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most recently written
invisible string - spencer reid
about me
aaliyah, black, she/her, open requests!
my requests for john logan are wide open so please give me something 🫡
strike out
PARKER ELLIS x FEM!READER
warnings: uhhh it’s suggestive but nothing graphic or too smutty, implied mohabbot and hucklerobby, no use of y/n, no reader description, maybe out of character for a few of them so…sorry about that, this is probably fucking terrible,
[a/n: i truly haven’t been able to write for shit, i’m probably gonna do a few one shots to try and get back into it, try writing for different characters and whatever and i’m really hoping that works…anyways, i hope you enjoy !! ]
ready for the parker fic surge after thursday’s episode 🫰🏽🙏🏾
if you guys have requests for parker ellis fics/imagines please request them!! she hardly has any fics and i’d love to write for her
there my wife is 🥰🥰
opening the ‘x parker ellis’ tag just to see a bunch of random robby and abbot fics
Girl why do we have the same name 😭
HEYYY TWINNN
Twas the night before kinktober...
A pt2 of invisible string is a NEED
what would you like to see? i didn’t initially have a part two in mind but i’d be very, very open to making one!!
Busy Woman
A/N: I do not wanna see ANY Minors in this bitch. Seriously. Like you'll get it when you get older I promise. This worm has been wiggling around in my brain for MONTHS. Things have been so busy that it's been a real struggle trying to write. I really hope you all like my excuse to write porn. Thank you to @cafekitsune for the border/dividers used. Thank you to @beenreidingaboutyou and @alsofoundinpeas and practically the WHOLE discord server for letting me send this google docs to you and yapping with me about logistics (positions at one point I'm sure). Enjoy!
Link to the AO3: Busy Woman -> Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Tags: Smut with plot. Reader is a maneater, some she/her pronouns at one point or another, PinV sex yall, wrap it up!!!! condoms my beloved (they are not used here, reader and the team go out drinking, spencer reid yapping, reader is a dommy mommy idc, SUB SUB SUB SUB Spencer, nothing too crazy sexually (in my eyes), i forget something else this is porn, no creampie for you!!! (I know... i know..).
Genre: Smut w/ Plot. Pairing: ManeaterBAUFem!Reader x Season4!SpencerReid
Plot: After spending countless months watching you break men's hearts, Spencer is surprised when you call a sudden dating hiatus. Amid your 'break,' you confide in your lanky coworker how much you miss certain physical intimacies. Spencer is quick to offer a solution.
Word count: 11,827
A man-eater… by definition, is a woman who uses men to have a series of sexual relationships but does not love the men. The thought of being one of those men has been lingering in the back of Spencer’s mind for the past eight months.
He knows, of course, that you’re more nuanced than that feeble definition. The team never misses the opportunity to tease you; your dating habits are an ongoing joke and mystery within the bureau. Derek often jokes that the two of you are peas in a pod, which, in turn, makes you respond that he’s the one with commitment issues, not you. You insist that you’re just picky.
INVISIBLE STRING
pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
summary: the many, many times fate has tried bringing you and spencer reid together, all of which failed until the two of you were ready.
content: mentions of being cheated on, reader is a bit of a genius, spencer’s eidetic memory is selective for the sake of the plot, reader is a medical student, i tried to avoid using l/n but i couldn’t 💔, not sure if this is fluff or angst but it’s kinda everything, like one mention of spencer being taller than reader.
note: my first spencer reid imagine loll. i have so many scrapped ideas but this came to me after invisible string came on and i opened that notes app with HASTE. hope you enjoy!!
There’s a saying that the act to bring you and your soulmate together was 500 years in the making. Interlinked souls, bound by fate itself.
Frankly, fate was getting sick of you two.
The first time wasn’t entirely your fault. It was arguably your dad’s, but it was fair to say that you were too young to be meeting your supposed soulmate, so it was probably for the better.
You were picking your dad up from work. He worked as a professor at Caltech, a job that he had recently landed and was very, very proud of.
Usually your dad preferred to drive home himself, but you’d recently obtained your license and, well, as teenagers do, you were finding quite literally every opportunity you could to drive, high off the freedom of it. Especially with the new car that you’d been surprised with as a result of your astronomical grades.
You pressed the ‘unlock’ key on your side of the newly used vehicle, smiling proudly at your father as he entered the passenger seat.
You stared at him expectantly, watching him buckle his seatbelt, adjust his satchel, and then stare straight forwards. It was only after about twenty seconds of waiting for the car to move that he finally turned to you.
“What?” he inquired, but he knew what.
You held your hands up dramatically, emphasizing yourself. “What do you mean ‘what?’”
“Ohhh,” your father dragged out the word. He looked away towards the window before looking back at you, mock surprise and genuine proudness washing over his features. “Wow, sweetie, you drove the whole way here?”
Your smile returned, this time accompanied by a laugh as you nudged the gearshift to drive. “The whole way. Hold the applause, please.”
You drove off shortly after, listening to your father rant about how work went today. You were mostly tuned in — the other part of you wondered if your mom would’ve found it just as boring as you did.
