. It was endearing, the way he got so shy, as if he were afraid of saying the wrong thing.
“How did you do that trick?” you asked, giving him your sweetest smile. You knew he’d mentioned something about magicians never revealing their secrets, but you couldn’t resist teasing him a little.
Spencer hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours before dropping back to the device in his hands.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, clearly torn between his love of sharing knowledge and his earlier declaration about magicians and their secrets.
But then he looked up at you again, and whatever resolve he had crumbled under the warmth of your smile.
“Well…” he began, his voice softening as he gave in. He gestured for you to lean in closer, and you did.
His words came quickly at first, a rapid-fire explanation of potential energy, kinetic energy, and the calculations needed to make the trick work. As he spoke, his tone grew more animated, his hands moving to illustrate his points.
You listened intently, nodding along, though half your attention was on the way his eyes sparkled with excitement.
When he finished explaining, he glanced at you, almost shyly. “Want to try it?” he asked.
You grinned. “Absolutely.”
Spencer handed you the small plastic device, his fingers brushing against yours in the process.
The contact was brief, but it sent a little jolt through you, and you could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks flush.
He guided you through the steps, his voice soft, his hands hovering near yours ready to help if needed.
Your fingers brushed against his again as you adjusted the device, and you could feel the faint tremor in his hand.
It was subtle, but it was there, and it made your heart skip a beat.
Just as you were about to launch the film cannister, Emily’s voice cut through the moment. “Hey, are you showing her how to do that physics trick?” she asked, her tone accusatory.
She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at Spencer. “You said no one was allowed to know.”
JJ, who had been quietly observing from her desk, looked up at Emily’s words, her own eyebrow quirking in curiosity.
You glanced at Spencer, who looked like a deer caught in headlights, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to come up with a response.
But before he could say anything, you grinned and leaned back against the desk, your tone teasing. “Guess I’m special.”
Spencer’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like he might combust on the spot.
Emily shook her head. “Special, huh? Reid, you’re full of surprises.”
JJ smirked, adding, “Looks like someone’s got a soft spot.”
Spencer stammered, his face turning a deep shade of red. “I—it’s not—I mean, she just—uh—”
You couldn’t help but laugh, and Spencer’s flustered expression only made it harder to stop. “Relax, Spence,” you said, gently nudging his arm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He looked at you, his eyes softening, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the room had faded away. “Thanks,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Emily and JJ exchanged a knowing look before returning to their work, leaving the two of you alone once more. You stayed there, leaning against his desk, as you asked him more questions about his magic tricks.
I just want to say that I love all of your fics! They are so sweet and cute and 🥰🥰🥰🥰
Can I please request reader meeting Penelope at like a pottery club or art class or cafe or something and the two of them hit it off and become really good friends and reader mentions that her boyfriend is coming to pick her up and just gushes about how sweet he is and how much she loves him. And then Spencer shows up and Penelope is like “oh my god!!!”
coffee — spencer reid
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: nothing i think
a/n: absolutely loved this idea tysm for ur request ! <3
You took the last sip of your coffee, laughing loudly at the story Penelope had just told you.
“I cannot believe you actually said that,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief, still grinning.
Penelope simply shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Someone had to say it,” she quipped, smirking as she took another sip of her now nearly empty cup.
You had met Penelope purely by accident—a mix-up at the coffee shop when the barista had mistakenly switched your orders. You could have just exchanged cups and gone on with your day, but somehow, the two of you ended up talking. And talking.
One thing led to another, and suddenly, you were sitting together at the same table like old friends.
Now, as you noticed her cup was empty too, you felt reluctant to let the moment end.
“We should do this again,” you said, tilting your head at her.
Penelope’s eyes lit up instantly. “Yes. Yes. Most definitely yes,” she nodded enthusiastically, already reaching across the table for your phone before you could even offer it.
“I’m going out tonight with some friends from work,” she explained as she tapped her number into your contacts. “They’re wonderful people, and we’d have so much fun. You should totally come with.”
She handed your phone back, her enthusiasm contagious. You smiled, appreciating the offer, but you shook your head apologetically as you glanced at your screen.
“Can’t,” you said. “My boyfriend’s picking me up and we're grabbing dinner together.”
At that, Penelope’s brows arched with intrigue. “Boyfriend?” she echoed, her smirk returning.
You nodded, feeling warmth creep into your cheeks. “Yeah.”
Her grin widened as she leaned in slightly. “And? Tell me about this mystery man.”
You laughed softly at her curiosity, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well… he’s kind of the sweetest person I know,” you admitted, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Like, the kind of person who remembers all the little things—my favorite snacks, the way I take my coffee, even the books I say I want to read but never get around to.”
Penelope let out a dreamy sigh. “Okay, I love this already. Keep going.”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “He’s ridiculously smart, but he doesn’t act like he knows everything. He’s just… thoughtful, in a way that sneaks up on you.” You glanced at your phone again, checking the time. “Like, this morning, he woke me up with pancakes. He burned the edges a little, but he still insisted on making them.”
Penelope gasped dramatically. “Okay, I’m officially obsessed with him. He sounds like a dream.”
You laughed, nodding. “He really is.”
Before Penelope could press for more details, your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced down at the screen, your heart skipping a beat at the name flashing across it. “That’s him,” you said with a grin, slipping your phone into your pocket.
Penelope’s smirk grew as she crossed her arms. “Well, now I have to meet this perfect man of yours.”
You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah,” you admitted, checking the time. “He should be outside right about now.”
And with that, the two of you stood up, walking out of the coffee shop together.
