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Eli, a psychology expert and old friend of Luke's, joins the UAC as a consultant and quickly bonds with Spencer Reid. As they delve into a complex case, Eli and Spencer find themselves drawn to each other on a deeper level.
Note about Eli: Her neurodivergence (She is autistic) is implied but it's never really said.
· Pt 1 · Pt 2 · Pt 3 · Pt 4 ·
· O N E S H O T S ·
· Games that...
· The Kiss
· Totally worth it
· Complicity
· Belayed kiss
· Arrival · + 18
· Party with a surprise · + 18
· You're The One That I Want +18 · Based on song ·
· Burning Up +18 · Based on song ·
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· POV · memes ·
· You call Spencer to do something special
· I M A G I N E · Old ·
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· 16 · 17 · 18 · 19
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I've been a bit absent, a new hyperfixation pulled me away for a while 🥹 here's a student baby Spencer drawing I'd had half finished and finally completed
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
description: pretty much just a little dive into how spencer would be as a lover, his thoughts and such
genre: fluff!
tags/warnings: intimacy is mentioned (no real smut but suggestive), no use of y/n, spencer is absolutely autistic (this is canon for me)
w/c: 2.26 k
a/n: i was totally playing around when i wrote this, and to be completely honest it might be terribly boring, which i'm sorry for lmao. just testing out writing for spencer for future stuff!
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Spencer had always preferred the studied, calculated, digestibility of non-fiction under his fingertips; the way statistics would build and tower on top of his already impressive catalogue of knowledge. Non-fiction was easy, yet it was endless fuel for his hunger for information simultaneously.
Fiction, he always found, was far too out of reach. There was already so much to learn about his residing world; why would he jump to another before he knew the inner workings of what was directly around him, first?
You felt like a character from a fantasy, a romance, a mystery. But Spencer knew you weren’t a character—you were real—and you weren’t words for him to swallow—you were rushing blood and human stimulation and fingertips and everything in between.
Fiction was less predictable than the factual, traceable, effortlessly conceptualized non-fiction. He didn’t know unpredictability could be so stable until he met you, and he tasted you, and he loved you.
After a night of swollen lips, shivers, and silent “I’m in awe of who you are's," you told him that you enjoyed fiction in the way others enjoyed people watching. Through fiction, you could read the mind of another person in the most true way without intimately unraveling the folds of their brain. Yes, it might not be a real person, but—as you said—it’s a person nonetheless, and you can witness perspective and gain empathy again and again. You had said you wished you could digest non-fiction information quickly like him, but you had absolutely no idea how far gone he was for your amount of understanding of others. You were one of a kind, and you didn't know it.
He read twenty-five of your favorite fiction novels in four days. He didn't get it before, but he did now. You taught him more than any textbook ever could.
How could a brain be so brilliant, so kind, so uniquely lovely? Spencer learned long ago that you were the one thing he could never question. If he did, he would wear himself dry. You were unexplainable.
His days were filled with wonder. He woke up with your warmth pressed against his every morning, this morning, hopefully next morning. Hopefully, the morning after. Every morning.
His dreams consisted of your socks mixed with his colorful socks in his drawer. Small things. Intricate, mundane, bright, lovely, lovely things. Your fiction books alongside his non-fiction books.
He kicks his loafers off, right alongside your worn-in, slightly dirty sneakers at the door. You didn’t live here with him, but you could if you wanted to. He wanted you to. He wanted you to occupy every space of his—make it as much yours as it is his.
He didn’t think he would be able to handle it if you did, though. The sight of your shoes next to his alone made him want to sob.
Spencer was a weak, weak, train wreck of a man.
He turns the corner and sees you, you, radiating your own light in the center of his kitchen. All softness, all bewitching, all good, all his? You turn around, meet his eyes, and you smile, and yes, yes, all his.
He presses himself against your body, soaking in your warmth for all you are. Your hands around his neck, his hands around your waist, on the curve of your spine. “Hi. You're here," he mutters against the skin of your shoulder.