“. . . And the most interesting thing today was that the sixteen-year-old taking my class finally spoke up,” he said, a touch of amusement in his voice. That pulled your focus back.
Initially, you were slightly disbelieving. “You have a sixteen-year-old in your class?”
“One of the brightest students I’ve ever had in my life,” he confirmed with a hum. You frowned when your father poked your elbow. “He may even be smarter than you.”
“You need to work on your jokes, Dad,” you told him, only half-joking. “I think they get worse every year you age.”
“You’re sucking all of the humor out of me,” he quipped. “Just like you took your mom’s wit.”
You gasped dramatically. “Wow. Okay. I’m definitely telling her you said that.”
“Do it,” he challenged.
“So, this sixteen-year-old boy?” you prompted, trying to circle back.
“Keep dreaming,” your dad sang, though the seriousness was pretty damn evident on his face.
“Oh, come on. He must be a genius if he skipped, like, six grades and he goes to Caltech,” you defended your case sincerely, though, you had absolutely no idea what he looked like. Or was like, for that matter. “And you know him—Is that not boyfriend material?”
“You’re too young to date college boys.”
You gasped louder than you intended to. “He’s sixteen! And I could’ve skipped a bunch of grades, too. But I’m choosing to enjoy my youth.”
“Enjoy your youth then,” he said. “Without my student.”
You huffed dramatically. Then again. And again. And when your dad finally opened his mouth to speak again, you thought it would be him caving. “It’s a shame. I think he’d be perfect for you.”
“Dad!” It became evident that he was going to continue to tease you like this without any legitimate intention of you meeting him. “Can I at least get a name?” you bargained, squinting your eyes slightly.
“Walter.”
You looked away from the road for about two seconds to glare at him. “That is not his name.”
Your dad bit back a smile. “No, it is not.”
And that was that. You dropped it—for now. But the same questions lingered in your mind on the drive home. Was he real? Was your dad just messing with you? If he was real, what kind of person was smart enough to get into Caltech at sixteen?
You’d learn he was real soon enough. Your dad brought him up more than once over the next few months—in passing, usually, like something he couldn’t help but mention. The kid asked this. The kid solved that. The kid said something that reminded me of you. The kid is a germaphobe. Blah, blah, blah.
You never met him though. And when the school year was over, you forgot all about him.
The same couldn’t be said for Spencer, though.
During the semester, somehow, you had shown up to the exact same class that Spencer happened to be in, too caught up in rushing your dad out after his lecture ended so you wouldn’t miss some party you had been invited to later.
If only you had seen the way Spencer looked at you then. Like a Prince Charming who had just seen his Cinderella for the very first time. And Spencer was never one to believe in fairytales—as a matter of a fact, he debunked them more often than not.
But he was sure he was in one when he heard your laugh. God, he would play it on loop for a million years without any breaks if that were possible. He’d drink it like a glass of water every morning, afternoon, and night if he could. He would spend twenty-three hours hearing it in his head and then spend the other hour wondering if he could ever be funny enough to be the cause of such a heavenly sound.
You never saw him. Not the way he looked at you like a love sick puppy. But your dad did.
And one stern look disrupted the sixteen-year-old boy’s daydream. Off limits. He had never seen a clearer look in someone’s eye. It wasn’t like he intended on acting on this newfound feeling. But it made him scared to ever imagine you again.
Definitely not that laugh, though. Even as you faded from his memory, your laugh certainly didn’t.
That was fate’s first attempt. And it couldn’t even count as an actual attempt because the two of you hadn’t exactly crossed paths yet.
Fate decided to give you more of a push the second time around.
Not that it went much better, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
This time was at a New Year’s party. It had been years now since you’d last heard about the boy genius at Caltech. And as stated before, you’d forgotten all about him.
Your friends dragged you there as an attempt to get you to finally leave the house after the semester was over despite your many, many, many protests to stay home and rest. You’d been resting for two weeks now.
Medical school was definitely a challenge, and you knew that. But you’d graduated college a year early and knew that if you could handle that, you could handle this. You were now twenty-two, in your second year.
Back to your influential friends, though. What you’d initially believed was going to be a girls’ night out turned out to be a decoy to set you up on New Year’s. You done that stupid trend of eating twelve grapes under the table a year prior with your best friend, and now, apparently—you had to actually put the work in since it technically failed.
Which, first of all, made no sense to you. The whole concept was that it attracted good fortune and true love to you. Why would you go out seeking it?
You voiced that, though you were shot down immediately, your friends claiming that you were reading too much into it.
Your friends scattered throughout the party, mingling with guests. Some people you’d seen before, and some strangers. And when you felt Brooke’s arm cling onto yours, you already knew what she wanted.
Your best friend sent you an innocent smile, though you could’ve sworn you were looking into the very eyes of the devil herself.
Brooke began scanning the area, prompting you to furrow your eyebrows, “What are you doing?”
“Finding your New Year’s kiss,” she answered calmly. “And possible husband.”
“You’re insane,” you told the girl with a quiet giggle. “That’s not happening here.”
“Well, if you don’t believe it then it isn’t gonna happen,” she frowned, slapping your shoulder playfully. “What you put out into the atmosphere comes true.”