There he was—Spencer—standing just outside with his back to you, hands casually tucked into his pockets. The familiar sight of him sent a warm flutter through your chest.
“Spencer,” you called softly, excitement bubbling in your voice as you walked toward him, a wide smile spreading across your face.
He turned at the sound of your voice, his own smile instinctive—warm, genuine. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, his expression faltered. His shoulders stiffened, his smile slipping away.
Your steps slowed. “What?” you asked, brow furrowing, your arms—once ready to wrap around him—now hanging uselessly at your sides.
His gaze wasn’t on you. It was locked onto Penelope.
The two of them stood there, staring at each other, and the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Spencer wore a shocked and worried expression, while Penelope’s face was a mask of smug satisfaction.
“Uh…” you said, glancing back and forth between them, trying to decipher the sudden tension. “Spencer, this is Penelope. I met her at the coffee shop today. And Penelope, this is Spencer, my boyfriend.” You lightly touched his arm, hoping to draw his attention back to you.
And then—
“Oh my god,” Penelope suddenly squealed, her eyes practically glowing with excitement.
You turned to her, utterly bewildered.
“Spencer Reid,” she announced dramatically, planting her hands on her hips. “How dare you hide this from me?”
Spencer, whose face had somehow turned even redder, mumbled something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.
Penelope, however, was having none of it. She spun toward you, pointing at him. “This?! This is your boyfriend?”
“…Yes?” you said slowly, the confusion growing.
She gasped, clutching her chest as if she had just heard the most scandalous news. “The Spencer Reid you’ve been gushing about? The one who makes you pancakes and remembers every single detail about you ?”
Your mouth opened slightly as realization dawned. “Wait. You know Spencer?”
“Oh, honey.” Penelope let out an exaggerated sigh. “Know him? I work with him. He is my Spencer.”
You blinked. “Your Spencer?”
Spencer finally let out a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Garcia…”
“Reid,” she shot back with a gleeful grin.
You took a step back, looking between them, still processing. “Wait, you’re Garcia?”
Penelope gasped again, looking mock-offended. “He didn’t tell you my name? I thought we were friends now!”
Spencer rubbed his temple. “I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think?” she interrupted, feigning shock. “Did you not think I would love her?”
He sighed, defeated.
You, meanwhile, had fully shifted from confusion to amusement, the situation far funnier now that you understood. “In his defense, I only knew you as ‘Garcia.’”
“Well, that changes now!” Penelope declared, looping her arm through yours as if you had been best friends for years. “Come on, we have so much to talk about.”
Spencer sighed again, but there was a small, fond smile pulling at his lips as he watched you two.
Can I request something about Spencer Reid being scared that he's going to forget about the reader ever since his mother got diagnosed with Alzheimer so he starts to write down all of the moments they had together so he doesn't forget her (they're not in a relationship yet) one day on the jet back home she sees him writing down stuff so she decides to snoops in when he falls asleep (nosy) but he catches her and then they kind of just melt into confessing their feelings to each other and it's fluffy at the end
memories — spencer reid
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: alzheimer is not exactly mentioned but more so implied , a tiny bit of angst , reader burns her hand on hot coffee
a/n: hiii !! i hope this is what you asked for ! also i won't lie this made me so emotional </3 ngl i'm really proud of this one and i hope you like it <33
You watched Spencer write with intensity, his pen moving rapidly across the page. You were sitting in the seat in front of him, the two of you the only people in the otherwise empty section of the plane.
You leaned back in your seat, but no matter how much you tried to relax, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
“Spence,” you mumbled softly, almost afraid to interrupt the silence that had settled between you. But the words left your lips before you could stop them.
He didn’t answer immediately, but instead finished the sentence he was writing. When his pen finally stopped, Spencer looked up at you, blinking a few times as if startled.
“Hm?” His voice was soft, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours right away.
“Are you alright?” you asked, your voice laced with concern. You leaned forward slightly, your eyes searching his face for any signs of distress. You could tell that were was something on his mind.
Spencer hesitated for a moment, his eyes shifting to the side as though considering his response. Finally, he gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his lips pressing together in a faint, reassuring smile.
“Yeah,” he said softly, but there was a lack of conviction in his voice.
But before you could ask anything more, he returned his attention to the notebook in front of him, his pen moving again with relentless speed. You raised an eyebrow, concern creeping into your expression.
“What are you writing?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Spencer didn’t look up this time. Instead, his pen paused for a second before he closed his mouth, clearly searching for the right words to deflect.
“I—uh… just some notes,” he replied, his tone guarded. He quickly returned to writing, as if trying to shut you out.
That was Spencer for you—always shutting himself off when things got too personal or heavy.
You knew better than to push further, so you fell silent, as you leaned back into your seat. You turned your gaze to the window, your mind far from the clouds outside.
Some time had passed. You had tried to sleep, but it was useless. Your mind wouldn’t settle. With a sigh, you opened your eyes, resigned to staying awake.
That was when you noticed Spencer.
His head was tilted slightly to the side, his mouth just barely parted as soft, even breaths escaped him. His notebook lay open on the small table in front of him, as if he had been writing right up until he fell asleep. You smiled faintly at the sight, warmth spreading through your chest. He hardly ever let himself rest. It was nice to see him get even a moment of peace.
Carefully, you stood, making your way toward the small kitchenette at the back of the jet.
A quick glance around told you that the rest of the team was asleep as well—apparently, you were the only one who couldn’t drift off.
With a sigh, you made yourself a cup of coffee, letting the warmth of the cup seep into your fingers as you turned back toward your seat.
But then, you stopped.