"Hi. Yes, I am. I couldn't wait to see you until the weekend." You smile against him, and he can feel it, and, god, he is fragile.
You shuffle out of his arms after two minutes and sixteen seconds. It's hard not to be disappointed. He understood personal space—it had been his number-one priority for a long, long time—but, ever since you, he realized he never wanted to be left without you.
Was he clingy? Definitely.
He didn't think you minded much, though, speaking of how you brush your hand down his arm as you pull away. Lingering touches. He really likes those.
"Oh. I'm—I'm glad. I'm not sure I would have been able to wait until the weekend either." His eyes follow you as you walk around the counter toward the other side of the kitchen. You open the fridge. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming over when I called you earlier? I could have picked us up food. There's this new Chinese place a few streets over. I read the reviews—and it sounds like they make spectacular crab ragoons, extra crispy, how you like, and the cleanliness seemed satisfactory—"
"Spencer," you cut him off softly. You never did it because you wanted him to stop talking, but because he would twist his tongue in knots and sicken himself with thoughts if you let him go. You take a plastic bag out of the fridge and set it on the table. "I just got back with some. I figured you'd be hungry."
He likes that you "figure" things about him, even things as minuscule as whether he's hungry after work or not. He likes that you know him. He feels safe with that.
"You did? You didn't have—" He's been working on accepting things. You get on to him—gently—when he tries to dismiss his importance. "—thank you. I'm starving."
You take the styrofoam boxes of food out of the bag, and he pulls out a stool next to yours. It's tradition now; you take the stool on the left, he takes the one on the right. He sits in the same one even when you aren't there.
You eat your food together, elbows occasionally knocking each other. It's domestic. It's warm lighting, and already read non-fiction (or fiction) books, and something solid that you know won't fall with one push. It's you in his space, in his mind, in his heart.
He turns his head to watch you talk, an adoring smile on his face, a stray romaine noodle (which he accidentally flung with a chopstick) on his lap. You tell him about your day, about something you read, about many things that he'll store in his brain for the rest of his life, such as:
"This morning, while I was walking to work, a chipmunk ran out onto the sidewalk, and it stopped right in front of me, and just stared at me. I only stood there. I didn't really know what to do. Actually—now that I think about it—he kind of reminded me of you."
"A chipmunk reminded you of me?" He pouts slightly. "Interesting."
"Yes. Had a very speculating look behind his eyes."
It's a ritual: Feed your bodies with food, fill each other's minds with newly learned tidbits of nerdy information you learned during the day, then take your hands to his skin or his hands to yours and kiss in the middle of the kitchen, dirty dishes left to sit in the sink.
Spencer is enchanted by you. What did life taste like before you? He didn't know.
You take his top lip—you always do—and he's putty, left to rot from the intoxicating, sickly-sweetness that pervades in his blood. The taste of black coffee lingers on your tongue, your teeth, and he wonders if he could just kiss you instead of drinking three hundred milligrams of caffeine a morning. If he could think clearly, he would say no—that it's most definitely not plausible—but he knew he wouldn't care and would kiss you drunk anyway.
He could feel the shake in your breath as you opened your mouth for him. He would drop to his knees right now if you wanted. He would be your mighty, loyal servant, eternally grateful to you for letting him revere you the way he did, and eternally grateful to whatever god (he wasn't religious) who allowed him to reside on the same earth, in the same universe as you.
He cradles your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheek, his long, slender fingers tangling themselves in your hair. He kissed your lips, your jaw, your collarbone. He let himself indulge in the light that was you.
"Spencer—" His name falls from your lips in a breath, and he's dead, swallowed by a black hole, fingers desperately grasping to his hold on anything that will keep him from suffocating in the abundance of feeling inside of him.
He loves you, he loves you to the ends of the earth, and you know it, and he's told you so, so many times because he could never keep his mouth shut about anything at all, much less you.