“Let’s test that out,” you began, causing her to finally meet your gaze. “Brooke’s cheating ex-girlfriend is going to get hit by a b—”
A hand was over your mouth quicker than you could comprehend. The minute you realized that it was Brooke’s fingers draped over your lips, you stuck out your tongue and moved it until she retracted her touch in pure disgust.
“Oh, that’s so gross,” she grimaced. “Don’t you learn how dirty this is in medical school?”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, unfazed. “Actually, the enzymes in saliva have mild antibacterial properties. Amylase, for example—”
“No,” Brooke cut in immediately, pointing a stern finger at you like she was warding off a demon. “You’re not distracting me with your genius facts. We’re finding you a man tonight, and I swear to God, if you say the word ‘enzyme’ again, I will throw you off this rooftop.”
“Geez,” you shuddered dramatically. “Fine.”
You were just humoring her, not intending to actually find anything tonight. Your first New Year’s kiss wasn’t going to be some stranger.
But someone caught your eye. You couldn’t see his face. His hair went just past his ears. What mostly caught your attention was the book he was reading.
Ignoring the fact that he was reading a literal book at a party, you also took note of the fact that he was reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. You were on your second reread of that book.
You lowered your eyebrows when you realized just how fast he was reading. He would barely spend more than ten seconds on a page before flipping. You were a fast reader, but you were starting to think he was doing some sort of social experiment.
Spencer wasn’t sure how he felt about the book. Someone had recommended it to him and Spencer, in dire need of recommendations, bought it.
He wasn’t even sure why he came to this party. But that same friend that recommended the book to him, that also happened to bring him to this party, claimed that he needed to go outside for once. And here he was, outside at a very large rooftop party.
Reading a book.
He knew how it looked. But he also knew it would mean that nobody would bother him. As long as he pretended that he was still reading the book despite finishing it almost twenty minutes ago.
Maybe he wouldn’t have still been doing that if he knew that you were looking at him. And maybe you would’ve approached him out of curiosity. Partly to make your best friend happy—and partly because he was the only person who seemed even remotely interesting.
Brooke grabbed your jaw, redirecting your attention to someone on the opposite side of the roof. He looked like a frat boy who’d peaked in high school. Yet, Brooke looked like she’d just hit the jackpot for you.
“What about him?” she suggested. “Take a look at those muscles.”
You met Brooke’s gaze again, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Bless your heart. I’m so glad that you weren’t born cupid in this life.”
She scoffed, shaking away from your grasp.
Brooke then hooked your arm with hers, walking some distance from where you two previously were. It was then that you realized you were now much closer to the stranger that had caught your attention before.
You still couldn’t see his face entirely due to his long, disheveled hair, but you caught a glimpse of his side profile, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips.
You hadn’t even realized you were staring until Brooke followed your eyes and shifted her stance.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” she rejected immediately, finally pulling your attention again. When you sent her a look of confusion, she repeated the same word, much louder, “No!”
“What?”
“You have no sense of safety, my love,” she told you sweetly, though it didn’t make you any less offended. “You go for guys in groups. That’s how you know that they’re not a sociopath with murderous tendencies.”
“It’s rude to assume,” you countered with a sigh.
“It’s also safe to assume,” she argued back, tapping her index finger on your nose. “Better to be wrong than dead, right?”
Brooke was quick to drag you the opposite way, presumably to find someone who didn’t appear to be a loner. When you registered her words, a laugh escaped from your lips. Much louder than the ones you’d allowed to erupt from you earlier in the night. This one was the full package— loud, vibrant, genuine, shoulders shaking type of laugh. Most of all, it was contagious.
Spencer froze.
His fingers stopped fidgeting with the pages. The ambient noise of the party music, clinking glasses, overzealous shouts of half-drunk strangers—faded into nothingness. Spencer sat straighter, blinked slowly, unsure if he’d truly heard it.
His head turned instinctively toward the sound, heart climbing up into his throat, that old ache from years ago sparking in his chest again like an old wire finally finding its current.
It had to be her.
He hadn’t heard that laugh since he was sixteen. Once. Once. But he remembered it in the most inconvenient, vivid ways, like when he was walking through the halls of Caltech, or when someone said something funny and he found himself silently wishing she had heard it instead.
And now, somehow, impossibly, it was here again. Warm and electric and just slightly offbeat, but exactly how he’d remembered it.
He whipped his head around, scanning the rooftop, eyes darting over the crowd, the lights, the clusters of people chatting near heaters and the snack table and the bar. Searching for her. For a face that he remembered only in fleeting pieces.
But she was gone.
The laughter didn’t come again.
Spencer lingered in place, chest still rising and falling just a little too fast. A strange sort of weight settled on his shoulders. It was the uncomfortable feeling that came with thinking you’d seen a ghost.
Or maybe a mirage.
Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe he imagined it. His brain had done stranger things before, pulled long-buried memories from the corners of his subconscious when he was least expecting it. Maybe he was projecting. Maybe it wasn’t her laugh. Maybe it was someone else’s.
But it wasn’t. Spencer didn’t know that, though, turning back to his book with a frown.