Spencer’s notebook was still lying open, its pages slightly bent from where he had dropped it onto the table.
You hesitated.
You knew Spencer was private—especially about whatever had been weighing on him lately—but concern tugged at you, pressing insistently against your ribs. He had been acting strange for weeks now, closing himself off more and more, and you couldn’t ignore the gnawing worry in your chest.
So, against your better judgment, you took a small step closer, your eyes flickering over the open page.
A date was scrawled in the upper right-hand corner.
And then, the words:
"She hugged me today. It was nice. So nice I didn’t want her to let go. She was warm too. I don’t want to forget that. Ever. She smells so nice. She gives the best hugs—the kind where she doesn’t let go until I do. And if I could, I’d hug her forever."
Your breath caught in your throat.
Your hands trembled slightly around your coffee cup, but curiosity got the better of you, pulling your gaze to the next page—the one he had been writing on just before sleep claimed him.
"The case we were working on was difficult. But she was there. Like she always is. I don’t think I could do this without her. I don’t think I could do anything without her. She’s sitting across from me right now, and I think she’s concerned. I don’t want her to be. I don’t like it when she looks at me like that. I like it more when she smiles at me. Because when she does, I feel like everything will be okay."
Your fingers tightened around the coffee cup, and for a split second, you thought you might drop it.
Your heart was pounding so loudly , it felt like it was louder than the entire plane.
You had no idea.
You had no idea he felt this way.
The moment your eyes met Spencer’s, the cup actually slipped from your grasp. You managed to catch it before it hit the floor, but the hot coffee sloshed over the rim, searing your skin. You sucked in a sharp breath, wincing at the sting.
But that wasn’t what made your stomach twist.
It was the way Spencer was looking at you.
His face was unreadable—his expression a careful mask, but his hands moved without hesitation. He closed the notebook in one swift motion, his fingers lingering over the cover.
He didn’t say a word.
Your stomach churned.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words died in your throat.
He didn’t look angry. Not exactly. But there was something behind his eyes, that made the guilt weigh even heavier in your chest.
Slowly, you sank back into your seat, glancing down at your hand, which still ached from the burn. But the pain was nothing compared to the way your heart pounded unsteadily against your ribs.
Before you could say anything else, a hand suddenly reached toward you, holding out a tissue.
You hesitated for half a second before carefully taking it from Spencer’s outstretched fingers.
“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice softer this time.
You dabbed at your hand, the warmth lingering on your skin, but your mind was far from the burn. Your thoughts kept circling back to the words you had read, the ones etched so deeply onto the pages of his notebook—the ones that had been about you.
Tentatively, you lifted your gaze to meet his again.
“I’m really, really sorry,” you whispered, biting your lip.
Spencer looked at you, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. You could see the red creeping up his neck, spreading to the tips of his ears. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his notebook, as if debating whether to grab it and tuck it away completely.
“How much did you read ?” His voice was quiet, hesitant—like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
You felt a fresh wave of embarrassment crash over you, guilt tightening in your chest. But underneath it—buried deep—there was something else. A tiny spark of something warm. Hopeful.
Because the words you had read kept replaying in your mind, his handwriting burned into your thoughts.
I don’t think I could do this without her. If I could, I’d hug her forever.
Your fingers tightened around the tissue in your lap.
“Just—just two pages,” you admitted softly.
Spencer inhaled sharply through his nose. His gaze flickered away for a brief moment, his hands clenching slightly before relaxing again. You could tell he was fighting the urge to retreat, to shut you out completely like he always did when something got too close.
“They were open on the table, and I just—” You exhaled shakily, closing your eyes for a second, trying to find the right words. “I was concerned about you. You never talk about what’s bothering you, and I just—”
You opened your eyes again, looking at him with nothing but sincerity. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” you mumbled, your voice small but genuine.
Silence settled between you.
Spencer’s fingers curled tighter around the edges of his notebook, his knuckles just barely turning white. His eyes flickered downward for a moment, like he was searching for something—maybe the right words, maybe the courage to say them.
You inhaled softly, heart pounding in your chest. And then, before you could second-guess yourself, the words slipped out.
“I don’t think I could do any of this without you either.”
His eyes snapped back up to yours.
Spencer’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, the color creeping up from his neck to his cheeks. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared, as if trying to process what you had just admitted.
Your pulse quickened.
“And…” You hesitated, but his silence wasn’t rejection. So you took a breath and kept going. “And I like hugging you. A lot.”
His grip on the notebook tightened.
There was another pause—another moment stretched too thin between you. You could practically hear your own heartbeat in your ears.
Then, finally, Spencer exhaled. He set the notebook down on the table, fingers lingering over it. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
“I’m writing these moments down so I don’t forget them.” He swallowed hard, glancing down for a split second before meeting your eyes again. “In case I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply. His brows furrowed as he took a deep breath, trying to will himself to say it.
He didn’t have to.
You understood.
His mother. The fear. The possibility that one day, his mind might betray him, might take these moments—you—away from him.
Your chest tightened.
“I just don’t want to forget you. Ever.”
The vulnerability in his voice shattered something inside you.
Your vision blurred, tears threatening to spill, so you blinked rapidly, willing them away. But Spencer saw them anyway.
A small, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I hope you also read the part where I said I prefer it when you smile at me.”
The unexpected comment caught you off guard. A surprised laugh escaped you, soft but genuine. You wiped at your eyes quickly, shaking your head.
“I did,” you admitted, sniffling slightly as you met his gaze. “And for the record, I like it when you smile too.”
Spencer’s lips pressed together like he was trying—and failing—to keep himself from smiling even more.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. But this silence felt different. Lighter. Warmer.