He remembers the first time he told you; it was the middle of winter, so cold, and he wore his purple scarf because you told him one time that you thought he looked good in purple. It didn't matter that it was already his favorite—he would wear dirty, completely mismatched clothes all the time if you said he looked halfway decent.
The day before he told you, he had gone to a convention with Garcia and saw a small, glass unicorn figurine. He bought it for fifteen dollars, and Garcia called him a lovesick, sappy puppy. He didn't understand, not really; the gift was almost meaningless compared to the things he wanted to give you, what he thought you deserved—but when he saw your face when he handed it to you, he assumed he might know what Garcia recognized in him.
You flushed, and he couldn't possibly imagine how flushed he was because of it. He had warmed you, and the knowledge he had that effect made him feel like he was directly in front of the sun, burning, just for you. Only for you. His fervor had always belonged to you.
"Spencer, this is... This is perfect." You ran your thumb over the unicorn's horn. "Thank you."
He cleared his throat. "Yeah—Yeah, of course. I just—I saw it, and I remembered when you told me unicorns were your favorite as a child—"
You had pulled his head down by his neck to kiss him, had stolen the oxygen out of his lungs, and had ripped his heart out of his chest with your gentle, gentle hands. Your bodies parted, and both of your breaths came out in ragged, uneven waves.
"I love you." It plummeted off his tongue, onto your mouth. The words lived inside of him; they were the most alive, palpable, whole things that had ever inhabited him. Nothing—not addiction, not craving, not primal, human need—topped the vehemence of what he felt for you. It wasn't anything grand, but it was overwhelming in the most humane, tender, quiet way possible.
It was easy when he said it then, and it's easy when he says it now.
"I," kiss, "love," kiss, "you," kiss.
You kiss it back at him, and your hand rests on his chest, right over his heart, and he knows it's on purpose. Do you want to feel his heart? It's all for you. Take it if you'd like.
When it's over, when you've branded him with yourself and loved him into oblivion, he's red and rushing and oh so full of you.
You speak. Your voice is quiet in a world full of traffic. "I had a dream last night; The sky was purple, and I was in an everlasting field of big, colorful amaranths. They brushed against my legs, and I had goosebumps all over. Everything was still. All there was was me, the amaranths, a purple sky, and a crow stuck in mid-air, trying to flap its wings. I don't think the sun existed."
He hums. He doesn't tell you the intricacies of sleep cycles right now and why you might have created such a scene. He's told you those things before. "That... That sounds like a magical place to be." Your nose grazes the slope of his neck.
"It was pretty. Maybe felt a little bit lonely. Do you think it means anything?"
"It could mean many things. Or nothing at all. The brain often constructs entire worlds in sleep—but yours always seem… extraordinary. I just think your mind creates magical things."
You smile against him, and he's weak, as always. You shake your head. "You like to flatter me."
"I do love to flatter you, but that's not what I'm trying to do."
"Well, I think I need to stop reading fiction books," you murmur, tracing your finger down his chest. He is exhausted, and you are water in his hands, and he never wants you to stop touching him like he's yours, or telling him about your strange, wondrous dreams. "They make my mind go all messy."
"No. Don’t. I… I like it when you tell me," he says, hesitant. "And I like your mind just the way it is."
"Hm, that's good. I like your mind, too."
It's been here for you. He's happy you like it—him. Love him. That's very good. "I don't really know how to have a different mind, so I'm glad you like this one."
You kiss his shoulder, and if he wasn't worn already, and if he hadn't just shown to you over and over, and over how he thought you were a divine, gift of a human being already, he would have shown you again.
Spencer can feel your eyes close, your eyelashes flutter, and your body curl deeper into him. Or maybe his curls into you. He doesn't know. Does he know anything anymore, besides you? Yes, yes, he supposes he does. You give him a lot more than you or he fully realizes.
You give him light, and a love so fantastically normal, it feels like fiction. That's what he settles on.
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