And you continued to disappear in the crowd, missing how your harmonious laugh captured the attention of said ‘sociopath.’
Surprisingly, fate didn’t give up on trying for the night. There was one more pathetic attempt made. An elevator. All Spencer Reid had to do was hold the fucking elevator.
He’d decided to leave immediately after New Year’s. You didn’t get your kiss, thankfully. You convinced Brooke that you were feeling nauseous enough to the point that you’d vomit in someone’s mouth if you’d kissed them. She probably didn’t believe you, but it got her off your back regardless.
You decided to leave right after as well, deciding you’d spend enough time outside. It was time to retreat back into your cave and hibernate for at least another week.
Spencer had beat you by maybe thirty seconds. And when you realized the elevator was closing, you picked up the pace, holding a desperate hand out.
“Hold the door!” you pleaded, and you could see that he made an effort to do so, but the space was so small that he would’ve probably crushed his fingers if he tried.
You sighed heavily, knowing it would take a while before the elevator returned to you.
And as you waited for it to come back, a man joined you. The same one who had been eyeing you for almost the entirety of the party. His name was Ethan. You guys were in the same circle, but you’d never been alone with him like this. Well, as alone as one could be.
He greeted you, saying your name to test the waters. When you nodded with a smile, he introduced himself.
“I know you who are, Ethan,” you informed him, shaking his hand. “I’ve heard about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” he teased, earning a laugh out of you.
That laugh. A guy caused it, but it was the wrong guy. But how were you meant to know that?
The elevator chimed, opening its doors seconds later. Ethan gestured to it, “After you.”
You pressed a hand on your heart. “Ah, a gentleman, too. I’ll add that to the list.”
If fate wasn’t fed up before, it most definitely was now.
The next one wasn’t fate. It was by chance. Seriously.
And that was because you weren’t ready. Far from it, actually, considering the fact that you were walking away from your now ex-boyfriend’s apartment after discovering him cheating on you.
Now, fate has a funny way of correcting things, but from an objective point of view, this method was slightly fucked up. A two-year relationship down the drain. You should be celebrating the completion of med school, but instead, you were being rewarded with this.
On the bright side, Ethan didn’t see you cry. He couldn’t really see much after you dumped the paint you’d bought to help him decorate the new place over his head. You’d left the girl alone—she looked to be just as clueless as you.
And now here you were, rushing out of his apartment, mindlessly brushing through the busy streets of Washington, D.C. because you just needed to be. . . anywhere else.
You were doing pretty well at not bumping into anyone through teary eyes for the most part. But alas, the power of a jinx is not to be underestimated.
One second you were on your feet, and the next, you were on the floor. It could’ve been a sweet moment. Fate would’ve patted itself on the back for such a perfect meet cute.
If only you hadn’t just found out you were being cheated on.
Maybe you wouldn’t have brushed yourself off, taking note of the fact that your bag didn’t feel any lighter, and scurry off without a second thought.
Maybe you would’ve spared the person you bumped into a glance. Something more than a brief, but genuine apology before disappearing.
Maybe you would’ve realized you left your second copy of Middlesex on the floor. The one you were going to lend to Ethan. And maybe you would’ve heard Spencer call out for you.
However, once again, looking on the bright side, there was a sticker on the book. A library sticker. One that he recognized from a library he frequented.
He had no idea who you were, (at least, that’s what he thought) or why you were crying. But he knew that losing a library book would only pile onto whatever you were feeling, and the least he could do was return it to the library so you wouldn’t have to pay any fees.
Spencer planned to do just that, actually. Until his phone buzzed with a call from Hotch.
He sighed. He’d have to put that off for a few more days. Hopefully it wouldn’t ruin your week too much.
A few days turned into three weeks.
It wasn’t his fault. Not exactly. The cases were heavy, and Spencer could barely find any personal time himself. And the book just sat on his desk for some time, not forgotten, but just constantly being put off.
Eventually, he did go to the library. And fate decided to make itself known again.
Maybe it was too soon. But it was getting harder and harder to bear this torture any longer.
The library that you’d gotten the book from also happened to be the library that you volunteered at. Nothing major, but you knew the woman who owned it and knew that she could use some help.
You had about two more weeks of freedom before you started your residency.
Mrs. Copeland was her name. She was middle aged, and her husband was doing something that made them rich, you just weren’t sure.
You definitely were no saint. A part of you volunteered out of the good of your heart, but another part of you volunteered on days that you knew would clash with events you actively tried to avoid. It was a win-win if you thought hard enough about it.
Spencer strolled in, fidgety for no particular reason. He knew Mrs. Copeland. The nervous twitching of his lips twisting into a polite smile when he met her gaze.
“Good morning, Mrs. Copeland,” Spencer greeted, checking his watch. He was on a time crunch. “I. . . uh. . . this isn’t my book, but I found it after. . . Nevermind, sorry. I just saw the tag and recognized it so I wanted to bring it back to you.”
“Thank you, dear. You are too sweet,” she spoke gratefully, taking the book from his hands. She watched him look at his clock again. “Do you have somewhere to be, Mr. FBI?”