You glanced down at his notebook, the one still sitting between you on the table. Your fingers itched to reach for it again, but instead, you looked back up at him.
“Can I ask you something?” you said softly.
Spencer nodded, his expression open, if a little nervous.
“Why me?” you asked, your voice wavering slightly as nervousness crept in.
Spencer blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. His lips parted like he wanted to answer immediately, but no words came out. Instead, he studied you for a long moment, his gaze flickering over your face as if trying to find the right way to explain something so deeply ingrained in him.
You almost regretted asking.
Spencer’s fingers toyed with the corner of his notebook, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Because I’m in love with you,” he whispered.
The words hung in the air between you, soft yet heavy, delicate yet undeniable.
It practically took your breath away.
Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Your mind scrambled to process what he had just said, but your heart—your heart had already caught up, hammering against your ribs like it had been waiting for this moment all along.
Spencer’s fingers tightened around the edge of his notebook, his knuckles going pale. His whole body was tense, like he was bracing himself for impact. Like he was waiting for you to tell him he had just made a mistake.
But he hadn’t.
Because, God, if he only knew.
“Spence…” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.
His eyes searched yours, uncertain, vulnerable—waiting.
And suddenly, all you could think about was every moment leading up to this. The way he always found you in a crowded room. The way his entire body relaxed when you were near. The way he had been writing down memories, terrified of losing them, terrified of losing you.
You had always known Spencer loved deeply. But you had never let yourself believe—never let yourself hope—that he could love you like that.
Until now.
You let out a shaky breath, a slow smile tugging at your lips as you squeezed his hand gently.
“Good,” you murmured, your heart racing as you finally let the words slip free. “Because I’m in love with you too.”
Spencer’s breath hitched. His eyes widened just slightly, as if he hadn’t let himself hope for this either. And then—slowly, tentatively—his lips curved into the softest, most relieved smile you’d ever seen.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you join the team as a replacement after jj's departure. despite the initial stress and difficulties adapting, you manage to fully connect with the rest of the team. more than that—you make friends. and fall in love. but after unexpected events and returns, your time with them comes to an end—because, in the end, you were only a placeholder.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x bau!female reader, reader is an anxious overthinker whom i want to hug so badly, my intention was not to antagonize jj and i don't want it to be perceived that way, possibly incorrect infodump about tiramisu—offended italians, please don’t come to my house with torches and forks, melancholic, sad ending aka matilda's standard
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.3k
𝐚/𝐧: anon's request
6 months ago…
If you look at it in a certain way, almost everything started with tiramisu. Or rather, it started with your conversation with Penelope—overheard by Rossi—where you boasted about being an expert at making this Italian dessert. Or perhaps the most accurate statement would be that it started with JJ. After all, you were brought into the Behavioral Analysis Unit as her replacement — their new, young media liaison, meant to gain more experience through the role.
Anyway, that Saturday evening, you felt a slight chill on your shoulders as you stepped out of the car, clutching a massive tray of freshly made tiramisu and silently praying not to drop it before making it inside. Rossi’s house—excuse me, his mansion—truly looked impressive.
You couldn’t say you weren’t nervous. In fact, you were absolutely terrified—and not because of what the senior member of your new team might say about your baking skills. It was something else entirely.Eeryone had been invited that evening, including the team members you hadn’t yet gotten to know outside of work. Your relationship with them was strictly professional, and more often than not, you caught yourself wanting to appear flawless in their eyes. To prove that, despite your lack of experience, you were worthy of taking on this role. That, despite your relatively young age, you were mature and responsible.
So yes, you were nervous. In fact, the anxiety grew with every step you took toward the door, your grip on the tray tightening until your knuckles turned white.That didn’t stop you from almost dropping it when you suddenly jumped at the sound of your name spoken from behind.
"Oh my—" you gasped, inhaling sharply, instinctively wanting to clutch your chest—except both your hands were occupied.
Spencer Reid's brown eyes widened as he realized just how badly he had startled you.
"Sorry, I didn’t mean to—"
"It’s fine," you assured him, nodding a little too quickly. You took a slower breath, feeling slightly embarrassed. You worked with people who hunted serial killers for a living, delved into the darkest, most nightmarish cases—and yet, you nearly had a heart attack just because someone called your name.
In your defense, you were a woman alone at night, and a tray of tiramisu wasn’t exactly the deadliest weapon.Noticing the guilt still lingering on his face, you forced a smile and lifted the tray slightly. "I mean it. As long as I didn’t drop the cake, everything’s fine."
He stood before you with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, a purple scarf draped around his neck. The corners of his lips lifted slightly at your response, but you knew it was just a polite gesture—there was nothing particularly amusing about what you’d said.
You suddenly became aware of the silence stretching between you, neither of you moving, the moment teetering on the edge of awkwardness. You cleared your throat. Maybe you should compliment the scarf. You couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by him.
After all, this was Dr. Spencer Reid—the man whose name had once reached your ears and settled somewhere in your thoughts, cementing itself under the label of genius. That was the lens through which you saw him, having yet to familiarize yourself with any of his other traits.
What you had noticed, however, was that he seemed to prefer keeping you at a distance. And yes, it all traced back to your first meeting—your first greeting, your first outstretched hand, and the first, slightly awkward:
It’s actually safer to kiss.
“You think we’re the first ones here?" you asked, just before pressing the doorbell. Then, hesitating, you bit the inside of your cheek. "Actually…maybe we’re a little too early."
"I think we’re fine," he replied. "Rossi said eight."