He gave her a brief laugh. He did have somewhere to be. But a part of him wanted to ask if she knew the name of who checked out the book. Just to make sure she was okay. But what if that came across as creepy? The last thing he wanted to do was make the owner of his favorite library think he was a creep.
“Yep. Duty calls,” he said with a nod, regretting the last two words as soon as they left his lips. “You should check up on the person who checked out the book, just in case.”
“I will,” she responded gingerly. “You be safe now.”
As soon as Spencer left, you emerged from the backroom, carrying a new shipment of books that needed to be sorted.
Maybe fate just sucked.
It was decently early. You usually wouldn’t have customers for another thirty minutes or so. The sound of the door’s bells is what made you open the box slightly quicker to come outside.
“Who was that?” you inquired curiously.
“Oh, he’s one of my frequent customers,” she answered. She held up a book. Your book. “Returned this, said it wasn’t his.”
You furrowed your eyebrows as Mrs. Copeland continued. “That boy’s a bit strange, though. He me to check up on whoever checked it out.”
“I’m. . . almost certain that’s mine,” you confessed, walking close enough to softly take the book from her. You opened it to see your sticky note still on the front page. It was meant to serve as a bookmark for Ethan. After a beat, you glanced back up at Mrs. Copeland, leaning onto the freshly dusted wooden counter. “You said he said to check on me?”
She hummed in confirmation. “Like I said, strange,” she paused, and you could see the gears turning in her head. “But, you know, that I think about it—that boy would be perfect for you,” she noted aloud.
“You just said that he’s strange,” you pointed out.
“Strange in an endearing way,” she clarified, waving a dismissive hand. “Really. You two would fit well. You wanna be one of those forensic doctors, and he’s in the FBI.”
Saying he was in the FBI definitely altered what you believed that he looked like. You still had no idea how your book ended up in said stranger’s hands. You just remembered that when you eventually crawled out of bed and ended your self pity weekend, it was no longer in your bag.
You were so out of it that day that you didn’t even remember bumping into someone, you just remembered your boyfriend—correction, ex-boyfriend, and how badly he’d ruined your week.
“He’s pretty smart, too. Just like you,” she continued mindlessly. “If I could just. . . remember his name.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Copeland. I’m not interested in dating anytime soon,” you reassured her, though she was only half-listening because the other part of her was still trying to remember the boy’s name.
“Reid, or something,” she mumbled after some more thought, making you slightly narrow your eyes.
“Guys with a last name for a first name are red flags, don’t you know?” you responded in the form of a question, partially joking. You were just trying to shift the conversation. “Reid who reads books. That doesn’t sound right.”
The librarian didn’t even realize she’d only given his last name. She couldn’t remember the first. Either that or she thought it was his first name. All it did was throw yet another obstacle in the road of their supposed path.
“Just let me know, sweetie. I think he’d be your type,” Mrs. Copeland attempted one final time, but her suggestions fell upon deaf ears. If you ever got into a relationship again, it would be too soon.
At least you knew some part of his name, right? It was the most progress made in the last eight years.
Maybe fate got a little too eager this one time. You weren’t ready. And you weren’t going to chase some guy out of a library because a middle-aged (but very sweet) woman told you that she thought he’d be a good fit.
Although, you didn’t hear that very many times in your life. You were decently picky with guys, and the only other time you’d heard that saying and it was genuine was from your dad. But that was nearly ten years ago. And what were the odds that it was the exact same person?
Very high, apparently. But of course, you didn’t know that. You never would. At least not for yet another two years.
Twenty-six. Not the worst age to meet your soulmate. But taking everything into account, it was now or never. Literally. Fate would’ve gone against its own beliefs and just quit on you two. It had been ten years.
This one was a Christmas party. A bit more hopeful than New Year’s. And definitely no setups from Brooke, since this was a party that your dad made you be his plus-one to. Your mom was working Christmas Eve so she wouldn’t have to work Christmas day. Dad didn’t wanna be alone on Christmas Eve, and you didn’t want to go to another party that your friends would drag you to.
You figured most of the people here would be your dad’s age so you could hide in a corner, sparing an occasional smile to men who were staring at you like they didn’t have wives in the same room. And then you’d have to act like you didn’t feel their wives glares on you.
Contrary to your initial beliefs, though, not everyone there was old.
This party was hosted by someone named Derek Morgan. Apparently, he was in the FBI and your dad consulted on a case of theirs and they hit it off. You felt like your dad was living a million lives, because you hadn’t heard that he had buddies in the FBI until about five hours ago when he brought up the event.
You met Derek briefly before he was whisked away by other guests. He seemed nice for the most part, and he was kind of exactly what you imagined an FBI agent to look like.
Some people there were FBI agents as well, some people weren’t. You had made yourself busy by guessing who was and who wasn’t.
There was a pretty, blonde woman that stuck out like a sore thumb. Sore wasn’t the right word to use for her—she was more like a sight for sore eyes. She lit up the room with her smile. Her hair was twisted up into curly pigtails that bounced, streaked with lavender and gold. Thick-framed glasses framed eyes that sparkled, and her dress was a kaleidoscope of patterns—florals, polka dots, something glittering beneath it all like sequins in rebellion.
A tray of cupcakes floated beside her in one hand, and in the other, she cradled a vintage-style phone case that would probably make your eyes hurt if you stared at it for too long. Derek was next to her, smiling the widest you’d seen him all evening.
Dating? Maybe.
You didn’t like to judge a book by its cover, but she seemed much too perfect to be of such an angsty organization. It probably wasn’t angsty, but you weren’t an expert on the FBI.
Around the table were two more people.
One woman had black hair and red lip. Definitely an FBI agent. Next to her, was another man. He had dark hair, and although he looked like he hadn’t smiled since he’d left his mother’s womb, the slight tug on his lips made it clear that these were his people.
Judging by the stereotypical angsty look he had going on, he was definitely an FBI agent too. So maybe the blonde woman was one, too. Thank God you weren’t a profiler.
By now you had stood up to go get some refreshments. And you didn’t realize how hard you were staring at the group of alleged FBI agents. You had a tendency to do that.
You felt a presence fill the empty space beside you. You met his gaze briefly, offering a smile before looking away. When his head turned back to the bar serving drinks, you glanced back over to drink in his features. Not in a weird way, just out of curiosity. The first person who looked close enough to your age.
He looked oddly familiar, you just could not put your finger on it. Definitely not an FBI agent, though. He had messy brown hair and a slightly ruffled shirt. Though the thing that stuck out the most was his cardigan. You didn’t see a lot of men wear cardigans.
Even after he’d gotten his drink, he stayed next to you, and you’d assumed that he was just as bored as you were.
Hoping to make a friend, and also figure out if you genuinely knew him from somewhere, you hummed, “Do you think the blonde woman wearing the hot pink glasses is an FBI agent?”
He blinked at you momentarily, and you were quick to clarify, it suddenly clicking in your brain how odd of a conversation starter that was. “Sorry, I just meant, like. . . I’m playing this game since I only know my dad here. And I know that one—” you pointed at Morgan. “Is an FBI agent, so I’m trying to guess who else here is. I figured that the broody one is probably one, along with the woman with the dark hair, but I’m going back and forth with the blonde woman.”
You realized how hard you’d been rambling and prayed that he wouldn’t give you a funky look and scurry off out of fear.
Another second of silence felt like eternity to you. Your stomach dropped and you shifted your weight, more words tumbling out, “Not that I would ever judge someone by their appearance, or anything. She just seems too—bright? Which I know is an awful assumption, and I’m not, like, judging her. I mean it in a really good way. I just thought. . . actually, never mind. I’m just gonna stop talking.”
You gave a small laugh, awkward and self-deprecating, and took a sip from your cup to shut yourself up. There was a prayer in your head that the sun would collide would the Earth any second now and this would be over.
Spencer watched you take a sip of your drink, an involuntary smile playing at his lips that he didn’t even realize was there. It dawned to him that he still hadn’t replied and was probably making things worse for you.
Spencer shifted slightly, clutching his drink in both hands like it gave him something to do. He cleared his throat. “Well. . .statistically speaking, you’re not wrong. Most people don’t assume someone with glittery accessories is trained in federal law enforcement.”
You gave him a look.
He froze. “I mean—not that glitter has nothing to do with. . . competency. That came out wrong.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused despite yourself. “Uh-huh.”
“What I meant,” he rushed on, “is that, yes, Penelope does stand out. That’s her name, by the way, Penelope. She’s kind of our, um, technical analyst. She can hack into almost anything, and she also bakes cupcakes, and somehow she’s very good at both. Which is rare. Not—uh—not that you can’t do both things. I’m sure you could. I’m just saying—”
You stared at him, biting your lip to stop a laugh. “I’m joking,” you said finally, a grin breaking across your face. “I’m just messing with you, sorry.”
He let out a breathy laugh, one that dripped of relief more than anything. “Oh.”
There was an awkward beat of silence where you both looked around like two idiots. Your gaze dropped to his bag, and the novel peeking out of it. The same one from all those years ago. Middlesex. Spencer was lending it to Prentiss. He didn’t even know why he chose to bring it today. He saw it before leaving his apartment, and he was compelled to pick it up.
You pointed to the book, “Nice choice. I’ve read it like a thousand times.”
He was confused for a second before following the direction of your finger. “Oh, me too. I was actually bringing it for a friend.”
“Cool,” you replied. “I kind of hate it now, since I lost it because of my cheating ex-boyfriend. Terrible day. I was more concerned with the book, but some stranger returned it a few weeks later, so the universe doesn’t hate me completely, at least.”
“I’m sorry about your ex,” Spencer apologized on his behalf, though he didn’t even know the guy. The story definitely raised some flags in his mind, but he didn’t want to voice anything and end up being wrong. That didn’t stop it from nagging in his mind.
A similar thought nagged your mind. He looked so, so familiar. And when someone looked familiar, you had a habit of picking apart your brain until it came back to you.
You waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. I’m definitely over it. And it was for the better.” You were quick to try to shift the topic off of your ex, considering you had been doing pretty good at not dwelling on him. You thought about the information he had on Penelope earlier. “So, you’re in the FBI?”