You gave a small nod. The door swung open.
“What are you doing here so early?" You and Spencer exchanged a glance.
"If I remember correctly—and I do—you said eight. It’s eight."
"Decent people show up fashionably late."
"And then you’d complain that the younger generation doesn’t respect your time."
You watched the exchange in silence, noticing the flicker of amusement in both men’s eyes. Of course, they weren’t actually arguing—just friendly banter. Still, something about it caught your attention. You wondered if you’d ever feel comfortable enough around them to join in like that.
He stepped aside to let you both in, and as you crossed the threshold, you realized you hadn’t said a word yet.
“As promised," you started, nodding toward the dessert in your hands. "My specialty."
Rossi raised an eyebrow at you.
"We’ll see about that. “
But he did take the tray from you while you slipped off your coat.
"I was actually about to make an important call," he announced. "Before someone decided to show up early. So, if you’ll excuse me, you’ll have to entertain yourselves for a bit. Be so kind as not to destroy my kitchen. Everyone else should be here soon."
And with that, he simply left you there.
Reid clearly knew his way around the house—he had to—because without hesitation, he led you straight to the kitchen, where you set the dessert down on the black marble countertop. And just like that, the two of you were left alone, connected by a slightly awkward silence.
"Maybe I should cut it," you mused, your gaze falling on the tiramisu. "Rossi wouldn’t mind if I used his knives, right?"
"I don’t think so," he said, standing on the other side of the kitchen island, made of white wood with plenty of drawers.
To your surprise, you realized he was watching your movements. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to realize that you noticed it from the corner of your eye. Or maybe you were imagining it, but you could swear you heard him swallow.
"You know, there are many theories about when and how tiramisu was actually invented," he remarked.
"I don't think I've heard any of them," you admitted, glancing around for a knife. "I mean, I can make it, but I can’t explain…the historical context behind it"
He leaned his elbows on the counter, briefly lowering his gaze to his hands. The sleeves of his purple shirt remained slightly rolled up, not quite reaching his wrists.
"It originated in Italy, of course. And the most popular version says it was invented in the 1960s in Treviso. At least, before that period, the name doesn’t appear in any sources."
Focused on cutting the cake evenly, unconsciously sticking out the tip of your tongue, you couldn’t muster any reaction, but you listened intently. Spencer, however, seemed to think otherwise—after briefly glancing at your face, he looked away, apparently deciding to drop the topic.
"What does it mean?" you asked. Your eyes met, and for a moment, he looked surprised. "I mean, what does the name mean?" you clarified with a gentle smile. "I should probably expand my knowledge. What if Rossi decides to quiz me?"
After a brief moment, a small, friendly smile bloomed on his lips.
"Well, in that case, I’ll do my best to prepare you."
You hadn’t been working together for long, but even so, you had already discovered—fascinated—that he was a true wellspring of knowledge, with no apparent limits to his mind. Sometimes, he would lose his train of thought—you had noticed that too. And sometimes, he would stumble when he realized it himself. You found it somewhat endearing. Or at the very least, well…you liked listening to it.
Somewhere around the time you had been acquainted with three theories about its origin, the etymology of its name, the original recipe and its variations, as well as a few interesting fun facts about tiramisu—which you listened to without even realizing that you were still holding the knife despite having finished cutting the cake—the sound of the host’s footsteps reached you. But they weren’t headed in your direction. Instead, he made his way to the door to let the other guests in.
You tried to relax your shoulders, aiming to appear at ease. Bodies are often treacherous and rarely care about how you wish to be perceived. Instead, they ignore your intentions and take cues from your subconscious—and subconsciously, you were stressed.
You quietly scolded yourself, shaking your head slightly. After all, they were all profilers—experts at reading body language. As if on cue, just as the thought crossed your mind, you accidentally caught Reid’s gaze fixed on you. You shrugged, the corners of your lips lifting slightly, feigning ignorance.
Truthfully, you weren’t entirely sure what was going through your own head. Maybe it was that deep-seated belief that you always had to present yourself at your best—worthy of this job. Even though this was supposed to be a casual gathering, off the clock, in your free time.
“You guys already here?” Prentiss raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Spencer on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Hotch followed behind her, nodding in greeting. “We’re not late, are we?”
“We’re late?” Penelope’s voice rang out as she peeked into the room, her head appearing in the doorway. She stopped short, and Morgan, walking right behind her, gently grabbed her shoulders to keep from bumping into her.
“It’s just me, baby girl,” he reassured her, a faint smirk on his lips. “Or maybe too much me, judging by that jump. Hey, everyone. Reid. New girl. Good to see you. Not sick of us yet after this week, are you?"
"Oh, come on, don’t act like we’re that unbearable," Prentiss chided, shooting him a look.
By then, everyone had made their way inside, starting to take seats on the high bar stools. You stood there, returning smiles and greetings, and let Garcia pull you into a hug. Derek called you New girl. While you'd grown to like him, the nickname didn’t sit quite right with you. It highlighted your place in the team, making it clear that you weren’t quite like the rest of them.
"Actually, the way we perceive ourselves can be different from how we really are, simply because of how much time we spend together," Spencer mused aloud.
"You might be onto something," Morgan nodded at him, then turned his gaze back to you. "Let’s get an outside opinion. Are we unbearable?"
"You are," Rossi confirmed immediately, not even glancing up from the wine bottle in his hands, likely searching for the vintage.
"I said outside opinion."
Then, all the curious gazes had settled on you. Up until now, your hands had rested casually on the counter, but you pulled them away to hide how anxiously they were moving. Spencer tracked the motion with his eyes—something you caught in your peripheral vision, and you had to resist the urge to curse under your breath. Hiding your anxiety from these people, especially from him, was proving harder than you’d expected.