He bobbed his head once, pressing his lips together. “Behavioral Analysis Unit. That’s some of my team over there. Other than Garcia, you actually hit it on the nose.”
“Maybe I should get into profiling,” you joked.
Spencer’s lips quirked, caught somewhere between a real smile and an awkward reflex. “Yeah. You definitely shouldn’t apply because you’d. . . take my job from me, and that would suck, so,” he joked, or attempted. Either way, the admirable attempt was enough to make you laugh.
Genuinely.
And the sound wrapped around him like warmth, like familiarity, like something he hadn’t let himself believe he’d ever hear again.
And just like that, time slid sideways.
There it was. That laugh again. He hadn’t heard it in years. Had you not been standing in front of him, Spencer might’ve pinched every inch of his body in efforts of reassuring himself that this wasn’t some dream that would haunt him for the coming years.
He’d only heard that beautiful sound two other times in his life, and Spencer Reid would forever swear that it was the closest he’d ever come to getting a taste of heaven in this life.
He hadn’t forgotten it. How could he? Spencer remembered everything. But there were some things—some sounds, some moments that stuck out. That etched themselves into him like soft bruises, too tender to poke at even years later.
Now heaven was standing right in front of him. Laughing again because of him. Maybe he was dreaming.
And what was he supposed to do? Say, Your laugh has lived in the corners of my memory like a warm ghost for six years and I think if I hear it one more time, I might just believe in fate?
No. Definitely not. That would qualify as sounding like a psycho.
“You, uh. . .” he paused with another breathy laugh, wondering if he should stop while he could. He didn’t. “You have a really pretty laugh.”
His compliment caught you off guard. You’d never heard that one before. Once the initial surprise wore off, a much warmer and sincere beam broke out across your lips.
Fate was smiling like the devil at you two.
“I’ve never heard that one before,” you told him honestly. You could see his eyes slightly widen. “In a good way. That was very creative.”
He briefly broke eye contact to move his hair out of his face, granting you a clearer view of his side profile. It felt like the gears in your head began turning.
You snapped a finger in triumph, “New Year’s party. Around four years ago, right?”
His head dropped slightly. “Sorry?”
“You were reading that same book like a loner. I wanted to talk to you but my friend thought you were a sociopath,” you further elaborated, though you were beginning to wonder if you sounded crazy. “Am I insane?”
Spencer blinked, registering your words. So it had been you. That laugh that he thought he’d completely imagined was real. You were there. And he just barely missed you.
He scrambled to speak, “No, you’re not! I remember you, or your—your laugh, at least.”
You quirked a brow, “My laugh?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I heard it. And I was going to—”
“Spencer Reid is that you?” your father’s voice of disbelief flooded your ears, cutting your private conversation short.
Spencer Reid. At least now you knew his name.
You didn’t make the connection from the library either. How could you? All you had was Reid. And you thought it was Reed first name, not last name.
Recognition flashed in his eyes, temporarily snapping him out of the daze you had put him in. “Professor L/N? Wow, it’s uh. . .It’s been so long.”
“It’s been ages,” your father agreed, pulling the boy in for a hug. He quickly pulled back away when Spencer tensed up. “Sorry kid, I forgot you’re a germaphobe.”
You watched the interaction with curious eyes, waiting for your father to clarify how they knew each other. You would’ve chalked it up to your father’s assistance to the FBI if not for Spencer referring to him as ‘Professor’.
“Sweetheart, this is the famous Walter,” he introduced, confusing Spencer while simultaneously making things clearer for you.
Your jaw dropped slightly and your head tilted, matching the disbelief that your father wore about a minute ago. “Sixteen-year-old, boy genius, Caltech Walter?”
As your dad nodded, Spencer’s eyes rows lowered even more. “Uh. . . Walter?”
“My dad told me about you years ago. The brightest student he’d ever taught. And the student that he would die before ever letting me cross paths with,” you explained.
“I remember you,” he recalled, slightly more eager sounding than he intended. “You came to class once. At the end. And your dad. . . uh, threatened me with his eyes.”
You sent your father a playful glare. “That sounds about right.”
“I regret it now,” your father began. “Maybe it would’ve saved you from that other piece of shit, Eth—”
“Dad,” you warned, doing the exact same threatening with your eyes. He held his hands up in surrender and you turned your head back to the boy genius. “It’s nice to meet you, Spencer Reid. Officially.”
You two hadn’t been speaking for long, but you’d both already learned of two instances where you were in one another’s proximity, potentially meeting for the first time. It seemed that this wasn’t the universe’s first attempt.
One single thread of gold tied me to you.
You stuck out your hand after telling him your first name, offering him a handshake. Remembering the fact that he was a germaphobe, you almost retracted your hand.
Only, the feeling of his fingers intertwining with yours made you stop completely. You felt your cheeks heat up as a more genuine smile replaced the partially superficial one on your lips as you shook his hand, looking up to lock your eyes with his hazel ones.
Your smiles matched completely, as if the same though was running through both of your brains.
Where have you been all my life?
Although you two wouldn’t know how close you truly came to meeting each other over the years for some time—you two would eventually find out that all your life, both of you had just been within an arms reach.