You hesitated, searching for the perfect answer. You often caught yourself doing this in social situations—as if this were a test question with only one correct response, rather than a casual conversation where anything you said would be fine as long as it was honest.
That evening, everyone seemed to be in good spirits. They were joking easily, teasing one another, and now that all their attention was focused on you, you wanted to say something that would blend you into the moment, something that would break the ice. This was your first time meeting outside of work.
But the longer you stayed silent, the more the right words slipped away from you. It was like a black curtain had suddenly dropped over your mind.
"Who wants to try the tiramisu?" you blurted out at last.
An unbearable awkwardness tightened around your chest—but then, to your surprise, Prentiss laughed, setting off the rest of the group.
"I’m not accepting this subject change," Morgan shook his head.
"I, on the other hand, think it was a good move. Almost diplomatic," Spencer countered. His gaze flickered toward you for a brief second, and you caught something there—though you weren’t entirely sure what. Understanding, maybe? Either way, you felt the urge to flash a grateful smile at both him and Emily.
But Spencer quickly refocused on Derek, directing his next words at him. "Because the real answer could be…” he lowered his voice dramatically, "…mercilessly brutal."
“Oh, you’re all wrong," Penelope rolled her eyes. "Obviously, she was going to say she’s already fallen in love with all of us. Right, sweetheart?" She turned to you but didn’t wait for an answer—actually, you didn’t even have time to move, let alone speak. "See? Just like I said. Now, let’s try that cake, because I can’t stand the way it’s looking at me with those heavenly little eyes..."
The tight, complicated knot in your stomach started to loosen, little by little. Garcia’s suggestion was met with general enthusiasm and quickly turned into action. Naturally, Rossi had to be the first to take a bite. Everyone’s eyes locked onto him as he slowly swallowed a microscopic piece, as if he were some renowned food critic. You could see amusement on everyone’s faces—even Hotch’s—which was a completely new experience for you.
After a long, tension-filled moment, Rossi gave a slight nod of approval.
You placed a hand over your chest in mock relief.
“That’s the proudest I’ve felt since I got my diploma," you said casually—straightforward, natural, without overthinking.
Maybe you really were starting to open up.
Time moved forward at a gentle pace, and while you didn’t suddenly become the life of the party, the friendly atmosphere started to get to you. You all opened the bottle of wine the host had brought, raising your glasses in a toast to whatever came to mind—after all, there was no real occasion to celebrate.
You noticed that Spencer wasn’t drinking, but he still joined in, lifting a handful of chips instead. The sight made you smile softly before you could stop yourself.
He noticed you watching him. In the background, conversation buzzed, someone laughed loudly, but for a moment, it felt like the two of you were elsewhere.
“Well…” he started, swallowing nervously. You hoped he didn’t feel pressured into making conversation just because you were looking at him. Though, another thought crept in—what other reason could he have for feeling awkward? Only after a beat did you realize that you often felt that way too, for no particular reason. That was just how you were. Apparently, so was he.
“What did you do before?” he asked, then immediately backtracked. “I mean, I know what, of course I know—that’s public information, if you know what I mean. I just meant more like…” He sighed, lowering his gaze for a second, as if exhausted by his own rambling. Then, he tried again, slower this time. “I meant, how do you feel about it? And about the change?”
His question piqued the interest of the others, their gazes shifting back to you. Whatever had momentarily set the two of you apart from the group vanished in an instant.
Just as you opened your mouth to respond, a sound cut through the conversation.
“That’s mine, sorry,” Prentiss apologized, reaching into her pocket for her ringing phone. She didn’t even glance at the screen at first, her thumb already poised to decline the call—until she hesitated. Her expression shifted in an instant, lighting up with surprise. “Oh my God, it’s JJ!”
Everyone reacted similarly, and you tried to mirror their excitement, summoning a smile to your face—though it lacked sincerity. It wasn’t out of any personal dislike toward Jareau; nothing like that. You had met her, of course—you were taking her place, after all, and she had to introduce you to everything quickly. But it hadn’t been enough to form a deep friendship, or any friendship at all. That made you the only one in this group who felt completely neutral about her.
“Oh, you have to answer,” Penelope urged, nodding enthusiastically. “Totally. And tell her I say hi!”
“And me,” Spencer and Morgan added almost simultaneously.
“From all of us,” Hotch clarified, with Rossi confirming it with a nod.
Prentiss stood from her seat, clearly intending to step out of the kitchen to take the call in private—it was meant for her, after all. But just before she left, she hesitated in the doorway, as if mentally going over the instructions.
“Say hi from everyone. Got it,” she muttered under her breath.
“Especially from Penelope.”
“And from—”
“Everyone. Got it.”
When Prentiss’ dark hair disappeared from view, a brief silence settled over the group, broken only by Garcia’s deep sigh.
“I miss her. A lot.”
“It’s not like she died, babygirl,” Derek responded with a teasing edge, though something in his tone—between the words—carried a similar feeling.
“Ugh, you know what I mean,” Garcia huffed at him. “I miss having her with us. At work. In the team. Remember…remember how she always used to…”
She drifted into a story, weaving nostalgic but ultimately amused expressions onto her friends’ faces. You caught a glimpse of Spencer out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he still remembered the question he had asked you before the phone rang. But his gaze was fixed on Garcia, listening to her tale with a small smile forming at the corners of his lips.