And now, fate could finally pat itself on the back and get some much earned rest.
Apartment 224
pairing: Spencer Reid x neighbor!reader
summary: After Spencer Reid gets his parking spot stolen, he must confront the culprit to get it back.
warnings/tags: N/A
word count: 861
authors note: Hii! This is my first post on here. It's not exactly my best work, but I hope y'all enjoy!
Spencer couldn’t believe that he was so upset over something so trivial as this, but there he was: on the phone with Penelope using her expertise to track down the owner of a car.
Every day, Spencer parked last spot in the left corner of the lot furthest from the door. He knew he wasn’t home often, so his car typically stayed at his apartment.
Today was his day off, so he decided to ensure that all was right with his vehicle. He was only gone a few hours, yet when he got back, he noticed a car. A different car. A car that was not his parked in his parking spot. Parking spots don’t have names, yes, but Spencer believed that it was common decency to know that if someone parks in the same spot every single day, it is their spot.
Spencer hated her. No. Not hated. Hate was a strong word that he’d rather not use. Loathed or extremely disliked was better. Either way, he refused to let anyone disturb his way of life.
He parked next to the car.
He could do nothing about it besides storm off. He didn’t know her at the time, but he wanted to. He wanted to tell her that that spot was rightfully his and that he should be the only one to park there.
“Found her,” Penelope said.
“Who is she?” Spencer paced around his apartment, car keys in hand.
Penelope said her name; he didn’t recognize it. Spencer didn’t talk to many people in his building, though. His apartment served as more of a house than a home. Penelope also said her apartment number: the one directly across from his.
“Spencer, what are you going to do?” Penelope asked.
“I’m going to ask for my parking spot back.” Spencer stopped this time.
“Okay, and don’t hate me for this, but it is just a parking spot.”
To Penelope, it was just a parking spot. To Spencer, it was the most convenient place to park his car, especially for someone who was never home. In all of his years living there, he always parked in that spot. He would have liked to continue it.
“Which is why she should have no problem giving it up. I’m going over there. Thank you for your help.” Spencer hung up his phone and shoved it in his back pocket. He ran a hand through his hair—all of this stress had given him a headache. Taking a deep breath, he trudged across the hall.
The door read “Apartment 224.” Music that he didn’t recognize blared through the door. He felt sorry for the eardrums of whoever lived in there. His hand rapped against the door harsher than he intended, but it still worked. He was coming with complaints, after all.
The door opened. There stood a woman with deep brown skin and blonde braids flowing down her back. She stared at Spencer. “Hi, can I help you?”
Every complaint he had left his mind as he took in the silk pajamas she wore. “Umm. Hi, I’m Spencer,” he muttered. In his head, he thought he was coming to lay down the law. “I know this is super menial, but the parking spot you’re currently parked in is mine.” His head lied. “Well, rather not mine, but I prefer to park there because I work a really weird schedule so my car just sits there and it’s the best way that I can keep it out of peoples way, so for future purposes, I would prefer you use any other parking spot than the one you’re currently using.”
He sounded dorky, as opposed to the assertive nature he wanted to put on. He couldn’t help it, though she distracted him. Her eyes never left his, and he was sure he was getting lost in them.
The woman nodded. “Okay, that makes sense. Sorry about that, I also work super hectic hours. I guess we were thinking alike.” Her voice was like iced tea on a hot day to Spencer. He wanted her to keep talking. “Would you like me to move it now or…”
“No. It’s, umm, fine. You seem to be in a very relaxed state, and I’d hate to disturb you.” Spencer wanted to keep this going, but he didn’t exactly know how. His brain was scrambled, and the raging headache he had was not helping him. The music still raged behind them.
The woman nodded again. “Sounds good. Thank you for telling me.” She went to close the door. Spencer had one last chance.
“What music are you listening to? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
The door swung back open. “You’ve never listened to Beyonce?” Truth be told, he’d only heard her in passing from Penelope’s office, or if Savannah was playing it at Derek’s house. “No.”
The woman chuckled and smiled. Spencer’s knees went weak. “Why don’t you come in? I could give you a lesson about the greatest performer of this generation.”
Spencer smiled. “I’d like that.” He stepped into her house, music thumping in his ears. “But do you think we could turn it down a bit?”
love me an x black reader fic yesss
the normalization of ai when it comes to fanfics it’s so scary to me. and a lot of people don’t even notice because it’s used so often now 💔
jude’s an arsenal player by association idc
Fake texts messages pt.2 ✧.
Notes : This is all fake do not take this too seriously plz!! If you want me to do this with other people let me know! 🫶🏼
Is This The Love That I Need? (Shuri x Blk!F!Reader)
Shuri x Scientist!Reader
Word Count: 11.8k
Content: fluff, a bit of angst that's made up by some good ole filth so if you aren't 18+, take yo ass ON SOMEWHERE <;3
Summary: the one where your tumultuous relationship with the Queen crosses a line while you’re on an undercover mission.
A/N: heads up: this oneshot goes from past tense narrative to present only because tumblr deleted the parts that I changed to present tense. Tumblr get on my nerves, chile
But I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
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