You tuned out for a moment, lost in your own thoughts, only to be pulled back to reality by an outburst of laughter. You had missed a good chunk of the story—though you weren’t sure if it mattered. Some anecdotes, especially the ones built on shared memories, were meant for everyone’s ears but truly reached only those who had been there. You suspected this was one of them, but still, you joined in on the laughter. Even if you hadn’t caught the joke, you didn’t want to dampen the mood with a blank expression.
You tried to push away the feeling of not belonging. It was difficult at first, but then you realized—that wasn’t the way. You couldn’t push it away; you had to accept it. Because the truth was, you didn’t quite belong. Or rather, you hadn’t belonged long enough. That was natural. You would feel this way for who knows how long, but certainly for a while. As long as the nickname New Girl still clung to you.
Surprisingly, that very acceptance made the rest of the evening easier to get through. Prentiss returned after a while, briefly summarizing what JJ had been up to, but the conversation didn’t linger on her. The knot in your stomach didn’t tighten again. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was something else. Maybe, for the first time, you were starting to feel okay.
*
now
You recalled that specific moment in your memories, simultaneously sinking into it as if it were happening in real time, yet with the suffocating weight of reality breathing down your neck—a voice whispering that it was just a memory.
If it were happening now, Emily wouldn’t have left the room to take the call. No phone would have even rung. Emily was gone. You had just been to her funeral.
At an hour when most people were deep in sleep, when street advertisements and billboards cut through the darkness, illuminating the city more effectively than the stars ever could, you were half-sitting, half-lying on your bed, your back pressed against the headboard. The dark room was filled with nothing but shapes, mere outlines of furniture—just like your mind was filled only with fragments and silhouettes of thoughts. Frayed, scattered, following no chronology or pattern.
It had been six months since you joined the BAU. Some might say that’s not enough time to form real friendships. But in a job where you could die any day, six months was plenty. In those circumstances, attachment only formed faster.
Your eyelids burned with exhaustion, but you couldn’t close them. With a heavy weight in your chest, for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you kept replaying that moment—that evening at Rossi’s. Those conversations echoed vividly in your mind, but over time, they began to fade, pushed aside by another sound.
Breathing.
Not yours.
Oh. Right.
That night, you didn’t sleep alone.
While you sat on the bed, Spencer lay on his side, his back turned to you, his head resting somewhere near your hip. You weren’t sure how it had happened.
Sleeping in the same bed wasn’t something natural for the two of you—not as just friends. Though over the past two months, that label might have been debatable in the eyes of many. You had never really defined it between yourselves, so you kept calling it friendship.
You weren’t exactly sure how it had happened that night, specifically. After the funeral, after that entire exhausting day, when the sun had set, you had somehow, instinctively, ended up moving in the same direction—toward his apartment. And somehow, instinctively, you had kept postponing the moment of leaving. But when it finally came, his lips had somehow, instinctively, formed the word stay.
So you stayed, changing out of your funeral attire into one of his random T-shirts, the scent of it tickling your nose as you finally lay down, your back turned to him.
You knew he wasn’t asleep either, but what could you say? What could you do? In moments like these, everyone was alone in their own way. Maybe that was why it was so important to have someone there, physically—but even that didn’t quite apply to your situation. His bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that neither of you touched. So, in a way, you were alone in both senses, but it didn’t sting as much, mostly because of the scent surrounding you, wrapping around you like an embrace.
You even managed to close your eyes—not that it meant you’d actually sleep. In fact, you felt just as far from it as when they were wide open. At least they didn’t burn anymore.
At some point—after an amount of time you couldn’t track—the scent deepened, became stronger. You tensed, unsure why, until it finally dawned on you with a quiet exhale.
It wasn’t just the scent of his T-shirt. It was him.
Moving closer.
First just slightly, then more. Until eventually, his arm draped over your curled-up frame, his hand settling somewhere against your stomach, where the fabric of the blanket bunched up.
A delicate tickle against your neck. His breath, his head almost nestled in the crook of it.
Definitely awake—you could tell by the rhythm.
And it was him. Spencer.
It’s actually safer to kiss Spencer.
"Are you awake?" he asked, so quietly the words barely brushed the air. There was a chance they hadn’t even spoken at all. Maybe it was just the sound of his breath, somehow resembling them. Maybe it was just your exhausted imagination.
Still, you chose to answer.
"No," you murmured. "I can't sleep."
"Me neither," he added, though that much was obvious. A shift of his head, an unconscious brush against your neck, sending the faintest shiver down your spine. “Does this bother you?"
"It’s nice," you said softly, unsure of what else you could add. You didn’t really want to speak. His words melted smoothly into the quiet, while yours cut through it—harsh, even when you tried to whisper.
Maybe he took it as hesitation, because his body tensed for a brief second before he started to pull away.
"No…" You tried to stop him, your hand catching his forearm—the one holding you. "Just…stay."
"Oh. Okay."
As if following your request to the letter, he stayed exactly where he was. More than that, he seemed to settle into it even further. The pressure of his chest against your back felt good. You heard him swallow, close to your ear. “Th-thank you. I don’t think…I don’t think I could—I don’t think I’d be able to fall asleep alone. Not tonight.”
You didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, you just adjusted your grip, holding it more comfortably.
*
And just when you were starting to come to terms with it, you suddenly found out that Emily was still alive. You could say she had never died, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Well, in a way, yes—her body never stopped functioning, nor was it buried in a coffin. But in your minds, in your belief, in your feelings, it was different. You buried her and went through the grieving process. To you, she was dead.
When she reappeared, everything was too chaotic to dwell on it. There was no shock, no tears—you had your hands full, focused on capturing Doyle.
The realization of it all began to sink in for you, as well as for the rest of the team, only later. She had faked her death. She had allowed you to mourn her. And what was even more shocking to you—JJ had known all along. You knew the two of them trusted each other deeply, but in some way, you couldn't grasp it. How she could stand beside you at the funeral, shedding a few tears, offering comforting pats on the back. How she could keep up the act for days, weeks, and months.
You knew Spencer was furious with her. It was obvious—the anger was clear in his eyes. But even if he had tried to hide it, you would have known. Because ever since Emily's supposed death, the two of you had grown even closer.
Nights spent side by side had become something that no longer required a quiet request; they had become entirely natural for you both. That was how you saw it—a way for two friends to cope with grief and sleepless hours.
You probably should have talked about your relationship. It was something you thought about often—when his sleepy breath brushed against your neck, when his lips occasionally grazed it while he spoke. You should have talked, but that didn’t mean you did.
Maybe you were both too focused on other things to worry about your feelings for each other.
Either way, at first, he was furious with her. You accidentally overheard part of their argument about it, just as you were also an accidental witness to the embrace they pulled each other into when they finally decided to let it go.
A certain skepticism lingered within you. Of course, you didn’t want to dictate whom he could forgive or what he was allowed to demand—that was his decision alone. You understood that. And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about how you were the one who had watched what those past months had done to him. How close he had come to slipping back into that.
When his relationship with JJ had finally returned to normal, you couldn’t hold back anymore—you tried to bring it up.
All you got in response was You wouldn’t understand.
And perhaps he was right. Some things simply weren’t yours to understand—not as someone who had only recently entered his life. Unlike JJ, you hadn’t been there for years.
As they quickly rebuilt their trust, their dynamic, their friendship, a strange, somber thought crossed your mind. You started wondering if, from the very beginning, you had only been filling the space she left behind—just as you had done with the team, stepping into her role.
Before, you had convinced yourself that his friendship with her was entirely different from what he had with you. Because with you, you had foolishly believed, it wasn’t just friendship.
But the more time passed, the more you started to realize that maybe—maybe that had only ever been wishful thinking.
These were the kind of worries you kept entirely to yourself, but at the same time, they gnawed at you from the inside, needing to be shared with someone.
You wanted to talk to someone about it, but there was no one to turn to. I mean, everything was the same as always. Everyone loved JJ—they never stopped—and you were the new, younger girl who might have seemed like she was speaking badly about her out of pure, immature jealousy.
Until now, aside from Spencer, the person you were closest to was Prentiss, but for obvious reasons, you couldn’t go to her. Besides, she would have chosen JJ over you too. That was undeniable.
And that’s how, somehow, you ended up standing outside Penelope’s office, telling yourself that maybe she would understand.
But just as you were about to open the door, doubt crept in. You sighed and leaned your back against the wall. Maybe, when it came to this, there was simply no one on the team you could turn to.
You abandoned the idea entirely, yet your feet refused to move. There was so much internal, mental exhaustion weighing you down. So many sleepless nights, so much stress and worry, so much uncertainty and so many questions.
You heard footsteps approaching. Turning your head to the side, you saw Hotch stopping just two steps away from you. For a moment, he simply looked at you in silence, studying your face.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," you replied flatly. You couldn’t breathe properly. You already knew—had known the moment he stopped—that he wasn’t here to ask about how you were feeling.
"Just tired."
He gave a slow nod.
"I need to have a word with you."
Pressing your teeth into the inside of your cheek, you nodded back.
*
You didn’t actually keep many personal things in the office.
You made sure the rest of the team had been sent out into the field before you started packing them into a small box. They fit easily—it wasn’t even heavy. And yet, as you stared at it sitting on your desk, it felt impossibly difficult to lift.
You guessed flawlessly what Hotch wanted to talk to you about because, in a way, it was obvious.
JJ was back. Emily was back. The team had too many members now, and someone had to go. And the choice was just as obvious.
Honestly, you weren’t even angry. It had to be you—the placeholder.
But if you were aware of that, why did something bitter nest in your throat?
Before you could take even two steps forward toward the exit, Spencer had already reached you, hesitantly extending his hands.
"Let me help—"
"No need," you said, tucking the box under your arm, keeping it out of his reach.
For a moment, you both just stared at each other in silence. You had no idea what to say. In fact, it was hard to even look at him. That was why you wanted to do this alone—to just leave quietly. You didn't even know why he was there. You must have miscalculated something, or maybe they had simply come back earlier.
His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he, too, remained silent. Walking past him now would signal anger, resentment—but that wasn’t exactly what you felt. So you stood in front of him, waiting for him to speak.
"You're leaving," he finally said, swallowing hard. A statement of fact he could have easily left unsaid. Adjusting the box in your arms, you simply nodded.
"I mean—what I wanted to say is… just remember that you're my friend. And I hope you still will be, even…even if we’re not working together. This doesn’t really change anything."
But if you hadn’t worked together, you never would have met. Never would have grown close. Besides, it wasn’t even the job that had stood in your way. It was something else—something simpler, because it depended only on the two of you, yet for that very reason, it was also much more complicated. Specifically, communication.
"I know," you admitted with a slight nod, though without much conviction.
Spencer tried to smile, briefly catching your gaze—one you immediately dropped to the box in your hands before he could read anything from your eyes.
"I have to go now. This is starting to get a little heavy."
"You know, I can really help you—"
"It's fine," you cut him off firmly. "It's really fine, Spencer."
He let out a quiet sigh of surrender as you headed toward the exit.
violet 🧸 @gublersgirlfriend - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
